Category Archives: Uncategorized

Exorcism

Exorcism

​It has taken until now to begin;
for my throat to form the sounds,
my mouth to mimic
the shifting shapes of sorrow
and release them into the air.
 

I am an infant, grappling
with the birth of language;
each word connecting
and disconnecting me
to and from myself.
 

Love letters crawl from the
tar pit. Black, sticky,
coated with grief, they slip
beneath triangles that
no longer tessellate.
 

As the banshee leaves
all that remains in the
blonde light of morning
is a girl, so much stronger
than me before you.

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Mme Saul and the Saltwater Reveal

 

Lunar raking
reveals him;
 

a lone merman,
+++++++++caffled
in the literal algae
and twisted limbs
of a petrified forest.
 

Sifting the myth,
shape-shifting season
blows paper-thin
++++++++++skins
 

from moist
++++brown
++++orbs,
++++++++unveiling
the putty-fleshed fool
 

still spewing past vanities
and mewling half-truths
 
 

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Thermals

 

all it took
was an equinox breeze
squeezed between lips
ripe hips flimsy
beneath
green petalled shift
 

pink possibility
of restraint
blushed aside
palpable craving
brushstroking nap
 

red thorns stripped from
burgeoning stem
fish-hooking sepal
clasped bud arced
 

all it took
 

was me
and you
in the aching calescence of
an autumn
afternoon
 
 

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Lignin


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We sit
for hours,
neither rigid
nor relaxed,
chiselling
someplace new
between the two.
 

The Pinot and their
adolescent nonsense
planes knotty pine;
curled shavings of
splintered months
wisping the floor.
 

You summon me
above a warm grain
and vanilla flickers;
a mute voice held
in a familiar gaze –
 

We did this
 
 

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the seamstresses


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Isaac Israels (1865-1934) ~ Seamstresses at Atelier Paquin, Paris
 

~ for all the amazing women in my life, you know who you are
 
 

core spun thread
thimbled
through filigree fingers
 

slip-stitched seams
raw edges
tucked neat
 

silver grey pellicule
salved and selvedged
far from the fray
 

gaussian smoothed
beneath seamstresses’ gaze
 

tonight
there will be no unraveling
 
 

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Shapes


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting ~ Robert Frost
 
 

Nursing vanilla-caffeine infusion,
soft frost melting against the aga,
I watch them
 

sibling seed heads,
happily bent in solicitude
for their task.
 

In paper intricacies
patient adolescent soothes
her fervent perfectionism –
 

it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes sweetheart,
++++++++++++++++++++that’s what makes each one unique
 

As dusk gnaws at the
frayed edges of the day
I dance a solitary waltz
 

beneath
lacy snowflakes
strung from cobwebbed beams,
 

glistering
in the fractals
of their beautiful mistakes.
 
 

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Patient

Seconds stack up;
roll call soldiers
standing in line –
time,
to be ticked off
the list
 

tick
 

tick
 

tick
 

shuffling feet,
weighed down
by waiting,
worn down
by aching,
faking interest
 

tick
 

tick
 

tick
 

anticipating moment
conscription will cease,
de-mob,
release
finally
into peace
 

tick
 

tick
 

fucking tick
 

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Saturation


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

She crossed the threshold months ago,
slate-swathed, saline-bathed,
scrawled her name upon the walls
in various shades of grey.
 

Insipid taffeta petticoats
rustled, ruffled, scratched at skin,
wet wounds wept within
and misery had her fill.
 

She lingers still,
though lavender-gathered now,
and as the mist lifts
liberty reveals
 

that though ashen tones tarry
and parry tie-dyed tongues,
the hue of the rose seeps
and purple cadence will prevail.

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Sunrise over the Pharmacy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nursing caffeine;
yawning,


watching Belenus
fight Arianrhod
for space in the sky,


realisation
dawning –


her only blithe warrior
the little white lie
she allows to slipslide


down her throat
each morning.

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Volition

Expensive Italian light fittings are wasted on me.
Give me tea lights in jam jars; scatter them in the grass
under a lunar-lit counterpane littered with fractal planets.

I don’t need to be carried to bed in silk lingerie.
Just lay me naked on a blanket in the dark under the Sessile Oak
and trace the contours of my breasts with fallen catkins.


I don’t want to sit on cowhide watching flat-screen plasma.
I want to lay sated and spent, with my limbs still caffled in you,
listening to Spring seduce Summer in the night-hushed garden.


And though I will relish every moment with you,
I shall not mourn the passing days or changing seasons,
for when Autumn comes we shall have acorns.

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