Zips up her sheepskin attire
pastes on her smile
cuts her latest desire
with a look that beguiles

Earlier today, painting was the activity that we had planned
I have a support teacher who would always lend a hand
She had left the class to get the paint all mixed
While I stayed behind to get the toys and props all fixed
She came back and bore bowls of red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Lunchtime I visited a store and neatly displayed on low shelves
Arranged so immaculately as if magically done by elves
Were cases upon cases stitched together with only zips
They almost instantly bent a smile to my lips
Their colours shone brilliant red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Passed by a shop selling accessories and apparel
Merchandise dangled on wall hooks and some in a jumble
On the adjacent wall something caught my eye
Carried all the neat little tote bags one could ever buy
One peeking from a corner was red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Walked by a building, so modern-looking and new
Down on one side almost obscured from view
Were these horizontal rows of dancing neon lights
Stopped for a minute just to soak in the sights
Then I realised that they flickered red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Waited for the bus to get home at my usual bus stop
Whilst waiting, I shifted and from my bag something did drop
Bent over and picked my coin pouch that had fallen out
Looked up only to see another commuter lingering about
On his pack was a sticker which boasted red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Bus was packed, found a seat in the back row
Sat myself down, I peered briefly out the window
Engine under me, I scanned around to those who were seated
Observed the floor beneath my shoes as it vibrated
My pair of Adidas, oh my, they're red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Got home, put my bag down and sank into the sofa
Switched on the telly, on was the Food Network's "Barefoot Contessa"
Surfed through the channels, caught a real estate commercial
Promoting prime land in a country not anywhere regional
Splashed on the screen, a flag - red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

End of the day, it is best that I hit the sack
Allow some rest for my poor aggravated back
But not till I complete the words you're currently reading
I'm thinking, dreaming and furiously typing
How do I end this? Hmm...red, white and blue?
I'm thinking and dreaming...and wishing I'm with you.

Amazing it was what Grandad would do
with a drop of oil or a bit of glue
Stopped watches, sticking locks
Faulty switches, zips on breeches
Kettles that wouldn't sing
Bells that wouldn't ring
He'd say let me have a look  my dear
Touch the pencil behind his ear
Adjust his specs, stick out his tongue
And in a jiff it was mended and done
But now he's not here to save us from sin
Anything broken goes straight in the bin

Bright flashes of red
Give away the Cardinals.

Chick-a-dee-dee-dee
from the capped visitors.

Warning! Warning!
Shriek the Blue Jays!

Loud as a siren
our tiny wrens.

Crowned with a point
the titmouse displays.

Dressed to the nines
the juncos present before a storm.

Sparrows flock about
White crowned ones too.

Nuthatches scampering
like the squirrels around the limbs.

Brown creeper so shy
round and round the trunk.

Mockingbird flashing white on the wing
singing multitudes of songs.

Crows hold caucuses
along side the road.

Whirring wings buzz
Hummingbird zips on by.

Feathered friends on the wing
Speak to nature's diversity.

tell me what keeps you awake at 2 am
whether it’s the girl who took the knife of her absence and stabbed it into your sternum
or the loneliness that swallows your skin

play the one song which releases the floodgates in your eyes
and let me listen to it over and over again
until i find which line makes your heart drop to your stomach

describe the story of your body to me
tell me of the invisible scars too
and with each detail you describe
i will make a map
so i know which road bumps to avoid
or which holy sites to fall to my knees and kiss the ground of

remember that
i wear a mask brimming with self confidence and an armor of words that are both easy to tear for they were thin like tissue to begin with
i am sensitive
taking to hurt the way a sponge absorbs water

do not hide me behind closed doors or keep me entrapped in bed sheets
when you walk past me, do not pull your hood over your head and avert your gaze
i need you to look at my eyes as if they illuminated the entire world
and kiss my lips as if they are what allow you to breathe

open the door.
bring me flowers.
because the only boy who did either was my 5th grade boyfriend

be willing to meet my family and friends
for they were the ones who created the marble statue whom you marvel at today

take note of how my heart is a reflection of myself
how she is too kind and will kiss the same man who tore her in two
so please do not say words which will make her wings flutter
if you are not ready to be the nest she flies to

let me know that me, as myself, i am enough
that i do not need to be a chameleon
dipping myself in new colors each day to please you

remember the little things about me
like how my first phrase i uttered was shut up to a man in an elevator or the delight i take in handwritten letters and mix CDs, or the significance of my first tattoo
because everything about you is being etched into the walls of mind
so that i can never forget

trace your fingers with a loving tenderness over my scars from the times i transformed my body into a crucifix
pinning my hands and feet onto a cross out of habit
thinking love was a word synoymous with self sacrifice

you must learn my language
know what zips my lips into silence
know the difference between when i want to give up versus when i will actually do so
and be there to hold me when the seams start to unravel

if you want me to love you
know that many have tried and failed
that people like me are not meant to be soft
if you want me to love you
know that to me
love is not a word you spit out of your mouth and juggle in your hands
you need to promise that our love won’t be like an hourglass
for my body has been disfgured enough from the times my chest turned inside out from the pang of abadonment
if you want me to love you
reaffirm my body is a kindgom, my heart is the treasure, and that i am your queen
paint pictures for me in what you do and say
telling me i am worthy to be loved, worthy to be kept, and worthy to stay

but if you really want me to fall in love with you
tell me what you see right before you close your eyes at night to fall asleep
and if you tell me it’s me
i will fall unfathomably further for you than i already have

How relative is time
That when I have an address
Of where to send my thoughts
I may march through the days
With my coveted "tasks" of penship
Fulfilled
Yet when I lack this focal point
And fumble into doorless walls
Each dizzy cell zips about
With not a patient comfort, all
Panicked

The red of cigarette ashes contrasts the white upon the snow.
The expanse is unbroken as his gaze wanders lonely plains.
He takes one puff; then another; then another one so
he can forget her face, and remember how it feels to live again.

His parka is unzipped as he breathes in air so cold,
and cigarette cherries reach his palm and burn away cold contemplations.
He smiles at the Arctic gods' cool ministrations; their fervent consolations
for the love he is smoking and forgetting in the snow.

He zips up his jacket, tosses ashes far below.
He turns away, his footsteps marking the white waste.
They are the only remnant of his remembering ablation,
and soon, they too, are absorbed by the plateau.

What is about some people
insisting I want to engage
with whatever they are watching
singing along to
listening to

Example:

recently, on a long haul train
travelling from A to Z
in the rudimentary rammy
to find the unreserved seats
enter the 20-something
alluring guitar laden
leather and tattoo clad female
tumbling onto the next table to me
unpacking as if she was moving in

munchable fruit laptop
gleaming white
in clear conflict with
the dreads and the beads
pumped in patchouli oil
drenched in love and peace
armed with a dvd
that would shortly crush the spirits
of every soul in Coach D:
the Quiet Coach

enter screaming chipmunks
hysteric children
and songs to sing along to
which she did with obsessive precision

insisting that Coach D
should in some way be
enlightened
entertained
entranced
and ultimately impressed

such was her overbearing desire
to love thyself above all things
give the peace sign when appropriate
and otherwise don't give 2 F's
for anyone else, regardless of situation.

consumer behaviours were erratic at best
if the Jedi senses
were anything to go by

if i'd had a handheld vibe particle device
I could have created a pathological combustion
and an accelerated Coach D A-Bomb

heads turned
feet shuffled
zips unzipped and re-zipped
open hands holding Kindles
immersed in philanthropic discourse
turned to clenching fists
the sound of bent drink cans
rusted cogs in motion
deep breathing

even level 1 Tetris
became too much
for the bald fellow to my left
who accepted failure
and opted to purchase
a large brown bag of beer
from the bar

GOOD CALL

libation and the pagan ideals;
imbibe thyself to dull the senses

I concur
and,
in exchange for our classic colonial restraint
on behalf of Coach D
I wish upon you the following:

1. You will never again
drink a decent coffee from any vendor anywhere in the world, ever.

2. Your laptop will
turn off during any movie you sing along to, silent or otherwise.

3. Your guitar
strings snap during a performance in front of people you don't know who paid to get in.

4. Your Tattoo artist
has an epic fail and tattoo's a defamatory remark rather then your lovers name.

5. Your leather trousers
shrink wrap and make the sound of bursting bubble wrap every time you move.

6. Your comfortable shoes
attract bits of grit like a magnet, regardless what you are wearing.

7. Your waft of perfume
is likened to compressed 7 year old blue cheese that has sat in the sun for weeks.

8. Your location
at any time has a global no shoot-and-miss policy for all birds without exception.
(even the ones that don't fly)

9. Your singing
is so electric that every time you sing in public your hair stands on end
and cutlery sticks to your nose.

10. Your beer is always warm.
11. Your wine corked.
12. Your water salty.

13. That this poem goes viral on the internet
expressing one man's words which mirror the every day person
working their socks off to make a living
and in the hectic hustle and bustle
one of the sanctuaries is Coach D
on the way home from the City
and the frustration and restraint
of anti-social conduct
and basic respect.

14. That I will be on David Letterman
or the Late Late Show
or USA tonight
or the BBC prime time news
or some such over-hyped
TV show talking about you.

15. That you will thank me for making you a celebrity by default -
15.1 and subsequently appear on late night Z-list celebrity game shows involving boxes of spiders.

You are the worst Muse ever
in the history of Muses

16. and this is how you will be remembered

You tell her you love her
she says "I know I can see it in your eyes"
you look into hers and beneath the aqua blue
you can see she loves you too.

But she won't say it. She just turns her head and bites her lip.
She's not supposed to say it.
Willpower is something I strip off nonchalantly baring my naked soul
she zips hers up and holds it tight, she's not ready to be free

You share a visible yet impassable love
a beautiful gift kept tied in a bow, never for the world to open
Two stars floating in the universe meant to collide
yet always passing each other by
Chemically balanced, but time is never on your side

The sparks fly spitting out flames
but never catching fire
All that remains is a shorted circuit
because she never could be free.

As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. ******* limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, "***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, "****, guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild ****, as tool is to you as to yo *****." Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ******?" Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a ****. "What you want, *****? You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.

Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ******, flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

Blade so cold so right
Taking a joyride across my body
Silver on white

Shaking hand to guide it
Tears, zips, leather and lace
Crimson escaping fresh slit

Lips, soft, supple, prickly
Unshaven you nuzzle and drink
My blood so desirable and sickly

Stop stop blood clot
Immune system allows you only some
You draw away you've had a lot

Violins in my ears
The room spins and I fall down
No sight takes away fears

I awake, white room, methylated spirits
Doctors tend to my open scars
The feeling is so right

They are starting to grow and I am so, so proud of them.
With every little achievement they succeed, they are blooming
But a selfish part of me silently cries
Because I am becoming less and less needed in their eyes.
They no longer need me to push them on the swings,
Or warn them not to pick up ***** and stinky things.
They can wash themselves and brush their own hair
And decide for themselves what clothing they ought to ware.
They have mastered Velcro and zips, buttons and laces,
But sometimes they need reminding to wipe their scrubby little faces.
They can open the fridge and help themselves to a snack
And are sneaky enough to swipe extra cookies behind my back.
They are growing quickly and will definitely be
Taller and stronger and smarter than me.
I pray for their happiness, their health and their safety.
No matter what happens they'll always be my babies.
I do and will always love them, come what may.
And I hope they will know I do each and every day.

She walks in the rain, annoyed
As the hair she combed so perfectly
Dances freely with the wind,
A tangled mess; wild and unruly

She zips her jacket till her chin
As she continues on her path
It's another feeble attempt to
Shield herself from the clouds wrath

She walks, sidestepping puddles
Her brand new boots caked with muck
She reaches the bus stop, cursing
The dreary weather in which she's stuck

She waits for the bus, impatient
As raindrops fall upon her face
Oh, how she hates the icy breeze
That knocks her hood out of its place!

She waits; half drenched, half frozen
As thunder roars from the skies
As though haughtily boasting about
All the umbrellas that it's destroyed

Finally, the bus arrives;
Her saviour, her salvation!!!
Now she braces herself for
The long long ride to her destination.

First light, and
a chill mist.
Low bird calls.
Small and quiet,
the eldest child
zips her way
out of the tent.

Gathering
wildflowers,
she sips a bit
of mountain
water.
Reaching
up, she  
offers
her flowers
into the
crook of
a plain tree,
bowing down.

He rolls out of bed
He drops out of his rack

He puts on his armour
He zips on his flight suit

He buckles his spurs
He laces his boots

He grabs his longsword
He grabs his helmet

And walks out to the stable
And walks up to the flight deck

To his steed
To his plane

He saddles the beast
He pre-flights the beast

Mounts
Gets in

Rears up
Kicks in full burners

And gallops forward
And takes a cat shot

Lowering his lance
Arming his missles and guns

He looks for dragons to slay
He looks for dragons to slay

Presumably the next big thing will be soles — socks with holes. Or maybe zits — pants with zips.

It’s made me wonder what else is ahead for us this season, so I headed to the mall to find out.

Topshop proclaims the return of triple denim (noooo!), the corset and coats worn as dresses. The latter should be worn undone to the waist and half falling off in order to “create a cold-shoulder silhouette”. Doesn’t make such sense during a Melbourne winter, I must say.

Topshop also has a very worrying item called a “monochrome gingham flute tie sleeve top”, which looks to me very much like a chequered table napkin worn backwards with ribbons at the elbows keeping the sleeves on. I’ll pass on that one.

Over at H&M;, winter’s “new mood” is all about “sustainable style” containing recycled materials. That means a simple flannel top is reborn as “conscious fashion” and a blue worker-style singlet becomes a “lyocell vest top”.

What would they call hi-vis? Apparently, the fash pack call it “haute reflecture”. Yes, really.

Most concerning is a shirt with “trumpet sleeves” so wide they’d need a separate seat at a restaurant. Even then they would end up dipping into the dinner of the person sitting at the next table. It may help you work out what to order, but it’s not likely to win you any friends.

At Zara it’s all about a “limited edition ballet dress” that will look perfect under a “moto jacket” Did they forget the r? Or are they too cool for correct spelling?

There is also something very strange called “over-the-knee high-heel sock boots”, which are $100. Give them to someone you loathe this Easter.

Zara also wants us to wear “Mum-fit jeans with side stripes”, which will no doubt just draw more unwelcome attention to the dreaded maternal hips. Who needs that?

They also have a velvet sack-style dress with a drawstring at the mid-thigh. It’s the style that doesn’t discriminate — it’s guaranteed to look unflattering on everyone.

So what other trends should we be running away from this season? Fashion insiders tell me “street-chic utilitarianism” is all the rage. That seems to involve wearing a flak jacket 10 sizes too big in a rotting-flesh colour paired with floral leggings with built-in shoes.

There’s also “new shirting”, which looks to me like the same thing as “old shirting” but has the added disadvantage of being just about to fall off your shoulders at the most inopportune time.

Trust me, you don’t need that and you don’t need an ironic-slogan T-shirt that tells the world “This was not a gift” or “This is a white T-shirt”.

I am also quite interested to know that “bra out” is apparently a trend and I wonder if that means I should stop tucking my daggy mum-bra straps into my tops.

Now, as someone who spent most of Wednesday this week at work with a large shop store label hanging out of the back of my skirt, I’m obviously not a huge fashionista.

But even I can see that never before has there been such a gap between clothes the fashion-conscious labels are promoting and everyday pieces we actually want to wear. You know, clothes that are well priced, well made, last more than a few seasons and aren’t made by five-year-old Bangladeshi orphans.

THERE’S no doubt something very weird is going on when there’s a waiting list for Yves Saint Laurent’s $10,000 jewelled boots and jewellery made of real succulents is being tipped as the next big thing. But really, who wants to have to remember to water their earrings?

Wandering around Zara this week (from where I bought the $89 skirt I forgot to take the label off), I was interested to see sale racks packed with off-the-shoulder tops, summer denim and lots of body suits. When are they going to learn women don’t want press studs up their privates?

I know that in fashion everything new is old anyway and that’s what really concerns me.

I’ve been around long enough to remember all the best worst fashion disasters such as pooh-catcher pants, velour tracksuits, trucker hats and platform sneakers.

Frankly, there are some items that don’t deserve to be wheeled out again. They include leg warmers — because your ankles don’t get cold when you work out, do they? And let’s not revisit male crop tops, because a hairy muffin top is something we don’t need to see.

Back to jindows. Just because Topshop tells us they’re “globally trending in the denim space”, it doesn’t mean you need a pair.

Remember. You didn’t need jeggings, coatigans, skorts or flatforms. And you sure as hell don’t need jindows.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

now i dwell
in Grand Belong
and think in song
i think in song
mystic thread
zips up my head
electrified where
gloom has fled
i’m heart-to-heart
and black is fair
i jete up to
champagne air
the dreaded
weight
of days
does not dim
this limpid face
swing the moon!
skim the stars!
shadows shiver
as I pass;
delirious
with God,
grand dance!

Your voice is something that has me in a trance.
I'm the snake in the basket .....now watch me dance.

It's been said that music calms the savage beast....well the sound of your voice provides me with a inner peace.

The day has been hectic .....people with mean faces and gripes.
This is supposed to be The City of Brotherly Love.....but some are not so polite.

It seems everyone becomes a little bit nicer .....once day turns to night.
The alcohol starts flowing and the girls are looking right.  The guys are in a huddle like a pack of wolves....admiring a female who is modeling her curves in a selection that's tight.

The music is blaring from the speakers and girls are dancing with each other. A brother attempts to dance with one and leaves the floor with her crew ......she said "We are not dancing anymore....we we were just having fun."

It's a long walk back to the bar....it feels like slow motion.  You replay the interaction several times like a referee under the hood... but this call won't be reversed.....a few more drinks and your heart is coasting......now you are a tad bit enibriated from too much toasting.

Inappropriate comments on Twitter and Facebook......but you continue posting.

When I end the night ....I come home to you.  You make my day worth living.  Before I go to sleep can you sing to me?

The day was tough...my friend embarrassed themselves....it was so bad I really wanted to yell.

I just took sometime and remembered your voice .....the words turned into musical notes as they left your lips. I'm no longer present.....my mind is taking trips....I don't reside in one.....I have many different zips.

So before you ever decide to quit....Can you please .....sing for me?
The beast that resides inside....told me to ask you.

I swear
Sometimes
I am
Just drawing
Or wasting
Away
And I breathe
In and a cool
Quiet air enters
My lungs
It smells like
You and tastes
The way summer
Nights feel
After rain
I am breathing
You in daily
With tea in the morning
And heartache
In the afternoon
Incense like
Lighting my senses
To the smell of
The love you gave
In darkness

When we are
Fumbling
Through the
Clumsy first
Kiss where
Our lips meet
(And my heart
Is swimming
In fire-
Mentioning it)
The act
Of solemn
Silent
Serenity
That zips
And zooms
And soars up
To space
It doesn't end
And we are
Dancing
Back and forth
Giving and taking
And giving again
Lovely limbo
Of the stars

In your car
Summer breeze
Kisses your
Cheek and
So do I.
I am not thinking
Only being
Feeling
Laughing
Playing
Loving
Living
And all of the
Other -ing's
At once
Because I can
Be everything
I am when you
Are with me-
All at once or
Sleeping in silence
Your heart beat
Keeping time
With the stereo
Post-rain dreams
Moonlit night.

My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

My stomach churns like the deck of a ship
amid a raging mid-Atlantic tempest,
its bowels tender and full of friction,
a morose resentment of an azure message sent.

The Dungan name supports its own;
the pain of one is felt by the majority,
an empathetic woe of a blessing understated,
our emotional reason ranging far and true.

One text sent and the world turns dim;
I've tried to manage the mania and valleys
of the experiences endemic to our core,
but the truth remains that I've not healed at all.

I can envision the late New York nights,
our Hoboken studio glimmering in the sunset,
the white walls imprinted with our fingertips;
open bottles of wine half-drank scattered around
while the subway roars underneath the Hudson
as it zips to a jolting halt.

Meanwhile, the scars embedding my skin
have healed themselves through and clear,
yet the bruises around the perimeter remain,
their coarse outlines distant reminders
of the pitfalls of the love we once shared.

Fire and ice juxtapose into a glass of lager,
a cool glide down the warm embrace of my throat;
nightly cocktails of Lexapro, Lamictal, and Hydroxyzine
haven't succeeded in easing the terrors
plaguing my core in the brightest of nights --
it is surmisable that these wounds are lethal,
but I refuse to succumb once more to your flaws.

My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

Whether it lay with your father and his bourbon
or your mother and her manipulating lies
or your brother and his ignorant resolutions
or your friends and their misogynistic gazes,
I cannot say,
yet I felt compelled to outstretch my fingertips
as a solemn branch of the willow tree
waving in the wind, scattering in the breeze,
an innocent attempt to brush aside the despondency,
a sprout into maturity to digress from the winds
raging between us while residing so far apart.

Never truly have I possessed a hatred so seething
than the alps of brimstone in the frame of you.

My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

Perhaps I should have remained in oblivion,
restrained myself from the shackles of your presence.
Still, I refuse to conform to the demands of those
unaware of the true nature of my nightmares,
their benevolent intentions disregarding my truth,
white wisps of flowers stained with brutal crimson,
inching its way down the crevices of my mouth
while I reel away and encapsulate the open flesh
I'd just bitten through with this impulsive decision.  

But still...
my mother could not find her camera,
and I'd only wondered
if I'd left it with you.

I’m good at reading lips

the ones that hide behind zips

in the middle of the hips

Their taste has made me lick mine

the moans they cause sound divine

their absence makes me pine

sidelong wakesleep
her face halved
in periwinkle sheets

one sun stripe
zips down the room
partioning the dark

toes yawn
under the sheets
inadvertently scratching me

her breath
so much more (or less)
than i could ever poet

It’s the hour before traffic,
around that time when the paperboys
sniff, all of them rubbing their noses on sleeves.

The smog is fowl,
a stray dog howls
orange explosions of bitter pain
through which the sun battles to make a comeback.

Amber lights
flash
right of way
for
whoever’s driving home from the pub,
whoever’s daft enough to face the day
that way.

The last ******* packs her bag,
stubs out her ***
and zips her **** shut,
‘A fat cow like me can only wait for so long.’

Soon the sky is Usual Blue,
discoloured by security swipes,
fake handshakes,
and Columbia’s finest

coffee-stained
coffee shop waiters
who sell the finest sugar cube coke
to those hardworking folk
who keep our nation ticking,

and tocking –
the digital clock,
my rooster with the fraudulent eyes,
tells me it’s time to let the snooze button go.

Terminally upset,

terminally emotional.

Plagued with multiple personalities,

Plagued with a desire to maintain

my last clutches of scarce sanity.



Brushes with a simple reclusive state,

Slowly but surely morph into

brushes with a razorblade.

Trying to escape myself,

Trying to find a safe haven.



Breaking out of my façade,

Breaking out of the asylum.

Screaming loud, with everything left in me,

Screaming loud, but I know

No one can hear me.



Crying out for her,

Crying out for help.

Falling out of my sorrows,

Falling out of tomorrow.



The world growing increasingly violent,

The world growing eerily silent.

Seeing the cruelness in my last breaths,

Seeing the shards of pain in the shattered mirror.



Suddenly, a pale hand zips the body bag that holds me,

Suddenly, my vision fades to white.

Gently, the music of mourning begins to play,

Gently, my coffin in lowered into the ground.

Shopping :o)

one bag of flour
the self raising kind
a pound of bacon
without the rind

a loaf of bread
a jar of jam
remember the pickle
to go with the ham

dog food and cat food
cheese and coffee
don't forget raisins
and nuts for the toffee

tomatoes, sundried
get those if you're able,
if you're not sure
it will say on the label

toilet rolls, eggs
shampoo and stir fry
get rolls without seeds
heaven knows why

salad and butter
hot dogs and sauce
get reduced fat, low sugar
and lo salt, of course

chocolate and sweetcorn
chicken and stuffing
a chocolate chip, walnut
and blueberry muffin

pizza with pineapple
ham and some cheese
fairy and cookies
ariel fabreeze

turkey, satsumas
not oranges with pips
tin foil and razors
and food bags with zips

nutella is best
it's the one we like most
so get a big jar
to spread on our toast

boys, thank you for helping
It's a great deal to me
oh, and don't forget cake
and biscuits and tea

i'll leave it to you
if there are things that i've missed
Just get what you think
if it's not on the list.

I can smell the ocean, although seventy miles away
Something in this warm scent the air creates embraces my lungs and it takes all my breath from me
I'd walk to the nearest seaside if you'd endure the trek on your blistered feet with me
The distance could never matter

I feel a forgotten feeling that starts in the top of my skull and ends in the tips of my toes
A feeling that zips through my heart like a runway train who has flown off the track so fast that no one even saw it coming

A talented sailor has made shelter in my gut and spends all his days tying complicated knots that my fumble fingers could never hope to untangle
I think he said his name was Jerry
I don't care much for Jerry

The lines on my face all created by smoke tell a story by the letters that my voice tries to choke
But I could never have the perfect words escape from  throat
Because there are no words as perfect as you are

Zodiacal signs shift
zones of time through
zephyrs swirling
in our breath - distance
zips down to zero

thick skin;
born from years
of frustration
exile
and failure

a diamond fella
they called him
a gentle man
by any other name
in my book

always with open arms
giving his time freely
helping people
was his vice
and ultimately
his undoing

understated in beige
camouflaged in denim
cloaked in 3-0-1 zips
sipping a beer
I've never even heard of

all the time I knew him
every time I saw him
sat on his own
or propping up the bar
he was playing Worms
the 2007 Edition
on a retro brick mobile

just to be around people
the social animal inside
drawn like a moth to the flame
the flickering glow
the background chatter
the clinking of glasses

the deluge of laughter
surfing the vibes of waves
drowned in the welcomed
cacophony of bar culture

he was everywhere
and nowhere
the man with no name
seemingly knowing everyone
but he always
sat alone

tonight my friend
someone
somewhere
is raising a glass
with your
name on it

The edge of my soul is unsilenced
by the youthful glove of lust
Curtained wonders and curtailed tales
our songs recited and memorised on saddles
Sandals of certainty , candled yester years

My soles dared to tear a form
eyes roar in beats of a sinful stare
affixed sensations, the aesthetic nightmares
the cyclic eventful roller coaster of want
The padded faded jeans and cotton shirt

A fluent code of the cold wonderland
steers protons and affluent electrical neurons
Exploding zips, complementary zest
The **** ride on your stationed rod
My stallion, a rash, an adrenaline rush, our flight (oh la la)

At the sight of the afterglow stormy taste
our echoes astound the mountain tops
a wave of the heated dream in a cage
The aged flow of the surfacing rivers
As these words live in my mind

Flickering lights inside the synagogue maze
the cleavage fountain evaporating fumes
A showcase of undeniable holes and poles
A glorified truth tied in elastic hearts
Eclipsed as a shadowy armoured reflection

Hold my hand and fly the transient transcendence
Balance as I fall behind on the heighted prolific lines
Rehouse my day on these whispered thoughts
Time circles, time travels, time lost, time found
On this hour of attachment, catch me as I wave

The Torn Cartwheelers

“In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost. In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three;- and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round: like their parents.”  -- The symposium, Plato

- Back when we were cart-wheelers;
we rolled in unison with braided spines.
A woven chain of muscular fibre;
our interlaced vertebrae
assembled a duality of one.
- Made of moon, we lived as stars.
Invincible wholes, we felt like Gods
Free-wheeling on our myriad limbs,
tumbling through clutching forests,
Basking in our lack of direction.

- We grew arrogant,
Toes tight in our four shoes.
We hungered for dominion, impregnable,
Never conceived of life apart;
how we might be broken.
So we were reckless; scorned Gods.
Bulging with trepidation, they conspired
to put us in place.
- Ripped down the middle, we bled
until roughly stitched with forlorn seams.
Our unfurled marrow now two in place of one;
Female, male, we were earth-scattered.
- Jumbled and lost, we torn cart-wheelers
Were compelled to walk.

- Inconsolable, we wilted,
Unable to function as halves,
we combed the earth for our whole;
Calling vainly on spindle limbs.
- A handful triumphed and united,
Only to drown in euphoria when
their entwined locked bodies, starved,
Yearning only for fusion.

- Now we are accustomed to solitude;
dissipated stitches left tougher skin.
- Until we meet a silhouette of our half
Imperfect but concurring
our jarring zips catch often;
some irreparably,
But we feel again the semblance of solitude,
Crave to be two halves of the moon.

The small dinner party had gone
Off well, Hazel thinks, sitting at
The dressing table, gazing at herself
In the mirror, seeing her hair done

Up just so, the way her maid, Dunne
Painstakingly did it for her. She begins
To unpin her hair, placing the pins in
The small glass dish, her fingers unused

To the task. Dunne is down in the kitchen
With the temporary cook, helping to clear
Up, tidy things away as is her want, her
Tidiness part of her character. She sits her

Hair unpinned, staring at her features,
At her eyes, the mouth slightly open, the
Teeth even and white. In the mirror she
Can see the made up bed, the covers

Turned down, the china hot water bottle
She knows just under the covers, put there
By Dunne. She’ll be there soon, Dunne,
Her maid, her lover, ******* her and

Herself. She has her own room and bed
Up in the attic, but she seldom uses it unless
Guests are there over night or are staying
For a few days. Tonight she will be here,

Hazel muses, rubbing a tongue licked finger
Over her brow, and they will snuggle down
And talk of their day and then make love,
Then sleep. Since her father’s death and the

Truth of his deeds and what he made Dunne
Do and the forced ***, she feels a mixture
Of anger and grief mixed into a compound
That makes her tired and confused. She waits.

She wants Dunne there, wants her fingers
To undo her zips and buttons, brush her hair,
Feeling the fingers on her skin, in her hair.
She wants to feel Dunne’s lips on hers, needs

Dunne’s fingers moving over her body, wants
To know each aspect of her maid’s body. In
Her mind she can sense the feel, remember
The point of high sensation, as if her whole

Body was taken to the limits of exhilaration
Of passion, as if she might explode and all her
Being be scattered into ***** of sensuality.
She can’t find the exact words to express it.

She sits and waits, waits sitting, breathes
In, breathe out. Dinner had gone very well.
The evening guests talked of this and that,
Had their laughs and jokes. Mr Phibuster

Had lectured to her on the economy, how
Some upstart in Germany was stirring up
Trouble. She couldn’t have cared less. Her
Eyes kept going to Dunne, watching her

Coming and going with dishes and glasses.
She sits up straight, Dunne is coming, she
Hears her footstep in the passage, her voice,
Some Mozart aria is tunefully humming.

Slaughter with fangs that love to incise, 
lust to ring and roar
plastic zips that smother too tighten,
feast on hindered breath takings. 
Pull to gorge against their blessed soulless upbringings. 
It's not terrifying,
not bloodless lucid heart beating, 
steal the latest last of,
butcher and reel till the crazy flees in fear. 

paint splatter smiles,
hang harlot blood stained baby childs.
It's long love lost lusting,
just a carousel killing ride,
a manslaughter ****** scene,
mask me a demon,
kiss me a rotting rose.
For fledgling sake hand me the last shotgun blow.    

Breathe me a reason not to die.

So I was flying through the woods one day
And hummingbirds flitting and flashing
Iridescence and opalescence
Shimmery glints of golden green and violet blue
I laughed and darted with these sweet ones
Twisting and chasing in a game of faerie-bird-tag
Then a mosquitoe's whining shrill
zips past my head
zip zip two more speed by
I whip my head around and see a crazed mountain man
Blunderbuss in tow and limp carcasses dangling from his belt
Beard and hair more of a mane of insanity
In this manic frenzy, one cant help but to smile
Then dive in to dodge as if in a Matrix world
The madman fires, shooting away at his brilliant tiny targets,
Shooting if only for the sake of practice

Around the corner,
a blast of blue
comes screaming
just outside the coffee house.

A small boy,
no more than five,
is a beaming
chocolate goatee
from the local ice-cream parlor.

A woman chases him
with the exasperated look
of a mother on a date
with her son
.

Her eyes still red
from her four hours
of sleep,
but her smile:
as big as her son’s.

She catches him as he stops
at the smell
of fresh chocolate chip cookies
emanating from the coffee house.

Her motion is quick
and calculated
as she turns him around,
zips his jacket,
& kisses his forehead.

She takes his hand
and they are off.

I assume they live happily
ever after.

You pick me up when I'm in dark times
The squeaking of shoes, the thwack of my racket
My mind goes blank as I read the signs
Of where the ball will land.

The deep chemical scent of the *****
Intoxicate my senses with joy
I can feel the power throughout my body
As I swing with all my might

My mouth open with a shout
I swallow the yellow fuzz
And slam my eyes shut with disgust
Horror dawns on me of my mistake as the ball zips by me.

I feel my heart come into my throat
As I congratulate  him at the net.

Watching out my window,
a thought flies through my head-
about the little hummingbird
flapping overhead.
As it zips,
and it zaps,
and its little wings flap
so hard to keep going,
to suckle on sap,
it seems to me
that this little thing,
so tiny and frail
doesn't mind the sting
of tough days and tough nights
as it valianty fights,
as it works and it toils
just to get by;
working for hours
to have enough to still fly.
I think and I think
on the merits of this notion;
So deeply moved,
I am stirred to emotion.
I shake myself, rising
as I abandon my rest-
Move over world;
I have limits to test.

A regal nose leads down to luscious lips
A tiny waist yields to imperial hips
The wasp-like figure zips past, fairy-fast
And leaves him dangling in her wake, aghast.

"Like young deer on the mountain-top" says he,
"They rise and fall as shivers come to me.
They rack my soul with conquests sweet as wine,
And raise me up to lofty heights sublime."

She smiles gently; wrens tap tiny dance
Upon her gaze, he looks and finds his trance
Her eyes as blackened hazel, all afire
With love and lust and mirrors of desire.

He reaches out his hand to touch her own
As skin grasps pastel flesh, lets out a moan
As softly she caresses him so light,
Then disappears into the dark of night.