Twice9
Escher/ Hersham Surrey
Living and writing in a little place called Escher right now. / A country girl at heart and enjoying the small town vibe after big ol' London got too big. / Writing about some things that have happened in this crazy world mostly matters of the heart. / Yes, and reading some Shakespeare (and a bit or Carol Ann Duffy - Poet Laurette who refuses to write poems for the Queen - you go girl). / 30 soon. Hmmm.
the rain is coming
it is hot & wet
& ten o’clock
when you turn up
in a black
cab
a red
hibiscus
in your hair
it is hot & wet
& ten o’clock
when we talk
on the roof
in a high
bombardment
of positive ions
it is hot & wet
& ten o’clock
when the last
hopeful swoop
of a fruit bat
finds a limb & is still
so some
thing will
happen it will
the rain is coming
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
I miss you sea
I miss you in the morning
I miss your fingers
and the faces you trace
the faces you assume in sand
I miss the feel of you
cool on my skin
I miss the sting of you
but most of all I miss you when I sleep
when you whisper the most
I know you are there
you are a quiet chaos I don't quite hear
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
*Scared ?
Of the dark and the
demons of the night.
Burnt ?
From the flames
licking my bedroom
walls and skin.
Voices ?
Couldn't stop them
from haunting me.
Insane ?
The pain drove me
to that.
Afraid ?
Of being alone in this
never ending war.
Love ?
It pulled me by the
hand to the light.
Kisses ?
They put out the fire
that left me burnt and
bruised.
Poetry ?
It rolled down my arms
and thighs the minute
your eyes locked on
mine* ~
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Held captive,
by a silhouette.
A dim light,
Tracing her curves.
Raindrops dripping,
From her lips.
A wet sweetness,
I want to taste.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
when I last saw you
you said you wanted a break
from the grind of being apart
you pulled me to the floor
in a torrent of please
and be with me today
and I know by the lick of you
that every drop is true
and it's easy for me to play a part
you are the flood I compare my tears to
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
The best thing about having
big dreams is that no one else has to believe in them for them to happen,its just you.
They're yours alone,your responsibility.
If people frown upon them,
That's their business
When you work towards making them come true,its for sure they aren't meaningless.
So don't give up!
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
And I
am woman
of woman
of woman
Those who Love me
receive the prize
that soft, lush
succulence
between my
velvet thighs
Those who cherish me
receive the
finest cream
once it's on your tongue
you'll be spinning in
a dream
Those who unwrap
my heart
like a gift,
a libation
Will feel me
give my all
at the highest
vibration
Those who dig
With tenderness
to reveal
the secret root…
their reward will be vast
as my love
bears its fruit
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
the thunder of
a small bird.
a poem grows shadows
and moonscapes,
the moon,
withered sapphires,
undone,
her open windows
a thread of bright
light.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
with two flat thumbs
I am trying
to work
a couple of knots
out of your shoulder blade
one not is you
one definitely not is me
yet I'm tracing
warm circles
kneading
the cut of your spine
*needing
the cut of your spine!*
should I?
should I
be kneading
the distance
between us thin ?
I could complete
this instant massage
by simply needing
the scent of your skin
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
in the cohort of her hands, a disorder
lost dignity wrapped in the red of need
reckless and arrogant as lilies
an abundance of periphery
wavers at the sea-black hand
of hands of time of hands
rune stones
black granite spattered in stars
a slutter of language
of words of wombs
necrotic we burst
a pause of however
a narcosis of want
meander of limbs
siphoning brine-white tide
colorless-the disorder
marquis of white shadow
on seal slick waves
and the lilies,
petal outward
and in the silence
there were unknown weeks
where the flowers foundered
other bodies
there is a form in the garden
still as clay
we reddened our mouths
and still like clay
slant of a neck untattered
partitioning cerebral sea
arcing back on itself
there was a benign negligence
in the want-of flowers of lilies
vague signs of amplitude
pachyderm and small
in the grooves of lack
malnourished, contrite hands
flushed blooms of pink paper along
pink walls-flush seas of lack
vague symbols of wood and
purulent understanding a
nest of roots
dipping towards the alkaline sea
we didn’t even begin to understand
the range of mourning
becoming us
smooth white shells of elegant
weakened at the hock
distempered by the recent winters
foundering in the vacant space
between us
I mule you
through the tapestries of my desert
and am still, here
where I don’t belong
here I am spread as an excess
as an unfortunate truth
glossed by negligent hands
anxious, with the possible morning
indistinct dwindling winter
curling pink paper
along the walls of black sea
earth-tide
small weakened arrangement of groundcover
jostling in the ferns of truth
we measured the years in numerals
as with skin, ardent and ruddy
palpable lost youth
the rare wood of mistake
loosened from sleep
in the morning we resemble damaged objects
prized for obedience
at odd angles of deformation to time
in the body, a funeral
still warm
skin and stone a slender neck of atonement
for the absence of home
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC