The cold wind is here
Blowing strongly north to south
Hats pulled down tightly

I wanted to be a painting,
A goddess.
I wanted to be all Aphrodite,
Body and curves.
I didn’t want Athena’s leadership,
I wanted the power of seduction.
I wanted to be a muse,
Amused by the spellbound stares.
I wanted to be a mare,
Bred into beauty and totality and grace.
I wanted to be nothing less than art.
So the gods blessed me with such
Voluptuous hips and curves.
But I do not want to look like
Renaissance art,
I want to be a contemporary model.
Thin and toned with golden glow.
So now the gods shake their heads
And wonder why they put so much hope,
So much effort, so much and so little
Into me.

The more you look around
The more you realize
Every day people are doing
Everyday things,
Things they don’t really want to do,
But must, to get ahead, to stay afloat,
To not get knocked down.
But the more you look around,
You see the hurt, you see the failure,
You see it imminent within you, too.
You resist and you pull away, and you
Tell yourself that you are different,
You will lead a different life and have success.
But the more you look around,
The bleaker it gets.
Sometimes life is better with the blinders on.

The here and now
A place in time
The world feels so soft
and open

Fulfilling my wish
A three part kiss
where time stands still
and I seize the moment

On the brink of lust
With each healing touch
And suddenly the world
appears less broken

The here and now
A place in time
Our soft worlds collided
and wide open

A heart left cold
Will break

The parrot has 3 billion neurons in its brain
We have 86 billion
And most of mine are busy
forming unhelpful pathways
Misleading my good intentions.
Still, 3 billion neurons
seems like enough room for a few
unruly pathways


The parrot can repeat phrases
Which we thought to be
pretty cool
So we trapped him
and put him in a cage
And in our living rooms
Alone


The parrot knows how to survive happily
Within his world
Within his world, with 30 others of his kind
And a partner for life.
In his world
he would fly with his flock
To trees to pick fresh fruit
Now he perches on his own
And picks dry fruit out of a bowl.
In his world
he would prune his partners feathers
He would look after her
And she him
Now he perches on his own
And prunes his feathers
until there are none left.


Its an unhelpful neuro pathway, you see?
Some form of OCD?
Maybe its a way to cope?
Maybe its the brain spiralling
Trying to figure out what to do
Because it can't be a parrot anymore
It has to learn to be a toy
A talking point
And the parrot doesn't know how to be that
He only knows how to be a parrot

I do not have much
Of your arms, or legs
Or fingers,
Enclosed,
Or opened wide
I do not have much of your naked eyes
Pooling wet around the green,
Specked with golden fireflies
I have not many of your lines,
Remembered well
Much less memorized
Much better
Is every word you tried
To skip across to me
A smooth stone from the lakeside
So that maybe
I could see the signs,
Come to know your heart
In my own way,
On my own time
Once I settled in with the crickets
To play the flute in our goodbye,
The saddest melody,
My only lullaby