And I wear my special glasses
On this fortress by the sea
A broken sax and both of you,
No one sees things like we see!

By the river in Boston
Where the little white boats
Are like stars in the blue,
No one feels like I do.

On the rooftop where we kissed
And made movies of our lives,
All the silly things I miss,
No one knows like you and I.

And I wear my special glasses
When I wonder by myself
Through the fields and through the trees,
As I hide behind these leaves.

On the cliff behind the island,
All alone, while the violence
In the world breaks into waves
And I swirl within its blues.

When my lids are heavy
With departures and arrivals
And I feel the frenzied blood,
As it pulses through the terminals.

And I wear my special glasses
When I think and sip my tea
When I smile at all of you,
Or swim naked in the sea.

And I slide through many faces,
Through the laughter and embraces
I feel colourful and free,
All these eyes, they dance with me.

And I tingle as my skin and mind
Are drenched in eau de glee
I am golden, I am wild,
Warm as honey to these bees.

There is only song and colour,
Silly details make me smile
This confusion is perfection
And it all makes life worthwhile.

And we do not need the music,
We can hum and we can write
I can hear things through my eyes
As I’m gripped in life’s big bite!


Cheers to my friends Meg, Elle and the broken sax.

The air smells like South America
I am cold and damp and the sky is lilac,
Lit up like the fields in Valensole.

(And I suddenly miss something that’s not there.)

The wind shakes the trees,
A neighbour’s drain gurgles distinctly
and I always loved the smell of the rain.

Oh, to be unlimited, to be free!
To flutter in the reality of possibilities
I’ve discovered for myself out here.

(I close my eyes and smell the air.)

And I’m running now,
With my feet on the damp grass
Alongside my discomforts and fears.

On the tepid sand of a beach somewhere,
With Northern Lights flashing above me
And christmas lights burning within me.

I do not care now.
Those distant judgements and colds,
cannot touch me, cannot hurt me!

I slip into memories
Of humid walls, *** and adventures.
Of bright white mornings without sleep, yet at peace.

(And I float back, into the stormy green.)

Five trees: I never knew there where five trees.
I wonder why I never count the things around me!
And the lonely nails on the wall

where the wisteria climbs in the spring,
All the way to the roof top where I lay.
And time shifts into darkness, but I feel no fear.

I am immense, and for a moment
the world is imperfect like me.
My finger tips tingle and my ankles sting.

I feel myself, wet and eternal
And for a moment, just a moment,
I am free.

Up the gods rock,
To the top of the island
I climb – a lucky guest.
I’m crowned in laurel

And bigger than the sea.
Round and round
The sparkly heavens shove me;
The pitch black

Catches me.
I’m a microbe, a quasar;
A pillow, a kife!
I’m ready, I’m hazy

Your nightmare, your prize.
Have I yet the courage
For the dive –
The big dip.

I’m still green and weary
I shall dry up or slip,
Into death
and oblivion and dread.

Newton is dead.
Why are we still clinging to a flat Earth?
Observe the atoms,
Ride the waves.

It is me I see
In every crook and corner.
It is me who sees,
It is me I see.

I am your Frankenstein
You mighty organiser
You puzzle maker
You forgot to flip the light switch in my eyes.

You stuck me, colourful
to a monochromatic Earth.
Unrelentingly chasing
Hidden meanings,

Fireflies.

Prickly fir tree
The smell of salt taunts me,
The air is still
And I am stuck.

My wet hair sticks,
Resin pearls on my back.
Prickly fir tree
I wish I could peel

Off the pain
And the heat
That stick to my gut
On this stiff summer night.

Ghastly faces regard me,
Distorted and sweaty;
Levonorgestrel
Bombards my ovaries.

The air is still.

I am heavy
as a hippo, and real.
I was orange and purple
and now I am stale.

Fleshy red eels
Squish me to mush.
My insides are mouldy –
I suffocate, I rust.

The air is still
And I am stuck.

I cannot ****, I cannot ****
This empty shrine
Of flesh, of flesh.
I’m no Ophelia

And death isn’t pretty.
The smell of decay haunts me,
The smell of salt taunts me.
Intoxicating thoughts

Of binaries and wars:
To ****, to create –
My enemy, my love;
Controlled clarity or deadly insanity?

I cannot ****, I cannot ****:

An extension of me
Or a monster in herself.
Fascinating and deadly,
I am golden and immortal.

Dear old friends:
I am flushed
And dressed in white.

Gently anchored down
By roots
And laughing eyes.

You crown me
In laurel – in affection,
You dress me.

But it is summer here.
This warmth
No longer suits me.

Me leaves to the floor –
One by one
Silently fall.

I should be red and raw,
My magnificence
Inspire awe;

As breathless,
My branches touch the heavens.
But my golden fruits I cannot gift

To you my friends,
As I await the winter drift.
Infinitely still.

As Daphne, I am ill.

Orange and gold
Through the stain glass window
Brighten the churchly silence
and the unyielding heart.

Foxgloves and orchids
float in the air –
I could hatch my eggs right here;

Behind her undeserving shrine,
Casting darkness on your lonely burial.
Lord Ashton, you fool.

I’m high in the dungeon,
The statue is headless.
Are we talking about the walls
Or drenching ourselves in useless sadness?

On the tree stump I forgot
If you mattered to me yet.
You were shrieks, nettles and streams,

Red leaves and silly dreams;
The laughs and the pints,
The sly glares and all my fears:

All my hazy window seats.
I’ve forgotten why I care
But I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

And I forgot to walk the promenadfe,
I forgot to warm the bench
And I didn’t drown my thoughts
In the marshy quick sand.

I forgot to match the pretty face, ask –
did the chemo go okay?
Yet they loved me anyway,
I who could never afford their pain.

I forgot how to be grateful
With my flesh my flesh my fkesh.
I forgot the date, the present and the letter
And I can’t recall why it ought to matter.

This is the bubble, the cell block,
The lithium drenched infirmary.
Here we don’t feel like going to bed
Or to die a slow death in the library.

Here the sky is white and clinical
And the crystals didn’t catch my breath
And I didn’t smell the fresh wet leafs,
All I saw was corpses and death.

Now I’m sober, I’m cold, I’m clever.
I disgust myself more than ever
And I leave you with a humid heart,
My lower second class grave, Lancaster.

And the people in those houses
Oh, they laugh and dance dance dance
And they grab my hand and twirl me round
I entertain, and I am bland.

What a thrill to chase
Little bubbles everywhere.
Acrid shiny silvers –
They are drops of mirrors.

Look there: it is me!
It is my reflection I see,
Blazing sunlight and glee:

My volatile moods,
Etched with smiles and deadly fumes,
On my ever-changing moons.

An eternal river,
I gurgle with promise
In the soil, the air, the water –
Breathtaking and flawless.

My shiny surface
Draws you in closer.
I’m your road to gold,
the gods’ messenger.

But my scalding skin
You cannot touch
You greedy treasure scavenger.

You’re too avid and bitter
With your truths and reason –
Your reality addiction!

In the gaping darkness
I will eat you whole
Like a death trap –
A black hole.

I’m liquid metal,
Quicksilver.
I will melt your brain,
Destroy your swollen liver.

Only the mad can dip their toes
In these pools of chaos and clatter.
I’ll be the gloss on your top hat

If you’ll be my mad hatter.