call me your imaginary
lover, miss pretend,
your concentrated fantasy,
a night that never ends,
the prettiest delusion
your mind ever made believe,
a pocket full of pixie dust,
your self-prescribed reprieve,
the sandman tried to warn you
not to get lost in a dream,
you took your wishful thoughts
and said, “they look real to me,”
your mind could only conceive
what it thought could never be,
felt better to be trapped there
than lost in reality,

under a pretend sky
in a myth you made believe,
it’s just imaginary you
and imaginary me.

bright eyes,
your words sparkled
with the same light,
but even empty things
shine if you look
at them just right.

where do you go
when you shrink yourself
so small?

sometimes i imagine
when you shrink
into this fragile thing,
in some far away place
the pieces of your self you hid
are growing exponentially,
a garden in full bloom.

somehow your words
sound more sincere
when someone else
is saying them.

what a wicked thing i was.
i turned back, anyway.

the devil i dealt with 
wasn’t a devil at all,
it called itself her fate,
took my place by her side
and told her it was time to go, 
everyone was waiting 
down below,

the devil she dealt with 
wasn’t a devil at all, 
i called myself her lover, 
and she loved me in kind, 
and when she’d gone
i couldn’t understand
why she’d leave me behind,

if nothing else
i had to see her
one last time,

the devil we dealt with 
wasn’t a devil at all,
it called itself inevitable
yet decided to let us go,
said it would see us again
one day, together 
down below,

i didn’t think to ask her
what she wanted,
if the hands of fate
were warmer than my own. 
if i had kept on looking forward, 
maybe i would know.

what a wicked thing i was. 
i turned back, anyway. 

                                                       ­                                       "was she upset?"

i couldn’t say. 
she smiled the whole time,
and when she disappeared
it was all she left behind.

i cast myself into the sea
an anchor mooring an empty vessel
to a body that never asked to carry
a weight heavier than its own,
the waves roiled,
the moon called out
the sea called back and
i cried out beneath the waves,
the night was quiet.

i cast myself into the sea
the moon slept on the surface,
i called her harbour and jumped.  
her craters swelled and burst
into the night, the stars collided
and i sank beneath the waves,
opened my mouth wide
and swallowed a star whole
as the sea swallowed me,
i tasted salt,
licked it from the corners of my lips,
wiped it from the corners of my eyes,
the moon rippled back into place,
i reached out beneath the waves
and watched her shrink.

i cast myself into the sea,
i thought the moon would swim after me
i found a siren instead,
she beckoned me into the deep,
took my hand and led me
down, down into the trenches,
i felt the moon in the currents,
she reached out to me
and i shrunk.

the night was quiet.

your heart grows two sizes,
beats in your throat and echoes
up and down your tear ducts,
your words come out concrete,
and you’re not surprised
when he asks if you’re made of stone.
he doesn’t know the wells
of your youth were always dry,
that the drought began
long before he came along.

they call you empty.
what else would you call
a well without any water?
they say look, nothing’s there.
your heart grows three sizes
and the lump in your throat
breaks apart into rocks
that line your weary walls,
gravel fills your chest
but they’re only looking for water.

he tells you water is life,
that the cracks in your
foundations look thirsty.
you open your mouth to speak
but your words are palpitations
and he doesn’t recognise
the sound of your heartbeat.
he asks you how long it’s been
since you were alive.
you ask him when he thinks you died.

your heart is huge,
astronomical, and your thoughts
burst like fireworks from your chest,
fallen stars called home,
they burn holes into the night,
find their place in the spaces
between the constellations,
they would guide him
if only he would look.

eyes shut, he wishes for rain.

i wanted to visit my ancestors,
so i stepped up to the gate.
i was told “You must be
/this/ dark to be let into this space,
see, there aren’t many people
here that we can match
up to your face,
and by the look of your skin
we couldn’t be certain
you’ve ever felt the sun’s grace,
we’ve seen many colours
but you are another,
do you really belong in this place?”

i wanted to visit my ancestors,
so i stepped up to the door.
i was told “You must be
/this/ light to walk up onto our shores,
see, we saw your curls and thought
Black Pete had come up
from the moors,
and you're familiar,
but that foreign tongue’s
taken several points off your score,
we were only one colour,
there's no room for any others,
so what are you coming to us for?”

i wanted to visit my ancestors
but i wasn’t sure where to go.
they’d shut me out, left me in doubt,
and i was in limbo.
i thought i’d had a birthright,
some kind of claim to make,
i didn’t think that i would be
so easy to forsake.
i hadn’t convinced the ghosts,
and there was nothing left for me,
so i packed my things, tore my branch down,
and went to sow my own tree.

i have lain here
for nights on end
trying to make sense of the stars

mama never did teach
me how to read
the patterns in the skies,
what reason did i have
to look up
when the fairy lights
we hung
were so pretty
if i wanted constellations
i could take a pen
and map out the spots
on my skin

mama never did teach
me how to dream,
what need could there be
when hers were already
big enough for
the both of us
to share
i could look up
and count the stars
in her night skies
and never worry about
my own

mama never did teach
me how to walk
tall, keep my back up
straight, with her chin
raised high she
looked right past
my crooked posture
and in to
her future,
i stood straight
in her visions,
it was all she needed
to see

i think she gave it
her best
i think she gave her
self better
and i’m still trying to make
sense of the stars
unsure of whose they are
anymore

one
breathe
you may not realise it
but you’ve stepped into new lands
and life is different here
you are different here

you’d thought the sun
had kissed you before
but it did not love you
like it did this place
the people here had
felt its arms wrapped
around their bodies
for generations,
its light imprinted in
their skin like melanin,
the same light
you’d seen shine
from your mother’s hands

you’d thought the sun
had kissed you once before
but you were different,
your light was dimmer,
harder to recognise
and even the sun wasn’t
sure you were its kin,
had to look twice
before it realised
your blood but you
remained a stranger
all the same

two
the way you talk is wrong
your words too delicate
your voice too soft
your speech without music

you’d thought your tongue
was universal, had been
both understood and mis before,
but you were the cub of a lioness
and didn’t know how to roar,
no pride would take
you in when you
mewled like a kitten
and no sunlight shone
from your skin

you’d thought your tongue
was no different to
your mother’s, but hers
never worked the same
when you spoke it,
never quite connected
to its audience, so
you stopped trying,
turned to the moon instead
and gave it your confession
the only way you knew how,
it told you you spoke just fine

three
you think somewhere else
things will be different
you don’t remember
it has always been this way

your family never once
pointed out the intricacies
of your branches to you,
why you matched neither
your father’s roots nor your
mother’s veins, but had blossomed
something different, something new,
and why that would ever matter,
your family never thought
about these things, never
talked about such things,
they just wanted you
to speak plain

your family never once
explained how home would
be new to you, how home
wouldn’t really be like home
after all, because home didn’t
welcome you like it should have,
didn’t greet you right, hold you
tight in its arms and make you feel
like you belonged, because you
were different, and it didn’t
recognise you for a moment
or two

one
breathe
you may not realise it
but you’ve stepped into new lands
and life is different here
and you are different here

girl, when did you let
your love leave you?
did you think that there
was nothing you could do
about your sweet imperfections
the focus of your obsessions
that make you wish to be born anew?
girl, why do you shrink
from your mother’s touch?
have you lost your faith,
think it won’t do much
good on you, her sweet child,
too broken for prayer
she’d tried to raise a witch
but you only see failure
girl, open your eyes
and clear your head
why not give yourself
some warmth instead.
use ginger, mint and cardamom,
honey and a stick of cinnamon,
to concoct a sweet brew
that will return to you
the love which you are due.

then
your pale frame
eclipsed my sight,
you, the moon,
caught me staring
too long and i blinked
your face burnt black
into the backs of my eyelids,
there were nights
i would rub my eyes
and count the spots
you’d left like stars
(one two three four
five six seven eight)

then
i thought the numbers
in my head were all
the reasons we were wrong
i started sleeping
with my eyes open
if i shut them i’d see
holes and think of your craters
and how the men who tread
your surface don’t clean
their boots well enough
don’t think to ask you
how you like it before
they plant their flags,
but they offered you
the world, and all i had
to offer were the spots
in the backs of my eyelids
(one two three four)

then
rockets counted down
the seconds until they could
meet you and i
counted you out,
contented myself by
staring at the sun,
blinked and i
saw spots
(one two three)

i am no man,
would not simply
stake a claim so bold.
in hindsight,
you, the moon,
had already claimed me,
wrapped your evening flag
over my eyes
and made me yours,
i just never
noticed the fabric,
couldn’t see past
the spots in my eyes.

now i only see you in hindsight.

you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
now everybody’s doing it.

that’s not to say
i haven’t seen how
your eyes roam over
your body like you’d been
stitched together with all
the wrong fabrics
i don’t think
i’ve ever seen you
look as dissatisfied as
when you look
at yourself.

you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just like
an std, everybody’s had it
at some point.

it’s just that some people
were smart enough to
use protection or are abstinent
and they’re the ones
who sleep easy at night
while you’ve always got an itch
to scratch it was never clear
how they toed the line
between their self love
and hate better
than others and you
were their other,
caught them staring
and couldn’t tell the line
between love and hate

(thought you saw it
split the ground open
wanted to dip your toes
into the nothing between
you were scared
you’d fall in).

but you won’t tell
me what it’s like
when you look at yourself,
and your reflection
is rag-doll ragged
the perfect pincushion
and you pinpoint
all the split seams
moth holes your
smile is just a
loose thread you stop
to unravel

and you won’t say
what it’s like
when your reflection is
all pins and points
and you’re not sure
if the rag-doll face
underneath is still
there, at one point
she smiles
like only girls with pins
in their lips can,
her lips unravel

(you don’t smile).

you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
there’s no way you’d
be caught dead
doing it.

i’ve seen the red-capped pins
you keep with your make-up.

they look so much
like my own.



hey.
are you still there?
i can't see you beneath
all those pins.

i wonder if anyone
ever feared the butterfly
receding into its cocoon

walls smooth as silk
closing in,
it sheds its wings
and emerges
a caterpillar once more
a backwards metamorphosis

a butterfly
that no longer craved flight,
overwhelmed by the blue
it sank.

you said i was exotic,
and i said ooo
what do you mean?
exotic like a fruit?, like
i don’t know what tropics
you think i came from, was
imported from, but you read
my skin like the label
on a flavour of coca-cola
you had never been
offered before and i
was refreshing, and
different. and you liked
the way my coke-bottle
curves felt beneath your
fingertips, said you’d never
tasted caramel
like me before,
you said i was exotic.
like i was a work
of west african art,
even though my mother’s
from the east, like
i was from a storybook like
1001 african nights, like,
you saw my cover and you were
hooked, never did think to
look beneath the jacket,
just wanted stories like the
ones scheherazade sold,
i was your sheba
and you my solomon.
we rode lions across
the sands, your kiss
was salt on my lips,
i needed to quench
my thirst and you offered
me the brand new flavour
of coca-cola.

you said i was exotic,
like a pretty foreign thing,
some mail-order thing,
special delivery
just for you,
a flavour of coca-cola that you
had never tasted before.

i'm a little bit confused
'cause with your attitude
i'm really getting in the mood
but if this is gonna be
casual intimacy
then i might as well
consider myself
*******.

there is an elephant in the room.

it showed up about ten minutes ago,
just strolled on in as small talk
turned into big talk and the
elephant couldn’t find bigger talk anywhere else
so it stayed.
i offered it food, drink, a corner
in the garden, it laughed
and told me to stop trying
to be a good host
and just let it be, but i couldn’t just be,
trapped in the kitchen,
stuck between a rock and
a hard place, the hard
place being an elephant.
meanwhile the talk grew bigger
and it grew bigger,
there was an elephant
in all the rooms, we should have
built the ceilings higher,
made the thresholds wider,
if you’re going to invite
an elephant into your home,
it has to be able to fit.
otherwise, you’re looking at
tusks in the wall,
a tail in your face,
an elephant and no room.

the elephant swung its head
and our eyes met as the big talk turned
into small talk but the elephant
had heard smaller talk before
and i had offered it food, drink,
a corner in the garden.
i didn’t want to let the elephant
inside, but we had left the door wide
open, so who could blame
it for wandering in?
it stayed in the kitchen
and i stayed with it, it laughed
and told me it didn’t need
company, meanwhile the small talk
grew smaller and the elephant
grew bigger, i didn’t want company
but there was an elephant
in the room.
i didn’t know
how to take care of an elephant,
but that didn’t matter,
it already knew its way around
the house, knew how to small
talk even smaller
than our talk.

i asked the elephant
for its name. it laughed and
told me it didn’t matter,
it knew mine and that
was enough. meanwhile the
small talk stopped and i stopped
trying to talk smaller.
the elephant stayed
in the room.

i swear
i tried to catch the sun,
collided with icarus
on the way
he said, “hey,
where are you going?”
and fell
before i could tell him.

i said
“icarus,
there is a terrible
beauty to this world.“
i said
“icarus,
i want it all
to burn.”

and he burned,
crashed into the waves,
his flames flickered
and died.

i swear
i tried to catch the sun
before he did
but he stole it in his wings,
betrayed the sky
for a light
brighter than his own,
he was a shooting star
that i couldn’t swallow.

i said
“hey,
where are you going?”
he told me to make a wish
and fell.

i swear
i tried to catch the sun,
collided with him
on the way.

i said
“icarus,
my world is beautiful,
but terrible.”
i said,
“icarus,
i want it all
to burn.”

our wings melted,
and as the sky rained wax,
we burned.

she says
my heart is too big
it barely fits
i say
i can feel
the veins
slithering down my
wrists i was born
with walls so thick
no human eye
could see where i
began and where
i ended i
could feel
my heart hammering
away at my ribcage
it wanted to get out
when they tore
down the walls
and brought me into
this world they
didn’t cut deep enough

she talks
in pulses and palpitations
and every time
my heart flutters
she loses her breath
i tried to tear
the walls down myself
i couldn’t cut deep enough

she says
something
a thump a thump
thump but
my heart is too big
it’s the only
thing i hear
the only thing
i know there’s not
enough room for two
i can feel
my veins overflowing
i can’t cut deep enough

my heart
my big, big heart
spilling through my ribcage
it wants to get out

*if i want to let you in
i have to let it out

mark us
like sheep
my fleece may be
store-bought,
washed clean
of all
identity
but i’ve got
a patchwork neck
spotted and dotted
with broken
blood vessels and
i’ve seen the
girls with pennies
scraping at their
skin trying to
get rid of him
one stroke
at a time
(his lips were
just as rough
as the ridges
of their coins)
and
i’ve heard the
girls with pennies
their marks may
have faded
but their pockets
jingle with
each step they
take each move
they make they say
his tongue dripped
gold and
silver and
bronze all over
them but all he
left was
red

mark us
like cattle
my ears may
hold rings and
not tags
but i’ve got
skin so fair
you’d never
dare believe
that beneath
i’m just
another collection
of broken
blood vessels and
he may be
gone from the
surface
may be
easy to remove
but i still
bleed
(and the girls
with pennies
scrape at my
neck one
stroke at a
time)

mark me
like property
my body may
be a temple
but your
prayers will
not be
heard here
you say
the girls
don’t need
their pennies
we say you
have no say
in the way
we heal

our vessels
may have been
yours to break
but they are
not yours to
mend and you
can pretend
you never knew
what we went
through when
you decided
to leave
your signature
on our skin

but we promise
when we look at you
we only see
red

i have known nights
where men walk the sun
and the stars count people

sheep huddle together
in grassy fields
dreaming
of fences
worn down

see, the funny thing
about nights is
at some point
you can’t tell the difference
between the first
and the last

(And hey,
****** ******
The cat’s lost his fiddle
Orion’s got a belt
Round his neck)

the lass
on the moon
plucks planets
from the blue
and decorates
the tangles in
her hair

see, the funny thing
about dreaming is
at some point
you can’t tell the difference
between what hurts
and what doesn’t

(The cat’s started drinking
Orion’s stopped thinking)

dawn
decides to sleep in
for just
another hour
or two

see, the funny thing
about nights is
i have always known them
but know nothing
of you

(And the fiddle has gone out of tune).

i apologise,
i'm well aware
it's illegal to use
pictures of people
without their permission,
but your image
wanders through my
fantasies with no
regard for roadblocks
or boundaries, and
frankly, i'm tired
of throwing photographs
away.

The Sandman has gone out of business,
he says that he’s closing up shop.
Yeah, the Sandman is leaving us hanging,
he’s givin’ his clients the drop.

But the black market promises quality,
claims it’s made just the right stuff.
Got some back-alley dreams for the takin’,
well, if you can pay enough.

Now Grandma’s returned to the sixties,
she still rolls the best jays in town,
and I’ve entered the family business,
soon she’ll have to give up that crown.

Yeah, they call me the Sandman round these parts,
and I still haven’t slept worth a ****.
But if you need some dreams, for a reasonable fee
satisfaction is guaranteed.

Summer heat hangs in the air
and she’s stretched out along the window-seat
lips parted, sweat-drenched, dreaming of
the coldest touch.
And the sun, he watches over her,
spectator to every twitch,
every flutter across her face,
traitors of the masquerade
she wears for his eyes only.

July heat chokes the air
and she’s clinging to the window-seat,
gasping, heaving, retching out the
remnants of a fever which
boiled her blood and consumed her heart.
Salt-kissed tears have long since
relieved her vision,
yet delirium is a faithful companion
and regret stings like
only a lover can.

August heat steals the air,
and she’s curled up in the corner of the window-seat,
lips parted, sweat-drenched, praying for
the sun to forgive the dusk which
rings her eyes,
this tragic, tarnished complexion.
He coaxes droplets from her lashes,
dusts away the spots from her cheeks,
brights her lungs
so she can breathe again.
Red, raw, relieved, she is awake,
and just a little bit lighter.

Memories of heat linger in the air
and she’s taken apart the window-seat,
to build a hanging garden in its place.
Her flowers dream
of the warmest touch.

And the sun, he watches over them.

pour me a drink
from the grooves
in your hands, honey
i'll lap up your words,
sip your oceans
like wine
because i only find solace
in salt water hallucinations

and you
are the only form
of intoxication
that doesn’t make
me seasick

darling, it's all a matter of
perception
how you see it

looking out from
parallel shores
we are glimpses
of more
in the distance
strangers to
burnt-out street lamps
and burnt-out sweethearts

darling
it's all a matter of
persepshun
how you feel it

vibrate in your
fingertips
dance upon your
skin with needlepoint
toes
bells resonating
in your ears,
a troubled storm abrew

darling, it's all a matter of
pearshipshon
how you taste it

another glass, more
*****, please
another burning trail
down your throat
the only kind
of warmth
we know

darling,
*it's all a matter of per-cep-tion

We are intertwined
an intricate braid of
capillaries and veins,
arteries pumping blood
two heartbeats at
a time

This is not
Fate not a universal
design destiny has
no place along
our twists and
turns

We are unique
shards of broken galaxies
fallen to the earth
No two stars
are the same

But our trail
will light the skies
Distinct, Contrasting
Blues and Reds
woven into the fabric
of an unravelling world

have my colours
stained your lips?
can you still taste me
in pastel traces
of fingerprints that
ring your neck,
a collar to
restrain you from
painting over
another girl
with your corrupt
palette.

Damp eyes never meant us well
They're such an inconvenience
And passersby
won't fall in line
Step aside nor
slow their stride
But we'll ignore their careless eyes
Don't want to inconvenience

Cross streets, mean streets, it's
the blind leading the blind
And maybe we're wasting our time
'Cause the map in our hands
spells out misprinted boundaries and
Who can read smeared ink
Run off the page into unknown
territories dripping purple as the bruises
beneath our fingertips

If we hold on any tighter
Our travels will be
Etched into the other's skin
A directory of streets wandered by
the two of us just
a walk down route mother, please and
Round to relapse avenue
To sip champagne
in the light of
dreams forgotten

*but darling the lines in my palms
have always led back to you

circle scars
and you circle scars
all along the lengths of your arms
black where red once
did the trick
got enough to take your pick
crisscross patterns
round your wrists
there's no patch of skin been missed
said you'd stop
so now you take
a pen instead of razor blade
cigarette stays
in your lips
safer than your fingertips
but inside out
you're still the same
circle scars
and you circle

The curtains close
over our eyes
And the guns play firework
lullabies

And the band marches
into our dreams
tonight
Parading beneath
our red spotlight

Encore, encore!
We're not satisfied
Their limbs are tired but
the *****'s not dried

The stage demands
its sacrifice
Sleep cannot comfort while
closed eyes still cry

Our dance is meant for two.

They pirouette and we weep
They pirouette and we drink
The peals are a haven
We stagger forward
Our appeals beg for haven

The only choreography we know
Is that of broken bottle footsteps
Imprinted on the floor
Turn left turn left
There's not enough time
Turn where turn where
Do we go next?

Our dance was made for two.*

The room pirouettes and we drink
The world pirouettes and we weep

We are the ones
Who exhale fog
And conjure the storms
of our downcast

Blood is thicker than vapour
yet we run just as thin
And the raindrop patter
of our hearts
is an awfully quiet din

Oh darling, can't you see?
The weather reports tell us
Only what we want to hear

I want to drink the stars
Shine, their constellations running through my veins
Suffocate on their glow
Ragged breaths their edges shred my throat
Did stars always bleed so red?