Time binds us
tightly with red silken ribbons,
woeful reminders of
our naked mortality,
acting as string tied
round fingers to remember,
even if we want to erase minds
and forget our deadlines.

We are not gowned to our toes
in the golden gleam of forever,
one period upcoming
in our lives,
hopefully a fair distance
from present skies.

Our epilogues will be written
for us by fate
and death combined,
achieving a certainty
we have known since thigh-high.

Patchwork angel slumped
in the corner chair,
she settled herself carefully
amongst the immigrants, dust-mite communities
who built cities of lint within
her woolen hair.

It began with stowaways
who clung fiercely to cardboard walls
with their transparent hands,
smuggling themselves in
with hoarded nostalgia,
too precious to release but
forgotten once a shiny trinket
attracts the eye.

Hanging her rag-doll head
the wingless wonder
allowed herself an internal sigh,
mute from her
back-stitched mouth,
sewn to silence her opinions
and leave emotions stagnant.

A lone paddler
within rumoured holy waters,
blessed by the touch
of a vacant apathetic god,
she gaped mutely like a halibut,
lips parted comically in a silent wail,
the clockwork functions
of her jaw,
forced teeth to reacquaint as sisters,
grinding together
in discomfort,
as lukewarm fluids rippled
around her thighs.

In this silent act of cleansing,
sin's hallmark should have faded
from her skin,
still her father believed
'her to be the devil's young'
due to scientific witchcraft,
her concoctions to lure demons
to their dinner table.

'I'm doing this for you, darling.'
her father reassured
with an earnest glint in his eyes,
madness paced hungrily,
encircling pupils in a territorial manner,
delusions of God himself watching
over his daughter,
with tears streaming down golden cheeks,
repeated within his fragile mind.

Unsure, the girl remained standing,
the embodiment of Mary
with her arms spread like angel wings,
did she dare disobey
her father's wishes,
and feel the leather belt against
her rear,
or reject her own troubled heart,
for her father's sake?

He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.

Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.

Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.


Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.

Eager,
as a young hound
panting at a beloved master's heel,
my black, cruel eyes
shining,
upturned towards his trusting face,
the smiling icon,
religion's celebrity
adored throughout the living world.

Once,
I devoted myself,
soul and flesh combined
to my liege,
following in his sand-prints,
my own feet
almost shrunken in his over-sized steps,
the all-knowing giant,
a teacher
to the feeble being, myself.

Years passed sluggishly,
still treading deserts,
my soles bruised,
bleeding rivers from the arches,
I screamed for us to wait
only for a moment.
He turned,
with an expression of stone,
'You'll be a sinner if you stop,
so keep walking,
become God's serving girl'.

Shaking my head,
slowly,
lashes downcast,
I admitted the truth.

'I'd rather become a sinner
than pound sand
any longer,
call me a quitter
if you please,
but I'm done.'

Sometimes face painting
another persona
becomes plain,
her exaggerated giggles
don't slouch right
upon the rose buds,
(Mama noted them first -
cherishing her eleven winter's
awaited delivery)
so readily pruned
of actuality and truthfulness
ravaging an inner shadow -
still Eight Christmases young
playing on her fruit's swing,
running dough fingers across
tangerine bars.

Before memories
commence their chorus,
pleading forgiveness and
forget-me nots,
'No Vacancies'
is rehung within
her windows
moss embroidered.

A chorus
rising from
newborn fields
of cerulean,
ancient bird songs
cooed only
by the select
of tongue,
float on nimbled
wings,
August in
her kindness
gives a helping breeze
to the fledgling -
a beaten underdog
of the angelic flock,
"cry no more
little one, aloft
you will stay",
stray feathers
bathed
in speckled gold
go forth
upon jade fringed
islands below,
showering sun-kissed
rain.