Dozens of days
still can't remember
my name

but you know it don't you?

gender is such a distraction
I can see the temptation
the relative ease
not having one

but I'm a woman
what a woman

disgraced and redeemed
over and over

desire and dismissal
obsession and obstetrics

cowered before villains
an army of millions marching behind me

told the plain truth
lying with only my smile

tripping over my words
in a stream of pure eloquence
there's  nothing left for me
but to be burned as a witch

cackling as the flames
flicker against my feet
a phoenix

"ha-.... haiKU", says he,
who has just sneezed violently.
Poetry is sick.

A copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse Remaindered from
the London Borough of Barking and Dagenham Public Libraries




This happy gift of 1939
Rescued from the good comrades’ loving fires
From the liberation of censorship
From the gentle criminalization of thought

This little book and its happy, dancing lines
Crafted with thought and care and art and love
A celebration of civilization
Oh, save it, read it, love it, smuggle it

Because

More dangerous to tyrants than weapons
Are the poems of a people living free

Oh, my Medusa
That piercing, seductive stare
Gets me so rock hard.

"braullw nevae falls"
That's 'braille never fails',
Spelled by a blind man.

Matsuo Basho
Turns in his grave: first, five times
then seven, then five.

The dankest of ****
Floats slowly into my lungs
Oh wait...Asbestos.

hahaha ye boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
yeyeyeyeye ye boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
hehe wyd

Do you remember that time of innocence?
When the horrors of the world were invisible,
and you were so much more than invincible?
Do you remember when you didn't doubt for a second that you were amazing?
When you wore those "crazy" things,
And sung at the top of your lungs, unashamed?
Do you remember when you raced outside at every opportunity?
When catching fireflies were the only thing you could think about in the summer,
Other than swimming in the open sea?
Do you remember when laughing came so easily?
When you didn't catch the naughty things in kids tv programs,
And when you had a million perfect life plans?
Do you remember when you woke up early, because you couldn't wait for the day?
When you spoke so fast, because there wasn't enough time,
And when you created a trillion random things, because you wanted to?
Do you remember dancing, or bobbing your head to some random tune in your head?
When you ran out into the rain, without shame,
And screamed until your lungs ached?
Do you remember when you learned everything, and wanted to still know more?
When you were so proud of getting one thing right,
And not caring if you weren't perfect?
Do you remember watching your older siblings, or grown-ups do things, that made you say "I can't wait until I grow up!"?
When you loved yourself, without a doubt,
And had the power to do anything, or be anyone?
I do.
And I wish I could have all of that innocence, and freedom back.
I wish that openness, and self-love had transferred into my more mature life.
I wish that nonchalant way of doing everything had stayed.
I wish that careless way of dancing and singing had tagged along.
I wish that I had stayed carefree for longer, instead of quickly becoming cynical, and depressed.
I wish that I had never pushed to be a part of the grown-up conversations.
I wish that I had never rushed into intimacy.
I wish that I had held onto my wildest dreams.  
Because, now,
I regret every time I said
"I can't wait until I grow up!",
Because each time I said those words aloud,
Its pushed me further away from my imagination and wilderness faster, and harsher.
Because each time I said those words, and every single adult around me said that I should hold on to my childhood,
I replied with anger and irritation, not knowing the hell that I was rushing into.
I want to go back,
Don't you?

I curse the midnight muse
her full bladder urgency

calling from the darkest darkness
quilling me willing me to write

Some call it somethingphobic and bellicose
Crude masculinist supremacy (by far)
Insensitive, sexist, and just plain gross –
But it’s righteously vegan – my weekly cigar!

In shaking verse
She writes down the gifts of his divinity.
Her trembling meter pays homage
To the ruby red circles seared onto her skin.
Every stuttering syllable is an offering
That she conjures as a devotee,
Who has defaulted on the repayment
Of words, now long overdue.

He demands epic proportions of gifted wisdom,
He asks for legendary lines in his honour.
He demands for glory to his name,
Written in red.

The patron saint of inspiration
Retains his light,
And casts gifted shadows over her,
As she struggles to her elbows,
Drowning in loud, blank papers.

The patron saint of inspiration
Waits at the altar of poetry,
Watching tributes flow in,
Mounted on her fragile skin
And faded rhymes.

The patron saint of inspiration
Inspects the fabric of the writer's soul,
And passes judgement
On the worth of her tears,
Ever smiling, ever watching.

The patron saint of inspiration
Lures her to the gates of Eden
Only to have her trace her words
In the eternal dust of the ephemeral
Gods that gathers beneath it.

His grace against her fatigue,
His divinity against her anguish.
His grand schemes against her hope
His knowledge against her intrigue.

The patron saint of inspiration
Watches her from the walls within.

The patron saint of inspiration
Encourages her divine sin.

Weeks pass by,
and the sun vomits days
onto a calendar and I spill onto blank computer screens.
Two windows live next to me,
kissing the ceiling,
and reaching down to the floor.
They live in perfect harmony
with the skies,
and are shy only of the setting sun.
Every evening,
I look at windows and the planes they carry
and wish I was the window.
To have people and stories
and paths to tread on, arms to fall in,
to have a destination to go to, sighs to breathe in.

I wish I was the window,
framing perfect fleeting moments - an eternal second,
the blink-blink of evening skies
clink-clink of mugs,
orchestrating the perfect symphony,
always in disarray but never of tune.

I wish I was the window,
to be shifting sand dunes of visions,
to be home to slightly changing constants,
a broken delta sign -

I am so close to being a window,
but your eyes are yet to look through me.

I lost a world,
I never owned.
A fleeting isle
of blood and bone.
I walked eight miles
all alone
down the broken glass strewn
black sand shore.

I cut off a limb
I no longer use.
I sung a hymn
to a skeletal muse.
I lost a world,
in the blink of an eye.
Down near the waterline
where dreams go to die.

You can't cry off a metamorphosis,
you can't buy back the light
swallowed by the abyss,
you can't lie through lips
locked in a kiss.
I lost a world,
I wish I missed

Hard and fast
the line is secured.
To a forgotten dock
my boat is moored.
I lost my oar,
when I jumped overboard.
I lost my place
in the world of my past.

Gutless ghouls
haunt this hellish wood.
I'd rant and rail,
it would do no good.
If I tried I'd fail
to be understood,
I lost a world,
and even if I could
I'd never go back,
to the ship of fools.