In the book Going Solo,
Roald Dahl wrote about a woman
Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands
Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils
Knife in one hand and fork in another
She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting
The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh
Skill precise as a surgeon
Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines

I tried it on the same fruit
Somehow it just didn't feel right
Too refined, too silent

Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers
Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise
Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made
And from that same opening, tearing outwards
Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated
The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked
Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory
Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths
Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection
Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice

That is how an orange ought to be peeled.

Instead of thoughts I have a chorus
of voices singing my reactions
& inner monologues
One set of voices devoted to
whatever pop tune I've wedged
between my fancy & fears
those they sing with glee
Another set play my greek chorus
chiming in croaking out
danger & longing because I need song
to be able to process my life
I need voice to enunciate & emote
need drums & bass to feel anything at all
& need melody to
shake loose my soul

stop questioning, just eat the candy floss.
it's so sweet you can't resist.
let the puppeteer play you.
he'll play you with elegance.
threads on your arms, your legs, your head.
don't try to replace the irreplaceable shape of the merest trifle.
we have only just begun living life

Though it now smells like me.
Here I don't have a "side",
Though I am partial to the window.
By the window I get all the best,
the view of the world,
the dim city street,
the unpredictable, yet lovely, weather,
Yet also the view of you,
Quiet, and at your most vulnerable,
Appearing to be almost shy in slumber.
Kiss your shoulder, rolling away,
Now viewing the other half of my world.
Though it now smells like me,
This is not my bed.

There is a motionless tree
there is another that moves forward
                a river of trees
pounds at my chest
                The green swell
of good fortune

You are dressed in red
                you are
the seal of the burning year
carnal firebrand
                star of fruit
I eat the sun in you

                The hour rests
on a chasm of clarities

The birds are a handful of shadows
their beaks build the night
their wings sustain the day

Rooted at the light's peak
between stability and vertigo
                you are
        the diaphanous balance.

I walk the world with thoughts of you
In every place I go
Your voice is on the winter wind
Your footprints in the snow
And every tool I try to use to scrape you from my mind
Cuts your name onto my tongue
And beats me till I'm blind
I layed my head upon your knees and breathed the air you breathed
I cut myself when you were cut to know just how you bleed
Now as I walk this empty earth with nothing but a face
To breathe me and to bleed me
Until I leave this place

There is a florescent glow to the room,
Our energy echoes off the walls.
I am numb,
Floating above the world, I see it all.
My magic carpet ride is the expansion of thought.
I’m lying on the crimson velvet,
Looking up at myself, and I ponder
What is?
What isn’t?
Who
                          Am
                                                      I?
Thoughts, ideas, and revelations erupt from my core.
It hits me like an emotional pain killer,
Nothing makes sense, though everything is understandable.
Life is an unsolvable mystery.
We have not the technology,
We cannot rebuild him,
We have no Sherlock,
There is no magic key.
Tools are gained as we progress,
But regress is our fool.
Being lost is an understatement,
Though finding is our ultimate goal.

Why am I so frightened
To say I'm me
And publicly acknowledge
My small mastery?
Waiting for sixty years
Till the people take out the horses
And draw me to the theatre
With triumphant voices?
I know this won't happen
Until it's too late
And the deed done (or not done)
So I prevaricate, Egging
them on and keeping
Roads open (just in case)
Go on! Go on and do it
In my place!
Giving love to get it
(The only way to behave).
But hated and naked
Could I stand up and say
*******! or, Be my slave!
To be in a very unfeminine
Very unloving state
Is the desperate need
Of anyone trying to write.