Beware the fuzzy rolligog
That smithers in the myre
(Confuse it not with golliwogs
In fuzzy blue attire)

Beware the rolligogan wrath
(They can breathe fire, you know)
Just feed them up on tigermoth
And bathe them in the snow

Beware the rolli appetite
Which consumes dozy trees
Where zigazots and clambermites
Weave pathways through the leaves

Beware the rolligogan song
There’s poison in its tune
As rolligogan night grows long
Prepare: they’re coming soon.

i like honey
it is nice
and sweet
it soothes my throat
keeps my voice
for singing.

it’s delicate and gentle
but thick and determined
it goes well with ginger
or lemon
or just hot water in a cup.

but the trouble with honey
is that it gets everywhere
i keep finding bits of it
when i pick things up or put things down

on the handle of the kettle
in the corner of the sink
under the cupboard door
- how the hell did it get there? -
behind the toaster.

i like honey
(and sweetness and light)
in moderation
but the trouble with honey
(and comfort and love)

is that when i have a lot of it
i start to hate it
see it as an infection
like maybe it’s not so sweet
after all.

i think really
that the trouble with honey
isn’t.

it’s the trouble with me.

I could show you such things as you never have seen
But I'd have to go back on my oath
An oath I never made, but which
Stuck with me, the most sacred of things
So sacrosanct that even to say the words of the oath itself
Would be to break it.
Rarely is holiness so raw
Yet when that place is found
When the moon descends
And the water rises
Something shifts: and the veil is slightly lifted
But only slightly, for
Personne ne peut enlever la voile d'Isis
Even if we know how
Especially if we know how
Yet sometimes, gods willing,
It thins itself slightly
But only slightly, and
We catch a glimpse of the way things really are:
The way things could be.

A Volkswagen sinks in tainted ink
The purple bunny’s been painted pink
The hare is teetering on the brink
Of broken limelight square.

He rings the thing; it starts to sing
A duckling, suckling ****, goes ping!
A nettle stings the bunny’s wing;
The duckling gets no share.

A shard apart that scarred the heart
Ripped out the one who passed the start
And darting past her cart, remarked
Upon her vacant stare.

A stare so vast that sticks and lasts;
She’s passed the post, she’s missed the mast,
What matters most: what’s passed is past,
Surrendered into air.

my drama teacher told me when i was fifteen
you say ‘you’ when you mean ‘i’ if you know what i mean
she was right, she was right
what she said wasn’t a lie
she said stand up on the table
over there and close your eyes
and lean back, lean back
into their waiting hands
just do it, just do it girl, you’ve got to understand
this is life, this is drama, it’s a trust exercise
i refused, i refused to comply.

i haven't washed myself
in days

there's no point
because

it can't be washed away
anyway.

Watching through an empty window,
He broke his pain on the tears that fell
From his face

Like glass, they hit the ground and shattered
And his groans went unheard by the people
Who passed outside

It was not normal, this obsession, he thought,
Pulling another cigarette from his case, and
Setting it alight.

He watched it burn: burn long and strong,
The ash gathered grey on the end of the smouldering stick
Then fell to join the water
On the floor.

Who am I, he thought again, what do I do?
There were no answers to these questions.
He was in this empty house, overlooking the lawns,
Breaking the dawn with a glass of whisky
And a bottle of wine.

There was nothing left for him here.

She wants to wax artistic
Her audience so rapt
Are watching every movement
As something in her snaps.

She raises up the scalpel
Her canvas takes the brunt
Of artistry in temper,
Of truth she daren't confront.

Her pencil lead stabs slowly
In repetition bland
It draws out lines, it stabs out points
Misguided by her hand.

She lifts her palette higher
As red ink starts to dash
Down lines made by the pencil
On the canvas she has slashed.

She's showing her life story
For she knows no words to say
What the horrors are that taunt her,
Flaunt her, haunt her every day.

She spills a can of petrol,
She lights a tiny match
And down her canvas one last time
Her fingernails scratch.

She throws it in the fire
And she dances round the flames
Crying, screaming and repeating:
"My life story I disclaim!"

i like it
when children are innocent
when dreams are plentiful
when lifelines exist