Wretched voice
Boxed so thin
Rubbed-raw noise
Sandpaper skin
Beaten crest
Lasts for years
Naked nest
November tears
The season’s stall
Before the laughs
The worst of all
The ugly path
A sun burned green
I waste away
While they all wait
For bright Friday.

‪Maybe the reason I smoke so much lately, is because I have the thought of dying constantly come up in my head.  Maybe because I’m too scared to push through or my sane (idk for how long) mind and conscience stops me from doing so. For the sake of my friends and family, who sometimes are what makes me have these unsettling thoughts, I will continue to battle against myself. But, Unconsciously I know that smoking like crazy will slowly **** me.

at 4 am,
the world's asleep.
with only the sound of the flickering street lights,
the crickets that chirp at night,
and the occasional sound of tires rolling,
across the highway,
to serve as a reminder that dead silence does not exist.
the sound of the heavy sighs of truck drivers,
crossing miles upon miles of lonely roads,
the smell of the disgusting, overpriced coffee of tired business leaders,
bought the minute they get off their red eye flight.
still;
nothing can change,
the beauty that's there and remains;
at 4 am,
the world's a beautiful sight.


                                                  -YYC

To all the people who know what I’m talking about
I’m so sorry
I truly am
You don’t need to believe me
Why even would you

I am shades of midnight, shards of the same galaxy collapsed and contrasted to tiny little ***** that grow like eggs not subsumed by Mars quakes.
I am faulty genes, x-rays, heart scans, and red cells insufficient.
I am sexuality in a world yet to be explored by I and me.
I am a jar of dry camomile leaves turning to shades of sunlight spreading over the river leaving spaces for evening lights.
I am petals of the stars waned to the fragrance of flowers travelling with wanderlust from world to world.
I am insights from colours of black, white, golden, everything. I am a sanctuary of solitude, edging on certainty.

I am the oscillation between feeling brilliant at birthing my art and really quite derided at churning consistent literature.
I am the east London girl left with derelicts of poetry originating from Alfred Hitchcock films.

I am the walk by the sea that gives the feeling of the wind coming off the waves. I am the travel between seasons on railways to off-the-beaten-paths destinations through countrysides and beyond to flea markets collecting memories, soul and travel tchotchkes.


I am Sunday breakfast and tea in bed, buried inside heaps of sheets, using body warmth for shield.
I am pure joy, one whose heart howls with laughter and a face whose grin is as silly as the scowl of a Cheshire Cat with a hissy fit. I am a numismatist and I am the girl who collects stamps and inherits vinyls owned by my father from the 1960s.
I am coffee without cream. I let the days and the weekends amaze me like my time in Hamburg.
I am the random stroll to the local Signorelli bakery to have an almond croissant and fresh Italian latte and a nice chat with the ******* lady.
I am a creation inspired by the likes of Thomas Hardy, Francoise Sagan, Zadie Smith, the humour of Lucy Mangan, and the wit of David Sedaris.

I am her, ambivalent between jaunting between rural and suburban villages, bustling cities and seaside towns. I am soul inspired songs by the Upsetters and likes of Otis Redding’s ‘cigarettes and coffees’. I am stuck between layers of diversity notwithstanding an identity of complexities.
I am the cheateu in the north of Bordeaux where we did that thing and the grandfather clock chimed and we laughed so hard, we choked.
I am excitement yet forgettable like the confetti that drops to the floor after weddings.
I am midnight in Paris and late night strolls on 57th and 6th in New York.

I am a result of the birth of a post term delivery caught unduly unprotected by the amniotic fluids of mother.
I am layers of skin shedding in green and yellow slime because mum had me at the 11th month with a fontanelle that retained ground rice which she ate when she went into labour. A fontanelle that never left and each time I braid my hair by someone new, they tell me of the dent as if it was something new I only just discovered.
I am June created on the first day of summer like Marilyn but could have been April beautifully bore in Spring like April in the TV show, ‘Mistresses’.

I am the heart heaved at a belief swooned towards a soul immortal. I am one who never wants to stop making memories with you, my ‘buh’.
I am ménage a’ moi and I am the Pas de deux as long as I am joie de vivre, then la vie est belle.
I am altered by indie and foreign films that tell elegantly of French girls admirably in love like that of ‘Jeune and Jolie’ and ‘Blue is the warmest colour’.

I am the smell of my ‘babuska’s’ saliva plastered all over my palms as she wipes them clean with her wrapper cloth sealing them in prayers for good destiny and good health.
I am the crux of the patron of St Andrews representing Bajan maidens, Danish singers, Scottish spinsters, Argentine migrants, shell shocked survivors, women wanting to be mothers, gouts, jaws and sore throats.

I am a spanner in the works aggrieved by familiarity and **** taking. I am all there is, transported in my ******, prayer and thoroughness, clear and bright like a snowy Christmas sunny morning.


I am June