It’s actually quite fun
throwing mud,
if you can accept it
sticks sometimes
to your own slow fingers,
staining them.

But gather it all up
in handfuls,
dirt, wet for preference,
delightful
as missiles targeted
away there:

At the dark heart hated
by us all
and by all means repeat
the treatment,
until the target becomes
the victim.

There. Hopefully you feel
better now.

I am two steps away from addiction
One step is when I love you
One step is when you love me
One step without the other brings desperation
Which is one step away from frustration

I wash-up two cups, find a spoon,
decipher his mood whilst I pour us coffee.
He’s not talking.
Dishevelled.
Frustrated.
Irate.
Whoever she is, last night wasn’t great-
The bed’s made up with clean white sheets.
She didn’t stay over.

I hand him his coffee.
He nods,
it’s a start but
there’s nothing set up and
I can’t tell where he wants me.
He’s paid for a day- I undress anyway.
And because it’s quite early, still cool-
I sit in a spilled-sunshine-pool
at the foot of his bed.

He studies me.
Traces my line with his eyes.
I keep warm,
drink coffee.
Wait.
He draws a deep breath-
takes my cup,
holds my face in both hands.
Says nothing, just kisses me hard
and pushes me back.

I unbutton his fly-
lick my fingers,
let them glide,
slide.
Rise up to meet him.
He pulls out the moment he’s done.
His frustration feels hot
on flushed skin,
and becomes mine when
he walks away.

He gathers up paper and charcoal-
the tools of his trade.
Arranges my limbs,
places my hand in
glossy-soft-heat between
my slight-parted thighs.
Leans close, kisses me thank you
then whispers
Be still.

muse

i used to be able to sit for hours
and write poems for you
now it feels like im trying to squeeze elephants out of a pinhole
my words dont flow the same
the song does not sing and my mind will not think
is it because im not as sick?
does my creativity rely on my illness?
does my magic only work when im hopelessly in love with a man who wants nothing to do with me?
what the hell is going on.
now that ive healed, am i not allowed to visit the spring of creativity?
is it reserved for lowly people who do not know their worth?
oh muses i pray
let me write the same again one day

It did not happen
    it would have happened
        it could have happened
            it should have happened
     but

It did not happen

I'm not married to any one color of ink,
but only how well it can cover distinct
and interesting topics pulled out of the air
while behind it a movie plays without care.
Can I create something of value from here?
In a place remote and removed while still very near.
For the movie has been playing for years and years
will all its goings-on, hi-jinx, drama and tears
But it always plays just beyond my reach
I'm front-row, orchestra but this cast doesn't teach.

Clenching my lies within my fists
I stand prominent,
forcing the pressure of weightlessness
onto them until they crack;
opening up like wounds,
drenching the tips of my fingers
in venom and lava.

Their acid burn
seeps into the cuts in my skin
from times I have fought this before;
an unyielding inevitability
soaks the marrow of my bones
as I stand – defender and defenceless,
my fists still closed, un-bloomed.

Primed to punch, my stance is unyielding,
as if my body and throat are at war
between the truth and the other;
head lolling in despair
at who I have become
and what I am holding.

The way out is the way in
and I’m looping,
rolling down a hill in a memorial summer,
catching myself at the bottom
and finding it to be the ash-sky;
continually Catherine-wheeling
through remnants of other iterations
of this inevitability.
We always end up here.
We always end up
here.