This is a poem of anger
this is a poem of grief
this is a poem for those
to whom death was the only relief
from the words of abuse
from attitudes of shame
from the spittle and curses
from the taking of blame
from the raining of blows
from fists and boots and rocks
from the penetrating blades
that **** like sharpened *****
from the bullets and blasts
that tear flesh apart
from the tearing of veils
from the hammers and nails
this is a poem of outrage
this is a poem of pain
this is a poem to honour
those who were never to blame

Cynthia Pauline Jones 20/11/13
For International Transgender Day of Remembrance

i felt Your beast stir
He called to the *****
the **** who lies within
and she answered Him
with whispered seductions
coaxing Him from His lair
filled with longing for Him
to emerge and sport with her
spreading herself wantonly
craving to be taken, devoured
eaten up and filled
made a plaything, consumed

the ***** inside me needs to see
the beast in You set free
her freedom to exist is in His gift alone
her purpose to rise to meet His lust
to take His stripes as her own
and bear them with pride
the beast in You will find release
inside the ***** who lives in me

Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/01/14

If I could only have been with you
would have made your dreams come true
if only you had allowed me to
there are no limits to what I'd do

I'd shave my head for you
fall down dead for you
swing the lead for you
keep things unsaid for you
make up my bed for you
bake gluten free bread for you

tell big lies for you
be despised for you
have only eyes for you
criticise for you
create surprise for you
wear disguise for you

give protection for you
take direction for you
lose connection for you
keep affection for you
bear inspection for you
shun perfection for you

would do anything at all for you
would do anything you want me to
would do nothing to make you blue
if I could only have been with you

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 3/11/13

The worst thing about abuse
is not so much the guilt
of feeling you're to blame
that you should never
have been so attractive
so irresistible, so seductive
though in all other contexts
you felt anything but,
were filled with doubt
and lacked self confidence

No, the worst thing of all
is the way that when
it's repeated enough times
you get used to it, inured
then in time there's a part
of you comes to welcome
that expected familiarity
need it even, participate,
share the other's pleasure

But the rest of you
rails against this
taking of your autonomy
this removal of consent
and that part wages war
upon the part that
gives it's acquiescence
and you are fractured
hating your complicity
despise that you made it
in any part your fault

Yet to have healing
requires you recognise
the part of you
that went along
was no more to blame
than the part that didn't
it was just a coping strategy
you needed to survive
after all what else
could you have done?

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 18/10/13

Sometimes it's all about the ***
though mostly it isn't.

Sometimes it's about the play,
about enjoying the effect
that I have on another
or, less so recently,
about seeking to please
and enjoying whatever is given.

Sometimes it's about wanting
to hold and be held in return
to feel the love
and the connection
and the closeness
and that warmth inside.

Sometimes play isn't enough
when it ignites my desire
and frustration strains the pleasure
sometimes holding someone
isn't enough either
when the warmth turns to heat.

So sometimes it becomes
all about the ***
and yet that's so elusive
when my attentions are unwanted
or I find my desire
impossible to express.

Sometimes I feel in need
yet nobody picks that up
none come forward to ask
to writhe with me, entwined
to seek mutual fulfillment
of a shared lust.

Sometimes it's not about the ***
because that's not on the menu.

Cynthia Pauline Jones, Aug 2013

Perhaps one day
you'll mention casually
just in passing
as though it were
no big thing,
that a poet fell
in love with you
once, years ago
before she was
a poet even
before she was
ready to be she,
that at the time
you'd not thought
it worth mentioning
lest it disturb
the equilibrium

Or perhaps it might
be thrown forth
with emphasis, triumphantly
when that equilibrium
has been disturbed
by other events
and accompanied by
the expressed wish
that you'd taken
that alternative route
when it was available

Perhaps you'll step forward
and claim your place
in these words
as muse, as inspiratrix
proudly proclaiming
that you were adored
to this extent
that the love
that could not be
expressed in touch
or taste, in immersion
of the senses
in physical intimacy
was expressed instead
in lasting verse

Or perhaps you may
keep this inside
locked away
telling no one
for all your days
hiding this secret
from the world
maybe in time
yet far away
to be discovered
stumbled upon
with incredulity
by some person
you leave behind

I shall never reveal
this truth directly
but there are clues
here and there
that if followed
may lead some
to suspect, but none
that would reveal
with any certainty
who you are
because this secret
is yours to keep
or reveal, not mine

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 17/10/13

Infinity is so tedious
it just goes on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on

and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on

Forever has no limits
it just goes on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on

and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on

This poem's got no end
it might go on and on
and on and on and on
and on and on and on

and on and on and on and on
and on and on and on

Repeat ad nauseam

Cynthia Pauline Jones 11/11/13