Once upon a time, in a world that looks like yours      
there was a girl with
golden hair
that hung like a banner across her back in a
a sea of sandy metal
that whispered across the air
all the untold secrets of the water and the flowers
and their petals


and when she blinked, her eyes were blue
and if you leaned too close you'd
drown in them
like the hags who tumbled down the wells
and shrieked for help
that no one cared about
because they didn't hear their voice
or see their
ebony locks trailing like abandoned sea **** after them
because they didn't fit into the space the puzzle maker had carved
and couldn't conquer the tedium of difference


and the girl was tugged by hand to go to Church
and her prayers were secret treasures
that trickled from her lips
and tasted like righteousness
each word more crystal than the last
soaked in honey at the tip
and smothered in wonder and glory
and the days as they passed


and they never mentioned the girls she teased
who wore headscarves
or bindis
that she'd printed with the colours of endless torment
in hues of cheerless and agony
and the girls never told her that
if they took them off
like she begged them to
laughter sprinkled in and stirred
they'd have to show her how much more pain
her jeering caused them


and the girl made mockeries of the unconventional
but that was okay because
everyone did
their eyes creasing up into slits of derision
in universal agreement
skidding past the true
whims of their heart and growing to
resent them


and the eccentric pressed themselves carefully
into the mould of society's
baking tray
their souls thrashing out in pain and hatred
as they compressed their emotions
and intelligence
and the beauty they found in the strangest of things
into the shell that had been vacated for them
when its previous owner had shrivelled up
and given in
and died


and all the way through life, the girl was beautiful
but she still  blew char
over her eyelashes
and stained her lips the post-box red that's found in
first kisses and
poetry and
scrawled crayoned hearts and
fading wishes


and she made fun of the red that pulsed
in the form of acne on
her classmates' faces
growing their hair out long to cover their pain
until no one could see their shame
and pouring their money into
the collection tins of mass chain stores
of cream and gloop and products
until their faces were marred by make-up
until their mothers didn't recognise them anymore
and they cried


and the girl was thinner and happier than anyone
but because it amused her
her wrists were slit
so her peers doled out their sympathy
and held battles over
who could make her smile first
and she fasted to become thinner
and she collected
four leaf clovers


and her classmates ignored the tender puckered skin
of the children that hacked at
their flesh and
tried to hide it alongside their hurt
and she cackled at the ribs
that seemed to try and burst from their flesh
like hungry mouths were trying to eat
them from the inside out
and they collected things because they feared
what would happen if they didn't
because that was OCD


and when the girl grew up, she married a boy
and he was tall and
his hair was night
and he was handsome in the conventional way that was accepted
perfect match
the paradisiacal sight of
dainty damsel clutching the arm of the
kind of man she'd read about in books
she'd been infatuated with him before they'd met


and the boys who fell in love with each other were outcast and spat on
their hearts torn into tatters and shredded in machines
by the people who thought they could decide for them
that if they didn't love girls then they'd love no one at all
because in the fairy tales they'd read as young children
they learnt that
prince = princess
and the prince never runs away with the woodcutter
because where would the princess be then?


and the girl still lives on today, in a world that looks like yours
her words a deadly poison
reaping and bleeding
crushing her prey between *******
and showing songs to the ears of the impressionable,  young or old
sowing seeds in their brains
that blossom in their hearts
and she is beautiful
and she is terrible
and she is nameless but for the title of
Society’s own child
and she is blameless
for it is the parent
at fault.

Teetles tuppled storpidly, along the clurby path
Her toes gribbed at the plirky sand
When she lumbled swanuously round the ragthall pebbly wrath
Her stlilting head tipped back as she breathed the roopled frand

She trippered toinulously pausing at the gurgil streef
To drink slaverously from a Burbore skinned flask
Sea shells stolen plumberlingly from the Briley Heef
Dripped from her pockets as she svointered on the shubbled crask

And in her furling hand she snatched a Stoodle,
Feathered little spine smuffled from the wind so grabbily,
Its beak produced a little snawdoodle
And she laughed so jorbid and trabbily

“Little one, a seashell for you”
She exclaimed and stooped to pluck a sleemish one
And in the Stoodle horpled with a gentle twoo
And she set it in the blurkish sea, spinning loorfilly in the sun

With a sudden shloop
both shell and Stoodle were ****** under
so she stood waiting peering into the gloop
as the Stoodle sunk into the murky punder

Then up the Stoodle popped with sloopish swriss
But Stoodle it was no more, instead a brilly Havergrath
With grey silk back and wuverbul muscles twriss
A smarmy smile upon its jarby grath

And she smiled back at him
A korky, vubblious thing
And he flipped through the air with krim
As one only a Havergrath can bring

--Lily

Bouncing my beach ball I'll wait,
Till the gnats go home.

Green sleeves is playing where
Beloved baby resides,
I'll be abounding to him
And pounding them all there.

caravan electric sparks of what may,
Sobering reality gloop of me around
Or sobbing along with
Crazy nothing waves (2 no one)


I am bouncing my beach ball
Till the grass is cold

And no alien no predator in trees
Nor nose bleed nor bikepedal knees
Or anything that you could ever tell yourself or convince your friends of
Can make me stop:
Being me

Bouncing my ball
Till I am cold

Drinks, articulate, a friend and his friends, all strangers
New faces and talk and chortle chortle
Har har har but same old, same old
Little Jimmy looking for I-don’t-know
A zap, a spark, zane for the brain
A flash of brilliance.
Electric hope
Fear, but fear of the good.

Glides in the Girl,
The boy perks up.
O, Heaving youth, lithe
Smiling with mischievous intent.
And the boy is alive.
** ** **, he makes her giggle
And never a more electric ******
Could you hope to hear
As he sits, dropping crystal
Shards of intensity sparkle between
Through a veil of shimmering liquor.
And the strangers begin to fade

So, alone, they talk

And O!
How full of colour and ringing joy it is
Bursting through the grey pallor
Of those strangers
Of the terrific tiny talk of tiny types
The chatter of proud people- of thoughtless things
And improper imperfection
(That fear of the bad that can make good people
Gobble on like gluttons;
Gossip their glistening gloop)
And the plastic nod nod nod, har har har
Ever bound to ragged boredom.

But She is different;
A scattering of the light.
And they laugh and zap
They bite and soothe
And play and croon
And find themselves lost, but quite content
In a world of delirious joy
A sacred place reserved for sleep
And the welding of atoms.

As Her furnaces of laughter
Roar their blazing joy,
Her hammering heartfalls
Pound upon this lost boy’s soul
Melting it into hers.
The flying sparks begin to meld
Along with hope and hopeful fear,
Til a second Sun reigns proud amidst the dawn
Shining high above its peer.

Morning.
Zipping their separate ways,
The heat of twin Suns firm against their backs,
So bright the light,
It takes time before their eyes behold
The second glowing orb they made
And gaping in disbelief,
They find themselves rushing back
To fold into each other’s arms
Tired and aching and dizzy.

On the verge of wakefulness,
They glance back at grey strangers,
With a smile, laying in perfect silence,
They sleep.

And, filled with goodly fear, the couple wonder
And marvel at their fortune.

grains of sand
between two slices of bread
blackberry juice boxes and orange dilute

a gloop of oily sun-block
a scent of petrol, coconut, ice-cream
and nothing but pastel blue

a canary yellow body-board
dropped in above my knees
my mother tugging it along

goading me towards the deep
I cling to it til she snaps it from me
I'm pulled underneath

limbs thrashing, lungs gasping
the shock of being afloat
was how I learned to swim in the Maharees

on sandy Fahamore
under Brandon mountain peak

Here it is
coming together
slowly and quickly
points being connected
connections being disappointed
disappointments being appointed
appointed proportionally and
disproportionally
click clack
stick it together
vertices criss cross
bricks and feathers
interlacing lines and
concentric circles dance
in and out of time it is a
convergence
a coming together
a going apart
it is silk spun in
every way you can think of
it is spit spat from every mouth you've ever heard
this blob of tip tap gloopy gloop tick tack
criss cross criss cross make it last
make it first
on the bus or in the hearse
in between or outside of
either way it's kind of
all the same and
very different
but look at that
and then it's not
a ghost in the periphery
a shadow in the center

You became the February rain soaking through to my skin
in five minutes time from here to there in a drizzle.
It has to be bad before it can be better (I think that's what they say).
All blanketed in untouched white, it looked like the heaven
that Lucifer loved, and all turned to gloop and glob under
the new rain and our muddied boots
before melting away to ask for forgiveness.
Your mouth is the winter
all fancy like gold
but it's gilt -- and milk chocolate, the worst.
I might have stopped myself (but I didn't)
and my senses were sobered by the too-sweet taste
not dissimilar to that of the cheap drinks you mistook as
my preference. The timing was always off, I know. We bonded
over things we had in common.
Not us, this isn't about You.

I considered the in-between.
Now I have the flu.

It's been one week and seven days.
I have flammable skin and permeable pores,
please forgive me, this is how I was born. My hair gets matted when I sleep
amidst your sheets. I'm sorry. This
view is unforgiving. I wanted to love you but
please understand.
I watch movies but they're all just fiction so what do I know?
Documentaries bore me but they're fiction, too.

I offer you orange juice, with pulp just how you like, but you say you have acid reflux.
They offer you an orange, ****** and poisoned, and you claim to be ravenous.
I understand.

I had never tried honey before,
the sweet tang
slopping along my tongue.

I’d never felt your hand
flowing around my waist
until your wrists connected,

locked me into place.
I took a few mouthfuls,
you’d rattle the spoon

into my mouth
and I’d streak it off,
the viscous orange gloop

like a strange toothpaste.
People use honey
as a term of affection

but we said it’s hackneyed,
a cloying label.  
Now whenever I call you

honey I always think
of that time in your kitchen,
the half-empty jar.

Natuurlijk ben ik niet bang
Angst ken ik niet
Ik heb de grootte van de hoogste boom
Heb een huid als een pantser
Ben sterker dan twintig beren

Hier komt niemand doorheen

Behalve jij

Jij

Met je lichaam als flatgebouw
Vingers gemaakt van laserstralen
En de sterkte van een-en-twintig beren

Jij gloop naar binnen

En ik krijg je er niet uit

Happiness is filtered through a long silver pump,
where it is torn apart,
then crushed together in a lump.

Sadness is poured in a giant mixing bowl,
where it is strained out,
then dropped into the black dump hole.

Anger is stacked on top,
piled in pieces,
only to be lit by a flame the size of a drop.

Love is demolished on sight,
battered and bruised,
leaving a stench of bitterness out of  spite.

The emotional dump is a place where emotions go,
when they've been let loose -
out of control.

When they've grown outside the human heart,
and reaked havoc like an art.

It's a place where emotions die in a flash,
placed next to all the world's gunk and gloop and unwanted trash.

charged chemistry and charged particles
a gloop with expended energy
dreams of the night and daydreams
a semi auto biography.

Little miracles are fireflies;
When I catch one, I snap it
To sizzling gloop on my palm

So your god could patch my blisters
With golden thread, instead of the raw
Scraped rubber I spin on

Or tug his dandelion angels from the grave
To levitate me, regal, never to walk another step
Still, I'd deny him.

Little miracles are broken glass;
When the sun drizzles, they could be
Tiny flesh-encrusted jewels

But your god could heal my eyesight
Enhance my Eden to iridescence,
Blooming softly, gleaming,

Or clasp my skull like china forever
Precious, careful as the ****** mother with my brain
I swear I'd deny him.

In a fit of passion, push
Blazing rafts down from heaven
Euphoric streams through my window

Replace my dropped smiles
Like old, shameful sweet wrappers
With hosts of lovers, heather, art,

And me, still scrawling
'Return to sender'

Little miracles are burbling infants
Superseded by the howl of war
They do not revive fossils or friends

Or pelt Australian treetops with fluorocarbon
They are glitter in the carpet
A barbeque for nirvana

A burden
You must deny, deny, deny
(You have my word that so will I).

Matter disintegrates,
flying objects dissolve back into insect forms,
to try and fathom the ill will of wandering parasitical urchins,
bar brawlers,
an incomprehensible mould has latched on to the beards of the Sedentary,
Lieutenant horoscope and his band of merry men
have fourteen times predicted the tumultuous reckoning,
where the lizards roll back into the cracks and breed with the *** butts.

dancing to a birdsong the most irritating,
chirp and roll and sit under the black azure,
swimming into the cataracting waterfalls of black sludge
accompanied by the ale bellies of ancient degenerates,
and linger in the neon lit sarcophagus dreaming of finer things,
with optimistic party poppers at the ready.


I spoke to high priest of white linen table etiquette,
he offered me a drink of the green elixir,
the taste of rancid sherry,
and I spoke to god almighty,
he had a few problems,
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ he said to me, the transcendent agony aunt,
so I gave him my spare change on the matter,
but now I’am lost in the ominous eternal skies,
like a haggard bird who is unable to land,
debasing all the relics,
I flit through the dark clouds and nearly perish in the ice rains,
I have caught a chill,
but, nevertheless, I float on, consuming the velvet sunsets and chirping my songs over insignificant mole hills,
All the time battling what the hermit astrology told me was a zinc deficiency,
One day I hope to bathe in the tranquil silk waters,
with a cup of tea and a biscuit,
find salvation and give inconsistent childhood memories a cuddle,
but now is not the time for folly dreams,
I must continue into the delirious horizon,
and listen to the sounds of hidden amorphous beasts writhing in agony,
because I fear I have picked up the cosmic bar tab,
and played gin rummy with all of heavens problem children,
the splinters of the sour harvest caught between my teeth,
lost in the gloomy overhang of the sleepless willow,
trying to glue the atoms back together with my prit-stick.


In the cool, pearly nights, I dream of lands without contours or maps,
and I can make out, in the grumbling silhouette, what was once someone’s memory,
the flies are circling the diseased dog along the sun scorched path,
the stitches of his wounds tighten in the heat creating sores,
A white hot, stiff, agony,
the trees are out of breath,
the expanse of the moment, like an endless ocean evaporating, is too much to bear,
I melt into the cracks,
and the mountains and planets drip with me,
matter disintegrates as we surrender to the ferocious will of the ineffable gloop,
but then a painful shriek rings across the sky,
the sound of metallic pink,
A byzantine woman sits below a fruit tree complaining of belly gripe,
I find myself inexorably drawn over,
moving fluidly through epochs, across galaxies, funnelling myself through volcanic fissures,
permeating day dreams and two way mirrors,
riding in the bellies of celestial giants and on the backs of mythical locusts,
creating my own rivers and waving goodbye to the misanthropic tribesman,
When I find her - there is nowt but silence,
her presence reminiscent of a glass lake with blink-less eyes,
I delicately pluck an apple from the tree, the most exquisitely green one, and hand it to her,
‘Cheers mush’ she says, in an earthquake monotone,
and with a wry smile and a nod I head off on my way.

As a toddler at church daycare
upon a Roman Catholic lap in an armchair
the savage Father McManus
did ravage in a ****** slather Stan’s ****.
This grunge sacrament
the plunge of Stan’s excrement
damaged his ******, twisted & bent.
His colon sustained a permanent indent.
Thereafter whenever he defecated was ghastly torment.
He had no control. **** gushed in a torrent
drowning his nuts & tinky
cursed, the size of a pinky.
Growth stunted and bully hunted, stinky & hyper
for the rest of his short life, this dinky boy wore a diaper.
In the early dark he would awaken to his own scream.
Having creamed a fantastic dream
a shivering nun quivering her ***** for fun - so obscene
but realized he had ****** his ****
cooling in his diaper, a messy gloop.