August 31, 2010 § Leave a comment

“And all the traffic lights blur, into a bright bouquet, my heart is in mothballs, it’s been packed away, and I can’t get to it, no way, until the birds return for spring cleaning.”

Mine too.

When I was wee, we would break into deserted buildings and houses strangled by nettles and untended rosebushes. We found false teeth, abandoned wheelchairs, crucifixes, faeces, bedraggled net curtains, chairs with stuffing strewn half over the bare floorboards.

And there was mystery, I breathed it. In and out. Easier to live a fantasy than reality.

I miss that nest. I need a good dose of medicinal magic.

A spoonful of sunsets keeps the tax inspector at bay. Sometimes.

If the wolf comes sniffing at my door, I’ll send out my wild goose for a chase.

I miss you, magic.

And yet I’m terrified to touch you again, I don’t want to return my head to its prison of clouds. I need some balance. I can’t deliver on decisions. Retreat.

Means of Transition

August 28, 2010 § Leave a comment

I would rather see I highlighted. When sad I’d rather see it, than Schubert my last desperate resort.

I don’t play anymore. Do you? Strings gather dust when left untouched, and I could meander into an awkwardly meaningful metaphor here, but I won’t. Leave it at that.

It overcame me over coffee. Not the transition, but the realisation of transition. It hit me like a song in the left lung. Who sings with their right?

I’ll write you a postcard.

One with a man in a kilt on a windy day. Or a Betty Boop-alike tucking into haggis.

Last year I was a character in a colder climate, part of ‘Portions for Foxes’, all of that attracted I. Had you not had a flashing sign above your head that read ‘Bad News’, I would have stayed away.

And out of sight.

Change means I am no longer tragically attracted to hurt. Only on occasion, and now I heal like a burns victim on acid. Invertedly.

Have you understood any of the above? Maybe. Slivers. But you certainly didn’t read between the fourth and fifth line, and you certainly




Oh calamity.

I forgave you before you squeezed out a sorry from your dog-eat-eat heart. Meant? Unheartfelt? I don’t know


Dry Sin

August 16, 2010 § Leave a comment

Writing it off as poetry is nothingness. One cannot explain by defining/giving this a name, no. No. By definition I am the antennae above the wings of a painted lady. Has poetry sensilae? Blind, we fumble. Bound, we stumble.
Oh Trouvelot, had you known how to know. I mean, really know. Let those bloody LED outdoor lights ignite your eyes like tigers. Do they still call this the dance of colours?

Who knows?

I am in love with your whisper and your tones. And the left aspect of your nose. That is all. That is all.

Who would have known?


August 14, 2010 § Leave a comment

I thought the tunnel
would not open up again
I had gotten
to living in
the tunnel; it was attached
to my left lung
and after
I did not mind that I
not be free
you can see and still
be blind
all at the same time
and yet, that night
I did not jump for a reason
and you, star, have made me feel
so small
in ways I dare not mention or explain
oh god, it’s good to feel

Where Am I?

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