Sunday, 28 August 2011


She spins her cocoon
Weaves the layers thick around her
Inch by inch
Fostering a cushy thickness
Loosely at first
Building a delicate shell
Layer upon layer

She who hungers
Who ploughs and sows and reaps and bides
She who bears the glacial brunt of bodily rime
And withstands the capricious change of season
Who reserves the right
To be three parts hot
And six parts cold

She who plays animal kingdom
In the glorified and giddy human realm
Turns bilious beast upon threat
The tightened strain of her falsetto shrill
Disarming in alacrity
She who lay in wait
She who is

With seasonality comes change
Firm footed in the conviction of her own love
Yet blithely unaware
Of the magnetism of her newly engorged marrow
Be it a hegemonic push
Or an overtly oppressive pull
Influenced by stimuli one way on first glance
And another on reinspection
She is doggedly plagued
Finally assuaged

My heart isn't always consistent
But it's always right
It never fails me
And that's more than I can say for you
Because you've failed me enough
And fuck you if you can't abide that
Because I no longer abide you

Monday, 8 August 2011


Some mornings I have weights on my ankles and other days wings on my back. Tumbling, bumbling, stumbling over words, I rumble.

Knit one, purl one, hold tight that yarn, never drop a stitch.

I catch my shin with the razor and watch mutely on as my entire vessel is choked of all blood, seeping indolently across a naked bathroom floor.

Engulfed by a congealing pool of dropped stitches I lay, weighted by the shackles of lost dreams and waylaid hope. Wallowing in a remorseful tide of bloodied regret I droop, tempering my once flaxen locks with the darkly hollowed hues of pain.

Setting my intention, I brace against the terminal vertigo of eons spent itinerant. Atop shaky legs I stand. My trailing red fingertips smear the curvature of the porcelain rail, evoking in the splintered veneer a newly crimson finish.

The famine of love has broken; I torpidly feel my way. Rise, I start. I circle once, twice, clocking the fading misery of the witching hours. Retreat, I must. On the floor below, the gushing red deluge dissipates into nihility. Repent, I have. The door stands open and defiant, aghast at the scene. Resurrected, I am.