Monthly Archives: March 2013


I have to admit something
But just to you
I only ever picked up Bob Dylan
To be cool
At sixteen, year 2000
With my cigarettes in a beaten up silver case
And second hand flared jeans from 1970
Nose ring
Pink hair
And nonchalant attitude

I’ve got to say
I was bored in a record shop
Late at night with friends
Looking for manga and David Lynch films
I walked off and bought an Ella Fitzgerald album
It became a bible
A way of life
I mimicked it in its sultry love
So I became just that

I have to tell you that She was who I thought I’d be
Miss Fiona Apple
With Her wicked ways
And men upon Her sleeve, in Her heart
And bent back against themselves
For Her
I was going to be the artist and the muse
I was going to be seductive and sexy
In My gait, in My smile, in the way I smoked a cigarette
And I was almost there
But Life had other plans
For Me

Leave Me Where I Am

Go ahead
Demand I leave this room
Tell me to sweep away the mess at my feet
In favour of dancing shoes
Tell me that rubbing up against unknowns
Is preferable to my own superb company
Which doesn’t need validation from absurd narcissists
Like those wearing glowing clothes
And belt shaped skirts
And too much perfume
Who desire the men with more hair product
Tighter ball-pinching jeans
More pretend on-loan money
And less body hair
Than the women who want them

Give me my cheese on a fork
Black Books reruns
Red wine bottle
And the ease of no queues
No lines
No fanfare
No meat market subterfuge
No forensic detail required
For one visit to the restroom

And go the hell away

Smoked Out Morning

I had you in my bed
The light silver curtain across my window
A net to catch my trail of early cigarette smoke
Next to your naked body
Languidly laying in supine glory
A Miles Davis record playing
Background to the morning of sweet goodbyes
As you left, holding your shoes in your hand
You promised to call
I was hoping you wouldn’t
And you didn’t
Thank goodness I exhaled

To Consume

He said I haven’t been myself lately
(As if self has a home with him)
He said there is more to life baby
Than want or whim
And I had to say back in sleepy tones
And weary smile
That Darling it is not consumption I am after
It is desire which is worthwhile
He gave up on me then, in stilted rage
Walking out to slam the door
I stayed sitting there, viewing the window
From the safety of the floor

Dark Matter Weight

The smell of cream on your arms
Camomile and lavender
The thing you would do with your fingers
When we drank tea
In the wanna-be loft
On Rise Street
The girl next door with bleached hair
Who always left her stockings
In the communal laundry room
For you to pick up and return
The one you went to
That night when I tried to make you go,
Get away from your free form poetry,
Fire escape caterwauling.
All limp hands and limp fingers
All knots and mess and mindless patterns
Like unfinished, unravelled knitting.
From your floor of sheets
A cocoon, a den
A place without light
For your heart to be at peace
For the nightmares not to have a home
Up on your back
In your head
Emblazoned in your fevered eyes
On your tepid, turning skin.
She had you then
When I no longer could,
In your wallowing self loathing
When I needed to see a body
Beyond the state of manic mind
Your crushing weight was lifted
And gone
My body retrieved beneath it
As I no longer became your cushion
Bearing your dark matter weight
The force behind your unwavering
Sharp, liquid needles.

Guerrilla Graffiti Magazine

I am on staff doing some writing for a great new venture of the very talented Brice from over at who has worked hard to put together an eclectic bunch of people, it’s My contribution ‘To Prague, With You’ is on there among a lot of other great stuff. Go and have a look.

One Of Those Days

It’s one of those days
Where I want to drink gin and tonic
At a bar in another town
With cigarettes and all my bad sins
Keeping me company

It’s one of those days
Where I am prepared to ignore the sun
And blink the day away
With pathetic dwelling and memories
Keeping me awake

It’s one of those days
Where my hands will not stay still
For fear of the nerves
Expressed from a well-worn heart
Laid bare too easily

It’s one of those days
When no one will do for my cold bed
No one will be warm enough
No one will satisfy the chilled sheets
Empty beside me

Fine Line

She vaguely plays
By impressing an idea of servitude
Upon you
But she is false
Her heart lies not with yours
This night
But in the bedroom nearby
With thin walls
And small cries
Of another woman
In another’s bed
And she feels that if she can be
By your side
She is by his
She is the other woman
Dressed to impress
His eyes
Not yours.
The words whispered
Behind closed doors
Are lies.
So will you take her still?
Knowing that the this goes beyond
Your will
And into somewhere else entirely
The thin line between
And Propriety
Are you to play company
In someone else’s torrid fantasy
Do you stay for the sake
Of an interesting mistake?
Or do you close your eyes
Close your heart
And become the step,
The wretch,
Who allows the vindictive vixen
To make her mark?