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.