Category Archives: Luscious poetry

The arrival

Most people think of poety as a delicate thing.  .
Like sugar finely spun into a gossamer silk adorning an ornate wedding cake.
Its splendour to be found both in its intricacy and its fragility.
Even the word poetic, dances upon the tongue elegantly

So I receive gifts of  watercolour paper, inks, sealing wax, calligraphy sets, leather bound notebooks, all of the finest instruments – as those who hear my words believe must be necessary to create beauty, but this is not the reality, my words are not spun like gossamer silk.

They do not arrive softly, tenderly, sweetly, politely.
They don’t beckon gently, make me a cup of tea, and invite me to consider them.

The Words arrive without notice, in the middle of the night, chaotically, loudly.
They jostle me out of bed.
Like a calamity or a boisterous and unpleasant houseguest, who is a loud talker with no filter, whose prattle echoes through a tiny cottage, when you have a migraine.

They words arrive like a circus train through a sleepy town in the wee hours.
Girrafes, elephants, tigers, monkeys, birds.  All with their own call and screech and noise.  All with their own smell and movement.  All with their own desires and needs aching to be met. All trumpeting above one another to have their voice heard.

They are restless, they want to be let out.  They have arrived and they want to breathe free air, and stretch their toes  on the soft grass.  They want to roll in it.  They want to bathe in fresh water  and Not pace and pace in their 4×4 cells that stink of piss and sweat and despair.

The words eviscerate me with their brutality and resurrect me with their exquisite beauty.
Their arrival is nothing less than sacred chaos.



Into the Woods


My insides are like a dark and stormy night that you shouldn’t have ventured out in
The beginning of the well known horror story
Crashes of lightning and thunder
Shivering trees.
Howling winds

The branches crash, hitting me in the face,
as I try to make my way through the woods
How did I end up here?
Feet sunk deep in mud, the kind that sucks the shoes off your feet,
wandering barefoot now,   I am cold and wet and dirty and overhead the storm rages on.

Bramble bushes assault my skin, tiny thistles bury themselves in my hands and neck and arms, the tiniest of slivers buried deep, impossible to see or pluck out,
creating an itch, a heat, that cooks my skin and turns it against me.  Now even my own skin becomes my enemy, scratching at it, scratching as though I would peel it off to get it out, out of me.

And still overhead the rain, the deluge plunging down.
Freezing cold, shivering and shaking, dirty and wet.
Everything around me is sharp, and fierce. And I stumble injuring myself.
And I stumble.  And I stumble.

I leave myself breadcrumbs, by the light of the moon, to find my way back,
out of the woods.
But they are eaten.
By starving, ready creatures, scavenging for any morsel of nourishment.
They scarf down the bread, and show me their teeth, hissing, growling.
This is not a friendly place.  We are not allies.  They are not here to help me.
They steal my resources without a moments hesitation, they would do anything to keep themselves alive, and I don’t blame because so would I.

So would I.

A Lover’s Language

Painting: ‘Portrait’ by Juliet George Coppens, 1969.

The first time I said
“I am a lesbian”
The words burst in my mouth
Like overripe fruit in a heatwave
Instantly thirstquenching, and indescribably sweet

I held them in my mouth, gingerly
Rolling them around my tongue
Probing the crevices and curves of their cadence
And sucking gently on each delightful syllable

Before long, I began to whisper this sensuous sound-sex to my lovers
Sharing the seduction of their syntax, secretly

The need to tickle my tongue with this luscious language only grew
And I began to announce the words precariously
Without a single thought to whose ears might hear my carnal communication

My inhibitions once daunting,
Were now abandoned
I grew wild with desire to spread the words
Exposing myself publically
At first for the sheer pleasure

But as this intercourse became voiced
Suddenly, I behold a new oral tradition
The birth of a sexual lexicon
No longer restricted by denial of its name

So now, I twirl my tongue in service of this shared dialect
So that others might drink deeply of its truth

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Past Lives

old memories

We laughed our way through life
Too loudly
Heads thrown back, mouths open
Ferocious belonging
This was not about balance

You gave me Home and Proud and Safe.
Fierce and Brazen

Would you recognize me now? Would we compare weak knees and battlescars? Or Thigh slapping jokes and  Tall tales of our conquests with a glint in the eyes and that old familiar smirk?

Beloved trickster, I fear the next I see of you will be an obituary

And so I look for you in lovers and strangers, in bus stations, around corners and at the bottom of coffee cups  in lonely cafes
I find you inside dirty jokes and belly laughs and the curled smoke of a strangers cigarette
I find you in worn flannel shirts and the delicate grooves  of vinyl records
In the earthy smell of autumn and the pockets of old trenchcoats

The scattered detritus of a life forgotten and
Accidentally excavated.


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Days like this

Sometimes it is not easy,

To be alive

When bodies creak and stick like rusting broken hinges
Sharp edges that threaten your tactile senses
When depression creeps under the covers,
A constant companion from the moment you wake
When your pennies cannot feed you and poverty creates in you a criminal
When opportunity sits appraising your value like some casted off thing
in a pawn shop
And death seems like a mercy.

Until you go for a walk just before dusk and watch the sunset
And remember that you are magical.
Remember that your hands are the bandagers of skinned knees and your arms are a refuge for the fallen
Remember that your eyes see the suffering hidden under the surface
and your mouth bears witness to injustice
You, are a truth teller.  A change maker.  A warrior.  A queen.  A safe place.  A kindness.
A hot meal to the starving.  A salve for the wounded.

You are a miracle.

Pink clouds of golden light touch your face and whisper lovingly,
The earth will never fail to hold you up and the sky goes on forever,
like breathing


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Apathetic Warcry

The apathy shuffles in like a zombie
A second skin, that begins to coat your mind
with its poison
and yet weighted like lead,
And no one notices that your eyes are dead

Trapped in a powerless paralysis
Unable to think your way out
Tortured by  a disease inside your mind
That no one will understand so just say,
I’m fine and you?

Desperate for someone to blame
you eye the girl with chipped nailpolish  and downcast eyes
the one who prefaces your truth
with an apology

She wears your name like shapeless wool sweater
pulling the collar down and away from her skin
Agitated by the way it itches

In dr’s offices she is genuinely apologetic, and appropriately ashamed
Of her ‘Condition’
Particularly when reminded of how inconvenient she is.

She is a good girl.  She does what she is told.
Wears her diagnostic label like a sash in the mental illness pageant
For their consideration







Blame is easier.
than living with your face,
cracked open
like a river dam


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inner conflict


This bed has become a refuge, and a prison.
Dark and warm, I crawl on my belly, deeper and deeper
Into my own absence

This morning, I awoke desperate for some distant artifact
Evidence, of your existence
The lingering scent of your honeyed skin
A stray hair, I could braid into my own
Some remnant I could fashion into a talisman,
to ward off the dark and piercing loneliness

There are no arms to hold me.
But gently,  a cold, wet nose  and sticky, warm tongue
Attend to my grief stricken faced

If I rail at these efforts to soothe me,
she merely lies down and keeps a silent vigil for my wellbeing.
Waiting for an invitation to provide affection.

This love cannot hold me
But constant and unchanging,  it transcends language and culture
As a primate, I ache to be held
As a spirit, I recognize devotion.


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Sacred Fire

I am a keeper of sacred fire, passion concentrate
It burns,  EVEN me, until it burns itself out.
And then,  there is darkness, cold, devastating winds piercing delicate pink flesh,
naked before the coming storm and there is no one to huddle to close to.

The wolves of night begin to howl for me, for my blood slowly curdling.

And It is fucking terrifying.

Empty and desolate, I wander a barren landscape without provision upon clay legs,
They fail me as I sink, under the weight of my own weather.

I have been taught to medicate this burden.
Put out the flames . Warm not the coals.
Assume a more neutral temperature.

Swallow your pills and Become tepid.
Walk among the masses. Join the automatic existence.

On days when you are hollowed out by darkness, rise from your bed a shadow,
Pull on the skin of a woman,an artiface, to blend with the crowd.

And I begin to question. If I throw out these pills to control my unruly nature
will I begin to grow wild and free, or simply lose my grip on reality?

Paxil You replaced Orgasms with Ordinary
Effexor  I stopped hearing the song of creation
Wellbutrin I wrote poems without power
On Prozac I wrote nothing at all
Celexa My lovers body ceased to make me weep with  its perfection.
Zoloft Tasting the honey between a womans legs no longer felt like receiveing a blessed sacrament.

Fury has done me more good than psychiatric medications every could.
I am more healed by crimson fucking nail polish than by dr’s and pills,
convinced I need to cured of these ills.

Don’t call me disordered.
I will take my torture,  and bring forth life.

Dance with the shadow, make love to the madwoman.
Call the ravens.  Gather the bones.

Howling, crying,screaming, drowning,
This is the cost of your truth.

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Butch Girl, Beautiful

butch femme

It can be arms canvassed in tattoos, eyes that flash with daring, an incorrigible smile or something as understated as a steady gaze

In any case,  her eyes declare

I want inside your wilderness

From across the room, from down the hall, haunting eyes that buck authority and promise all sorts of dirty things

The language of her body reads “I perfected the art of fucking girls up against walls in the safe haven of these strong arms.  And I want you.

The swagger of her approach promises to pin me up against a wall, hold my arms above my head, kissing me like it is the end of the world and worshiping at the altar of my breasts,  if it truly is the end, you goddess, are the only one I want rapture from.

Tasting her name in my mouth, I roll it around my tongue and suck deeply, licking the cologne that clings to her curves, treasuring a kind of woman-ness that isn’t taught in school or photographed for magazines.  There is nothing in conflict or transition about your butch woman’s body.

Carressing her undressed form and applying a warm, wet mouth to her natural grace.  This dance lays both of us bare and exposed, scarred beauties.

I can see where you have been wounded by eyes like nails, where your beauty has gone unrecognized in a world that defines woman, so narrowly.

You can see, where I have been accosted by intrusive hands, claimed  and seized by those who perceive my feminine state as nothing more than plunder.

And so we wrap each other up a tangle of arms and legs, while the intensity between us burns like the oceans between our thighs.

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