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Sometimes, I look at photos and wonder….

Who is that she? That she who is me?
Or at least who wears my face better than I do?

She who is funny and smart, and who works my body like she is walking a runway
While I stumble behind tripping over my inability to keep up.
This she, who is me, but not me.

Not real me who lives in stained pajamas subsisting on toast crumbs and despair
whose days are spent trudging through the mundane tasks of survival, every moment a struggle.
My work is staying alive.  Keeping the faith.
Holding back the deluge just behind my eyes.  Ever vigilant.
A moments respite will unleash the mighty flood and wash away the village.

Nothing will be spared.

She who is me, but not me, throws her head back and laughs loud and deep, the pleasure of the joke cascading through her curves in the most delightful fashion.

She is building a business.  She is planning an adventure of far flung travels.
She is cultivating authenticity.  She is lies upon lies upon lies.

I pile them all on my plate and  voraciously eat them all,
each one making me more malnourished than the last.



This isn’t the kind of love poem where I tell you that I drown in the liquid amber of your eyes, or that your touch makes my skin hum like a hive of bees in a heatwave.  This love is not new and it knows more than eyes and skin, it goes deep, through bloody muscle into bone and sinew. I feel you in my bones because you have rooted yourself there. Made yourself a home in my skeleton, your fingers, know not just my breasts, but the ribs they sit upon, and that greedy muscle whom they cage.

You love me not in spite of my filthy heart  – but because of it­­­.
And I am not easy to love
I am arrogant, vain, dramatic, and exacting.
I am the kind of woman that a Disney illustrator would light from below, surrounded by billowing smoke and cowering henchmen

I don’t take anyones shit – but I am utterly grateful that you take mine.
When my stormy countenance rages and I am thunder
You do not cower, you do not flee, you do not erupt
And when I howl in suffering, my face a river,
You do not go in search of shelter
You weather these storms because these are the seasons of your country

When asked why you don’t prefer a more temperate climate,
You seem genuinely shocked, by so daft an inquiry
She is a wonder you reply.
Her laugh is the  Aurora Borealis, shimmering ribbons of rainbow lights dashing across a velvet sky
Her heart is the mighty Amazon, its tributaries coursing through every part of her body, refreshing her spirit with compassion unbounded
Her shoulder are Everest, snowcapped mountains of the highest height.  Reaching for the moon and landing among the stars.
I live among such transcendence, and you’re concerned about the weather?

For Donna

I was born of  pursed lips, averted eyes, closed curtains, rosary beads, white lace doilies, locked doors, don’t make a scene, do as your told, wait till your father gets home, what happens in the house stays in the house.

She throws her head back and laughs, deep and throaty
Pleasure shaking breasts and the roundness of her belly, a riotous calamity of wildness, mischief and joy

Where did she come from?

She is a symphony of beautiful noise in an otherwise silent room, a brightly coloured bird that somehow flew in through the window of my black and grey world.

She is a filthy joke, a belly laugh, a survivor, a sage,  a sacred trickster dripping in costume jewellery, her platinum blond hair, adorned by a vintage hat.

We were cut from the same cloth – leopard print, undoubtably.
She began my education in the theatre at the age of 6, and  inspired me to be anything but ordinary.
To rage as Lady Macbeth or to grieve as Othello, no human emotion was ugly so long as it was honest.

I learned that conformity was as ineffective a means of preventing persecution as it was a tiresome habit, and so I embraced all the more passionately those things that others tried desperately to hide. And that life was all the more enjoyable when injected with a healthy dose of whimsy.

Those who are determined to hate you, will find a reason.  So you may as well live Boldy.

I didn’t go to the funeral.  She wasn’t there anyway.  And people would tell me she’s at peace.  And I couldn’t agree.  If anything, she’s at mirth.  Always was.  But try saying that at a funeral.

I leave her thimblefuls of whisky, the good stuff.
I never miss a curtain call.
And I burst into laughter as often as I can.



Here I am for your consideration
a most curated version of myself

This me doesn’t wear yoga pants and thrift shop cardigans
She doesnt eat pepperettes and poundcake for dinner

She doesn’t spend inordinate amounts of time in bed masturbating until her thighs go weak and her brain goes numb

She isn’t poor or disabled or queer,
Unless you are looking for diversity

no, this self is a whirlwind of confidence in flawless eyeliner.
With excellent references and profound insights

She tells the kind of lies you can believe in.

How to be more than last nights lover

When she sits next to you, small and broken in a crumpled paper dress
Humiliated by the ravages of her own body
Tell her she’s never been more fiercely beautiful

When she rages like a torrential wind, fury whipping, felling trees and hurling gravel,
remain still.
remain loving

And when the storm passes from her spirit, wipe her tears and call her sunshine

Make her cups of tea.
Remember that she isn’t yours.  Not really.  She belongs to her mission,to her passions, and to her dog.  Accept this.

Make her skin sing and never stop touching her.  When passion ebbs, rub her feet, kiss her knees, especially the one that creaks when it bends.  Trace the lines on her face and rejoice in how time has written itself there.

And when her face is a river, feed her mundane acts of devotion
Do the dishes, walk the dog, go to the store.
Make love while you sweep the floor, shovel the walk, tuck her in.
Do not be afraid that her ice blue eyes resemble an isolated lake
She will return.

Love isn’t a stone, it needs to be made fresh daily, like bread.

Wild Hearts

caged heart
Her heart was like a rattlesnake, quick to lash out
And Deadly, to the unsuspecting fools drawn in by the music of her laughter,
As high and clear as a Tibetan prayer bowl

How were they to know that beauty’s heart  was its own beast, filthy and ravenous, pacing inside its ribbed cage, living in unsanitary conditions, fed  but scraps to keep it weak and tolerant of mating in captivity.

Some days it raged, howling into the night with every beat.
Others it despaired, curling up into a darkened corner of her chest, heaving there silently.

Both jailer and guardian, she vacillated between giving it the space to run, full tilt, rolling in earth and bathing in moonlight, diving in to the sheer and pungent joy of being a  free and wild thing

and binding its frenetic beat and passion for violence with all manner of restraints,a kind of living death, in which the only form of resistance was to crash about its cage chaotically, interrupting the breath.

Between the heaving and the howling, she paints a flawlessly face,her breath quickening as the beast beneath her breast feels a stirring rememberance of prowling for its prey, the stalk, the chase, the kill.

She applies the crimson red tube to her lips and both recall with satisfaction the salty taste of blood.




NaPoWriMo Day 1- a poem of negation

These arms are not filled with tangible things,
text books, bags of groceries, sleeping children.
But loneliness is heavier than babies.

Despite the weight of my cargo, piled high as shopping parcels, one on top of the other,
obstructing my view and  teetering precariously,
I navigate the streets, wet and grey, cars passing without a second glance

Always at the wrong moment, melancholy and absence overflow my grasp,
To chase them down, I shift my encumberance from side to side,
joints aching
muscles burning
mind racing
desperate to retrieve the agony that has escaped me

Anyone could step in it that!
If they found it they’d Know it was mine, and what then? How careless they’d say. What an inconvenience. If you cannot carry your affliction properly, perhaps you ought to stay home. Out of sight, out of mind you know.

But what do they know about out of mind? Their boxes and bags are filled with food for the party, little Suzie is 5 now, “she’s gotten so big” they boast. The product of my last five years has also grown, I’d like to quip, but no one brags about the weight of their despair.

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Tonight I miss you

Tonight I miss you

The way your smooth, cool, fingers flirt with the skin of my neck,
Beckoning me to invite you ’round for a drink of my lips

The night howls and even the moon seems absent

“Let’s slip our masks”, you’d say, impishly
A chesire grin playing across your face
And off we’d go, our shadows dancing under the night sky,
as we caper from dream to dream riding trails of stardust
While the world contents itself in slumber

Tonight I miss you

Where is your thick brown hair to wrap my fingers in?
And those liquid amber eyes that see into all of my lifetimes?
My heartbeat searches for you blindly
As my body yearns to be with your body

Skin Humming.  Backs Arched.  Oceans of Honey.

Tonight I miss you.

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.