I can explain the rattle in my lungs
for which I can can only apologise-
you see, at night, I feather.
my fingers claw and gnarl in prehistoric wood
and I’m all over beaks
and I can’t but fly 
feast on the early mornings offerings
of finches, sparrows-
I swallow swallows.
so the rattle in my chest
is the bones of tiny birds
and don’t believe anyone
who tells you that I’m drowning
because the poetry I can’t write on your body
is bleeding in my lungs

absinthe abattoir

Raise high the roofbeams

and taint the swill as best you can

on her breath hangs wormwood

and we can’t disappoint her, can we boys

can’t say fuck all asides would that we wood

hoping her pounded down bones

may raise our own.

haikus for lovers: part 5

my delusional prince
thinks he knows love. knows nothing-
but fear of shadows.

haikus for lovers: part 4

missed connection:
refined accent, filthy mouth-
made me feel pretty.

haikus for lovers: part 3

fucking on the pier
broken spines, torn out pages
three inches of water

haikus for lovers: part 2

a good country boy
should know when the fruit is ripe
pick before it spoils
no noise, no streetlights,
miss the city’s lullaby.
sleep in the static

haikus for lovers: part 1

I waved, but you didn’t see
busy being grown
forgetting the red beret

static.

It’s been six months since I placed you on repeat

and watched your fingers curl into hers.

-

Something so simple as touch.

Something so fleeting.

-

It’s palm first.

Her hand’s already upturned.

You sense it. Like lovers do.

-

I lose sight of the centre.

all the mysteries of the universe

are wrapped within.

-

Something as simple as touch.

-

I dismantle the sockets. I smash the TV. 

Still it plays, over and over in the dark.

You were my water god

And I, your forest spirit.

old names lost to the wind/

ours was a story, centuries old.

We were fantasists

and so much younger than today.

We’ve grown now. better/worse

but the sea still flows- behind your eyes

and your voice still sings a shanty 

when you forget the means to speak.

When I stretch my fingers out to touch

they gnarl forever inwards

and each year a new skin grows- 

carving rings within my flesh/

The messages you send me fill spaces where the truth should be

but water flows, it does not hold.

My secret is buried-

under centuries of roots.

The skin cracks, but underneath there must be
warm wet earth, there must be one drop, one drop of life
thin roots plunder, fingering the seams, parched
languishing, stretched/pulling/moulting
I am owed one drop, one drop of life.
there must be/
you were not here to see the tree’s that came before
there is only so much growth one slick of land can sustain
Hello new followers! Lovely to see you. Toasting you from Edinburgh with a glass of Mortlach 16. Have a creative evening. :)

Hello new followers! Lovely to see you. Toasting you from Edinburgh with a glass of Mortlach 16. Have a creative evening. :)

The City

This is not my form.
I: woman? no, girl. woman, a cloak too heavy yet for me.
I: green girl forced into corset of brick and mortor.
Tower blocks sprout skywards not as birds,
but bars to cage them.
I am no straight line, no thoroughfare, no platform nine.
This is not my form.
I am feral girl with dirty fingernails
I am entangled veins,
stubborn hair,
fluid movement,
this,
is not my form.
My buttress roots swell and push hard against the walls of this city,
Which tempts “forget forget”
as my body begs me to remember
that this is not, and never will be, my form.

abouttodeletethiscrap-deactivat said: When you become a real writer. Let me know. I'll stand in line for your book. Hardcover. None of that e crap.

Thank you! It’s lovely to know you are enjoying the lima bean that is my writing. I hope someday this book exists. :)

You tell me you lust

for my hourglass curves.

I’m filled up to my neck with sand

a scythe in each hand

Time waits for no man.