Up to date
with crossing out
To-Do List: July 201505-07-15 Everywhere she goes she sees her name
06-07-15 In a constant state of suicide
07-07-15 Not so great at constant self promotion
18-07-15 You give her sensory overload in the best kind of way
21-07-15 It's all just biscuits
the push and the pullsoft touch
To-Do List: June 201502-06-2015 When it comes to bleeding she always second guesses herself
02-06-2015 The birth of a rainbow
02-06-2015 Walk towards the sun
04-06-20215 Lions on mars
04-06-2015 Cats don't nap, they meditate
05-06-2015 PEANUTS, PEBBLES AND PENIS!
13-06-2015 She is not her self, she is everyone else's
13-06-2015 God bless revs and mdma
14-06-2015 Trains like bats
14-06-2015 Rabbits howling at the moon
17-06-2015 When you think about it, vaginas are a lot like biscuits
25-06-2015 These strawberries are making my nipples jealous
To-Do List: May 201505-05-2015 The family of arts
11-05-2015 Love eletters
12-05-2015 in death there is knowing
18-05-2015 Bruises on her meridian
18-5-2015 More like too fucking late
23-05-2015 She is literally 'the little death'
28-05-2015 Breakfast epiphanies
28-05-2015 Monks with laptops
28-05-2015 A tender cervix
To-Do List: April 201501-04-2015 It is the truth.
03-04-2015 There is nothing quite as bad as incest
03-04-2015 Heavens gate is like a dentists waiting room
03-04-2015 The fish man has all the power
03-04-2015 It has nothing to do with catholicism
06-04-2015 A blank piece of paper is just as important as a full one
07-04-2015 Your constellations are many and varied
07-04-2015 Focus becomes so much more important when you can't see clearly
08-04-2015 The future is not the end
08-04-2015 The art of layering
10-04-2015 Always living other peoples relationships
15-04-2015 Making promises to mama
15-04-2015 The feeling of knowing and actually knowing are different
15-04-2015 When your love is the thing that holds them here
17-04-2015 Hopeful for the future
18-04-2015 Oh, the drop is real
19-04-2015 Sometimes being is enough
19-04-2015 It's a pigshead hat!
20-04-2015 Beetroot or blood
20-04-2015 A strange kind of heartbreak
21-04-2015 Little and often
21-04-2015 Keep the bracelet, give back the ring and the key
Still Thinking About Youat 24
i was told
by a 28
that my friends marriage
that i was too young
just four years
"but a lifetime of mine
and a lifetime of yours
they're so different!
you can't say age
is the only
she didn't listen.
she's still learning
just like me
To-Do List: March 201501-03-2015 When books say the words you have in your heart
02-03-2015 Gums that feel like glass
02-03-2015 Heat rash a reminder of where you've been
02-03-2015 Waving at train drivers
02-03-2015 And then they were gone
04-03-2015 She wears her skeleton on the outside
10-03-2015 Making sense of other peoples scribbles
10-03-2015 Hands like her mothers
12-03-2015 Cats and orgasms
13-03-2015 Whisky conversations
16-03-2015 A heavy heart is hard to hold
16-03-2015 I know where my soul resides
16-03-2015 Be something good
17-03-2015 Nag champa and crickets
18-03-2015 Figs and tea
19-03-2015 In search of eels
24-03-2015 The best sex she's never had
29-03-2015 He dreams in watercolours
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A Penis
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
GrowingThe friends I had,
the memories we shared,
the lessons we learned,
the persons who cared.
Words gone unsaid,
the lives drifting apart,
my school life ending,
my true life given start.
Regret growing inside,
of the words left unspoken,
the lives I wished to touch,
my heart torn and broken.
Those friends so far away,
distant and grown mature,
my memories beginning to fade,
the life of my childhood a blur.
A familiar smile,
comes in to view,
my eyes begin to open,
thank God, it's you.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
How to Pocket a Man's HumanityFirst, convince him to adopt
a rescue cat, fat, days away
from slaughter. Find one mis-
sing half his tail. The pair
will purr in tune; this step
is important. Next, rush him,
him and his rescue, to their
home, and then keep them dry
and healthy. Move deliberate-
ly, with articulation. Shape
the sound. Watch cat and man
sup together, sleep together.
Spring happens upon them, as
it does, and the man and his
rescue walk along the bridge-
less route to the forest and
grove without wind. Convince
him to let rescue race aloft,
to the distant hill-top. And
he will, and he does, and he
is gone. The man screams out-
ward into the meadow, scream
after scream weaving through
stalks of wheat, but nothing.
No clicks or mews. A nothing
against the rust of night on
the horizon. Help the man to-
ward his doorstep. Help keep
him apprised of the treeline
and its shadows. Finally, he,
rescue, appears, and the man
grabs your collar and shouts
and walks and runs and stops.
Rescue has brought home life
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,
and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm
and I believed that part,
and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever mutter,
and the wind slowed to a stillness
and the rain moved in and our voices gave way
to what my Father would call The Lords Music,
the pitter-patter of water
on the dry and flaking earth.
(How funny, or maybe perfect it is,)to think I am meat
while I eat both.
as matter and
Of the static,
would it be real
if I understood it?
If I could just grasp
what I'm not
Because language, even
these words, are
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.
Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.
Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.
Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.
The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.
Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.
When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.
Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.
Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
Graffiti Dreams in Black and White The strokes are dreamt permanent,
the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,
and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,
or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out
as so many do when they wake up.
The poet paints them into existence with her words:
“ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.”
And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,
put a price to labors and words and even to thoughts
because we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedom
of saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow
unthey call me tide-breaker.
my name frequents
and they speak of me
between the sailors' maps.
I am salt and brine
the oncoming threat
of dark clouds that hang
their gallows above the ocean.
I'm the enigma,
flash of light
on the sea's cusp;
they only ever think
they see me,
but I am always there.
I've seen their
their weathered faces,
that lustful thirst
in the eyes of men surrounded by water.
it is only natural, I suppose,
for those bound in chains
to grow fond of the metallic clacking.
it becomes all they have.
and I, well,
I am only here
to watch and play my part.
their wives at home
will look seaward
but it is I
who will have someone to hold.
they say mermaids
drown unworthy sailors,
but they never acknowledge
that most men simply
throw themselves overboard
at the temptation of something beautiful.