Sticky Beak

Sticky little, baby beak wee, yellow, peeky beak  . . Orange curiosity, . hot blade ferocity. . . Little beak tried to speak, only firey plumes.  . Billow forth a punch of smoke grey, thick nearly choke . . dirty, sooty, ashy toes charred, tired, naughty nose. . . Stickybeak took a peek something sleeping

Pinocchio Flirts

Awkwardly pining, little toes cramping belly forward against the air click clack duck on a string dancing. The powerful ‘real’ driving Aching Wishing Knee’s up! Full thrust Forward First word interest in sert (i)t To be found In the carpenter ‘s’  (e  c r  e t) tool b o x Across the room GO the

My Yearning Throat

Some things burn like acid, searing the mind on both sides, etching the air that fills my body. Stark, intense, marks, Molten fingertips, a tiger’s scratch that draws the breath and drags me back again. These things are born of storms electricity, thorough strokes that cut and slice right into my yearning throat.

The Shame Game

  A game of shame a shame game. Solitaire. I’m game if you’re game are you (game) little rabbit? Can two play? Dirty names Sick, lame, filthy, fat,  shame I’ll show you yours, if you show me mine, SHAME that is. My secret consciousness MINE alone Small and smelly down beneath From mother to daughter

My Heart Pocket

I must say thank you  to the wonderful Jennifer Bullis for her inspiring tribute, created in response to a series of art work I did in which I posed the question ‘What Would Fall Out If The Heart Were A Pocket and We Were Each Turned Upside Down?’ Please pop over at her blog Poetry at the

How Can I Be A Balloon?

How can I be a balloon and not notice? How is it possible to absorb another’s breath so thoroughly. And why, when the leaking starts, does it scratch and weep? There is a monster in my thoracic cage. I slide through the window To play his baby Grand. Yes, I’ve had lessons, practise daily. The

Magician’s Friend

Sometimes you disappear did you know? like a dove my magician’s friend. I wonder then, my heart shapeshifts, a sniffer dog it searches sniffing for you. I know nothing But what I see here,  in my kennel of supposition and assumption. Where are you pretty friend? Where is my heart’s compliment? Could you be, drinking

I Taste Everything

I was a baby eating flowers until soft fingers dug the colour from my mouth. Mud-pies when I was two but they pinched my cheeks and yelled at me to ‘SPIT’ Dog food at five, mmmm no-one knew. At ten I smoked grass from the rabbit cage, rolled in newspaper, so cool!  8 cigarettes in

The Olive Tree

Her skin is on the olive tree grazed and taken she sits young thighs pressed and marked by blood left there and still she pretends to play a pink note peeling it was only yesterday fresh off the press little peach Time has built an ark to house the template and fingers      print and ache though bones

ZIP

up the middle like stitches a seam it seems unfolding unpeeling unpicking stitches witches a witch with a stitch to rip the seams with my screams I love you I know you I fear the quantum world of reality creation no not really true…. but if you say it you might make it true…… soO