Tag Archives: pain

no exhale

when the dark balloon

when the dark balloon

the dark balloon

presses its rubbery skin on my inner being

when it takes out a chunk of rib to fit

i become a prisoner

a minion

a servant to its inflation

dark balloon puffs itself with spiritual secrets

faith is the favourite


have faith

test of faith

be faithful

find faith

lose faith

and we cry

dark balloon rolls its huge arse getting comfortable on my heart

a little to the left

it laughs a dark laugh careful not to let it’s bad breath out

no exhale for the confused

tender hooking into giblets

malevolent benevolent carrot of faith……

we scream ‘why!’ for a reason

because we have been dumfounded, with carrots sticking out of every orifice

plugging the holes it pokes in dark balloon


if we are screaming why it means we don’t fucking understand

this life thing could be so simple

born breathe connect play create  die (or so they say)

until they bleed out a deeper meaning

a further purpose

until they reveal the unseen producer in pointy orange shoes

faith is only necessary if you think something is wrong

impossible to trust in that which causes pain


you have been taught that pain has a purpose….

that you will die without it


to teach purposeful pain is not an easy task

it takes deliberation and carefully constructed method


oh pain i bow to thee, you cleanse me, you make me fit to stand before the great carrot

you break me you leave me pale and dry

you make my eyes sink

a quicksand of disillusion

i let you peel me

weaken me

lay me out

gnarl me

wither me

you switch off my light and plug a bulb in my carrot hole

i have been fashioned

i am a little statue now

with my palms upward in supplication

for you to paint with a tiny brush

and place me tenderly with the others

to light an empty sanctuary


to see some more art please visit with me in my online studio 😉 http://www.artofkundalini.com



untainted star

honest lines draw across her skin

but he can’t see with blood in his mouth

transmission continues

I read your code

pegged loosely

whipping in the breeze

making sin out of nothing

he stared at her from the cross

remain pure

she turned around and tapped her red heels three times

I don’t belong

I lost the virtuous thought I had a moment ago, I don’t have what it takes….

remain uninvolved then

he pointed his pointy finger

be clean

this glass is transparent, look through that, no good can come from the rose one

the rosey is pretentious

neither safe nor guiltless

beware of stains

stand tall

be upright he said shaking his bleeding head…

your hole has been pricked hasn’t it

no longer above suspicion

your female oozes from you

chastity was never your middle name

this is a CRIME

it is done

generations back by old men in sheets

and still you try so hard to live an exemplary life against ALL oddities

faultless free immaculate impeccable


he ate her with his eyes

resting floating bobbing in her own

……yes your pristine eyes, they fooled me

he stepped down one foot bearing 6 inch nail

I love your righteous gaze it spreads across my skin like wilderness

sinless exploration starts here

spotless fingertips prying into raw spaces following the light

to unblemished hopefulness

to incorruptible beginnings

to innoffensive life

that’s what you saw

that’s what he wanted

the truth

the unsullied


tiny shine of untainted star


more art at http://www.artofkundalini.com


the disc that spins

inside my chest

methodically collects


it colours my world magenta and black

if I let it


these colours

are yours my love

and I spin them back to you

a gift of freedom….


channelling you

through my sensational machine

makes no ripple in your world of mixed message

but I hear you

you beg for ripples

you scream for change

I can feel it

throwing orange like a manic painter

splattering my floor, making me

slip, slippery

on lust and pain


the moon is high

wash your disc in a clear stream

I will feel it and I will know


see more art~  www.artofkundalini.com


and there it is

puffy with pain

liquid with shock

orange with fear



dangling but still blinking

blinker blinker blinker

exposing in flashes

little linguistadors

filing away







surging now



and here the dangling


the orange star

dripping upwards







Final Part – Death of A Poet ~ Mary Anne Baartz

A robot now, she tidies the house. The walls egg her on. Once everything is in order she is ready to obey the urgent commands of the whispering walls. She opens the oven door. Plumps up a soft cloth and lays down her head, turning the gas full on. As she closes her eyes she learns for herself there is only herself, there is no other.

He finds her death-raw, switches off the gas and lets the words fall. The queen writhes on the bed upstairs expelling the poem he planted in her womb. He weeps. It is not just anyone who can kill genius. He preciously guards these words in the bell-jar inside. They bounce and pound, resounding forever against the tall glass walls.

There is sadness in his eyes but no surprise. She’d foretold the role she chose in the only novel she ever wrote. His friends gather around. They crack open their ribs and offer their hearts but it’s too late. She has won. There is no heart juice strong enough to stop the peach from rotting.

Still, he won’t give in without a fight. She has no right to destroy his joy. He picks himself up and dusts himself off.

He removes her and replaces her with the queen disguised as a gypsy woman washed in Jewish hopelessness. The grandmothers weep. They watch helplessly as the queen reels him in as surely as the American cheese of before. Once more he falls in love with himself. His words sing their own tune and he dives head-first into the lagoon they make, refusing to notice the undertow. Below the crystal calm weeds spread their tentacles that tickle his chest. He pretends to glory in their teasing. Down, down, down, he buries the gas-blown corpse of the first well beneath them.

The new poem he pours into the queen’s womb fruits into a daughter. The Queen of Sorrow uses her child to reinforce the walls of her house of cards. She blames the first for all the others. The hungry ones clamber around his knees, greedy to taste the peach, their ears large and hot from listening, eyes glistening – they sniff the lava scent of his deep despair and seething fury. They are there fuelling the queen’s moaning. They teach her the word hysteria means disease of the womb and she blames his poem.

The little girl arranges the soft toys around her doll’s cot, face down, feet away so they can’t see mummy doll lying in the cot clasping baby doll very closely, their glass eyes tightly shut.

The queen’s body and that of his daughter lie lifelessly on the daybed the unlit gas jets turned on. And so the house of cards tumbles down. Again his eyes show sadness but no surprise.

Poems fall from his fingers like teardrops. Poet Laureate sits on his head. They ask him why he has attracted these damaged women into his life, a poet with such insight. He answers that this has never once crossed his mind. But his volume of words put the lie to this reply… peach blossoms… grapes on the vine… a deer gambolling through the woods… a little boy cries…  Unleashed, they flicker and flutter and erupt, clustering in abnormal cells that grow and swell, a gangrenous stew of words which consume him whole.

Art By Michael Baartz see more here

Family 001

A Tiny Screeching Demon


she blew in on rotten air

her eyes dark and bitter green

her lips the shade of plum…cresting a wave of lies

a virtual shroud dressing the whore of  insecurity

and yes when I peered close I could see a smaller version of myself mirrored there

a poor child

yet in her case the ageing did not produce any smooth rose

but instead  vinegar

and like broken branches

losing their way  in a flourishing tree

she struggled grey and sharp

growling and gnawing at my children

her magic was ugly and took the long route….

her dirty paws tucked in their wet beds,

and poked at an abscess of miscommunication that grew in one little boys jaw

she led the way for dead mothers and zombies,

filing proudly past dreamcatchers….

tiny confused fingers waved, clawing at my throat, pulling at my feet,

a weak goodbye, off to the  house of horrors,

yes it had nice curtains.


We watched with eyes as deep as lakes as she drove an axe through the tender trunk of Joey’s tree,

her jealousy shrill that there be a memory there of me.

Joey lives in my heart I said  and the little ones trusted.

It is true.

We relied on love, you see, nurtured concepts of forgiveness.

We spoke of people having sadness like a fishing sinker, hanging from their heart

creating weight that deranges the mind

and causes strange and painful words to swing,

words that have the power to nestle in and fester

and we persevered with love , the only thing we really knew….

in the face of her shaking anxiety and awkward tyre slitting rage

until HE  began to notice a pounding, swelling hepatitis,

and realised he was using her to kill himself

to distort his own aged and dogeared pain.

To give him credit then,

he didn’t linger much longer….

shearing through woody tangle

to extricate himself from the fever of her wailing sex.

Evil stepmothers belong only in fairy tales

they are not real

they do not exist…..not anymore

like tiny screeching demons that lift you by the hair

we faced her

and killed her

with LOVE





Intimate War


desperate fleshly

brush with fists and feet


this intimate lick

of chi

too close in the fight

in the ring



loving them

to the floor

press against the energy

red in the thigh

arms that hold the thrill

of bulging tempestuous control

the moment of


as I succumb

and tap



on pine

in beautiful well-deserved pain

Green Shoots Unseen


AH such keen thrill

to this cold,

this ice in my bones

I run through the house naked

a flying queen in snow cloak

to stand skin first

pressed against fire

I squeal with

life biting


sucks me closer….

Like old love

yesterday moments that should remain buried

but are not quite dead

and bitterness that masks rusty pain

that masks desire

that masks yearning

love of self…

a winter growth, green shoots, un seen.

BUT for now I lay him underneath the coals

and raise my arms in supplication

to my god

of fire, skin and soul


Burning Eyes

Note: My friend Lady Day has also completed a poem about ‘eyes’, check it out, your eyes will not disappoint! Feel free to add your own eye poem  and link in the comment section!


Burning Eyes

coal eyes

trample me sadly,


like her flesh,

they are raked and old


through red dirt dragged,

by demon soldier moments,

her lashes lower slowly,

like curtains


players unthinkable wait dryly,

for final call

and with my eyes of yearning fear,

I am stretching, sinuous,

past tearing, devil thorns,

striking at forgiveness


forced beyond endurance,

forced to truly stick back these eyes,

strip down to bare compassion



into her broken heart


I take the hit

willingly, for what it is worth,

branded and burning.

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.