That red jumper and black shirt were a combo that punched be right in the gut,I could see the little flashing sign above my head,Mortal Combat-style. Today the bruise is still there,whenever I run my hands through yoursoft, red hair That was on my stomach,and my uterus is just below – it’s waiting, as itContinue reading “A conversation between ‘writer’ and ‘girlfriend’”
Category Archives: poems
On arriving and realising the ceilings are all very very high
the ceiling is high,it leaves too much room for ghosts,I cannot see them.
The Hold
Mint tea in clean mug,warm and small feelings of joy,which I hold onto.
Flash
Maybe they use a light bulb,because memory is only aflash,a quip of a quick blinding burn – – a faint tingling remainson the tip of my thumb, but I don’t know where it came from,I don’t remember how it happened. “What was I saying again?”
Old Man
Sometimes I like to compare myself to an old man. Note how I did not say old woman – for old women have a special quality to them which old men do not: you can see it if you brush away the dust, buried inside them is a treasure chest where pearls of wisdom remain.Continue reading “Old Man”
If Men Could have babies
If you could have our child,as a woman I wouldhold your handin labour when youman spread all across thehopsital bed,your hairy legs caught inthe metal traps ofpain, I would hold your hand,when I heard your criesagain and again,with tears in your eyes but to my own uterus I hold disdain,why do I have to beContinue reading “If Men Could have babies”
Sleep
feeling warmth and rest the rise and fall of my chest, like ocean wave’s crest.
Things I’ve heard people say in London
“No one cycles in London” “Move your cycle” “I’d like to ride a penny-farthing on the road” “That penny-farthing is as big as me; its wheel is as big as my face.” “Is that where Trafalgar Square is?” (looking at a map in the middle of a bike lane) “Is that where Somerset House is?”Continue reading “Things I’ve heard people say in London”
If Love was human
Love, my dearest friend,listen to my laboured breaths,how sweet do they sound, against your chest.
the L illusion
I have noted in these past few nights,that Confidence is not found in the usual places;it is not found inside another personbetween cracks and small openings,between the rust and rubble ofsomeone’s dampened heart,or broken art,but rather amongLs: leather, lipstick and lingerie — and no, I don’t list these because I am an object,but rather becauseContinue reading “the L illusion”
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