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My GrandmotherMy grandmother is part of the Union of Catholic Mothers and Artists alike. She attends church each Sunday; half past six on the dot and spends the sermon with her long nails itching to pick off the white hairs congregating on the somber coloured backs of those who are unlucky enough to sit in the row ahead of her. She likes the routine, she told me once. She likes the company; the knowledge that she is part of something much bigger than she is. She can recite the rosary at top speed; rounded vowels tumble from her lips to surround her with security. She has the priest over for dinner and makes polite asides when he neglects to say grace before tucking in; knife and fork suspended in the air as the Family bite our lips in amusement that she in her lack of genuine belief is more nigh on traditional rituals than the true believer is. My grandmother is a Catholic. She enjoys the appearance.
I was baptized with a Jew, a thrice-divorcee and an opinionated atheist as my Godparents. Father Mur
Diary-GirlYou come back,
like a bad penny that I felt lost without.
Like the roads in Croydon, with their junctions
of repetition and safety; the ghost laughs sing out
from days before I saw the underworld.
I am scared of those streets,
but they shall always be home.
You ask me if I am sure of you,
my answer depends on your heart.
I cannot carry you, I am broken myself.
I do not want pain,
but you discard yours upon my shoulders;
I bear weight on a skeleton that cracks,
I am tentatively boned, wet paper skinned
I barely support my own frame,
I wait to be thrown away
my papier-mâché body laid heavy as clay;
I will crack under excess. Give what you take,
I would dearly like to spit my hurt away,
instead I stay mute. I will not weigh you down
with what I burn alive to say. I hold my tongue tight,
You leave, yet your words always stay the night.
UntitledI am nothing without my easily changable pelt,
my scarred dyed savaged skin I wash daily
in a shower that never runs hot enough.
I would scald my body brutally bone naked
if I could, alas;
I am never to be truly cleansed. I was baptised
in the arms of a Jew, I am no Catholic.
I broke the mirror of their Holy Water, tainted it
with my imposition into purity –
so now I sweat my faux rebirth nightly,
and wake in cold shivers with sinner hands
still upon my inexplicably present body.
I am dirtied with inherited desire,
yet apples make me retch, my desire dank
not fresh. Rotten to the very core, I want more.
On being human.I stain my lips with coffee and tattoo my lungs
with cruel tobacco scars
I am sat watching homo sapiens
wash over, around, through me
and I feel empty. I am burning myself human.
I beat out rap-a-tap-tap with restless feet,
winter grips me in her bored death-hold
shivers down my spine. I freeze awake,
nicotine-heavy exhales indistinguishable
from natural breath. I run on chemicals,
I am chemical abrasive reactive stimulating
I am a miraculous one in a billion, as are we all.
Say it with me; we are a mournful chorus. Amen.
I spit out Holy Host with yellow phlegm
half smoked cigarette in my coat lining;
I cough my lungs clean of sin. Give me something
to believe in. Anything.
I sit fetal and fade within coffee steam; toxic fumes
I sit, exhumed from recluse.
Pouring around me, the world churns bodies
masking skewed mechanical minds –
we are equations gone wrong. I belong as I hide.
UntitledI am burning up in fiery irrationality,
fierce ire at what you do not say. I throw words into silence;
I cut my strings in vain –
such desperate spider webs, I am too easy.
I am alone here; can anyone hear me?
My roots are clutching at thin air. I make no sound,
the open infant mouth of earth sucks me aground,
I am desperate as the day I was born. Give me life.
My ears ache for honesty.
Metal riddled needle holes forewarn me of rain,
lies leave me numb. I should have listened to my gut,
misplaced trust. I am scared of pain.
I am burning; liar, liar,
heart on fire. I swore I would not be here,
I wear my shame alone. Correct me if I’m wrong,
you never do. I can plead for explanations,
a pretty lie or two; you said you loved me?
Trust instinct over placating statements,
if that is all you care to say; I think I must be through.
UntitledThese things are not romantic,
pain is not amorous.
Passionate; poetic, perhaps
but let’s not fall in love with grief.
There is meagre truth in desperation.
I still sign the cross;
wordless resignation when I encounter death.
My fingers twitch. I hunger for human faith,
yet I cannot rise from ill-made bedsheets
indulgent tears, thorns blinding my eyes
I am clutching at ignited straws,
I am scared of being burnt sober.
I will write about you,
forget me not. I crave to believe once again;
to fly yet be aware of violent sun
Joyful exultation boned with caution.
Burnt almost inhumane too many times,
I madly take my leap of faith; heathen praying –
I wait for you
to bone your wings alone. I will be here,
burning for emancipation,
burning for a sign –
This is not romantic.
Not a trite poetical device; I fear
this limbo of your mind, and mine.
Weight restorationI am trapped
in my woman body, womb-man
womb-man, I am not enough.
I am trapped
in this body I do not own
I ebb and surge, let go.
I am obsessive as the moon,
I will always come back to you
I am weak. I shrink inside gluttony
I smoked to escape my greedy carcass
instead found intellectual suicide
atheist sinner, I quit for pride
I drink to excuse my melancholy glut
is never enough
I fuck for the sake of it
lay still, allow their greedy hands passage
I do not want me; take me away
I layer organs with white globules
the doctor tells me I am strong
and I give them blood as evidence
I am scared of greedy needles, taking;
taking; taking. I borrow more space
and they say to feel pride
my greedy form steals air rudely
I suffocate under my presence,
my body owns me, I cannot hide.
Hair CutMy weakness is laced
in the gluttony padding my waistline;
in the shivers running down my spine
when I think
when I dare to think of what I crave;
my weakness is laced like steel toed boots
I paid a tenner for this strength, you know?
Laced in my inability to let go. Fingers slipping.
I thought I tore myself away?
I am weak.
Helpless in the face of my humanity,
I hate being so fallible. So affected.
At the mercy,
of common colds, unasked for
swelling clit; contrived caffeine rushes
and unavoidable exhaustion;
weeping monthly and irate male testosterone
alien in my body. Trapped by my woman form
and all those ‘responsibilities’ carried there.
I am never in control.
My strength is invisible,
I can argue back – hold grudges
like they were your body.
I can feel ever-so superior, and
let you think
that you are right. I stopped caring
so I wouldn’t hurt. You and she; he and I.
I don’t want to care. You chose her.
I did what I do, chose not to
GhostsGhost are just arrested memories,
Catford swarms with them; sirens scream
into my eyes. I still carry my original sin.
Stalk the streets alone; I am my own worst enemy.
I think of you at night. In sunshine,
rail; hailstones punching air
from my lungs; the wind laughs
at my lust. I stopped believing in anyone.
Despair’s not absolvable; don’t save me,
I am safest when there is no God.
Virgin Mary a harlot and
Jesus a mere lunatic upon an upended
Devil Mark. I don’t want to rise from grace,
despair; vanity; lust. I want to covet.
Ghosts visit me in sleep, I am dreaming again,
would rather dream for myself. I don’t want
to want you, I don’t know what I desire.
Another one! Desire.
I’m burning up in longing, discontent;
sacred fire for heathens. I wear humanity
as an red flag to the bastards I burn for.
I see ghosts when I am not dreaming,
close my eyes.
Maybe... Perhaps...Maybe ... because our encounters are given as numbered...
Perhaps ... there could be no poets in the world, but there will always be a poem for you...
Maybe... I want to eat you and fill me of you because I don’t know when I will have you again…
Perhaps... where my heart burns and rests, I will find you, my beauty...
Maybe... because there is no map to the place where we go...
Perhaps... because all of your kisses are stolen…
Maybe... Darkness and light are the work of one mind, features of the same face, blossom of a single tree...
Perhaps... Something special for you, whispering to the foolish hearts like mine...
Maybe ... because you decided to not stay with me...
Perhaps ... I have to resign myself to run away with you...
Maybe... As long as there are eyes that reflect the passions of the eyes who look at you...
Perhaps... The eyes can’t fit on the face of the world, and the eyes do not fit into the earth to admire your beauty...
Maybe ... Suddenly I found
love poem for a pianistyou make me think about
how heavy negative space can be.
the space between your fingers,
the space between notes,
the space between us
in this small, soundproof room;
every empty millimetre
in my chest
She + She"I like how our feminine gazes cross, from dawn till twilight
This honeyed voice of her, every time
She says she's deeply fond of me. Mellifluous sounds.
The way we roll up in the green watered grass, innocently
Our burning hands melt under our youth's sun beams.
After years of wandering, I'm conviced
I finally found how I should live.
Her arm around my pleased waist."
said Laura, with an indelible grin on her chubby face.
"I especially liked our fortunate meeting
I remember everything, every purple clouds among morning mist
Sprites sowed seeds of love on my path.
When I saw her, one word bolted in my stunned mind,
This stunning aura of her, just left me speechless
Spring butterflies in my stomach,
Each new sapphire moon with this girl is a gift."
said Charlotte, tightly holding her darling's hand.
"A dyke? Meeeh it shouldn't exist, th
RosesRoses are read and violets are blue
I gave my entire heart over to you
You took it from me and dumped it in the trash
I should've known; beauty never lasts
Roses are brittle and violets will wilt
All I did was try and ask you for help
You took me under your wing and crept into my heart
Then you made sure to take your time in ripping me apart
Roses are dead, the violets are too
How did I ever convince myself to trust you
Still, it was nice to think I had a friend
To bad I was just a toy to you in the end
when you came into my life,
your brightened it so much.
your first kiss eased my pain
and began to set my soul right.
your touch soothes my worn nerves,
bringing my anxeity down with love.
your soft words bring me inner peace,
giving me the strength to continue on.
your embrace smothers me with love,
letting me know that you really care.
never leave me, always love me true.
Just as much, honey, as I love you.
FIOLEE,CAP 21 NO ME MIENTASFIOLEE,CAP 21 NO ME MIENTAS
¡Ahora lo que casi nadie espera que sucederá!
Una lagrima broto de sus ojos, trato de detener con persistencia las que le seguían…-no…¡Esto no ha acabado!-
Entre de nuevo en la casa del árbol, definitivamente esa tal Fionna me esta haciendo enfadar de nuevo, no entiendo como es que hace para que esa mirada y esa voz llena de compasión puedan penetrar en lo profundo de mi ser, me hace sentir extraño es como si quisiera estar a su lado y protegerla, ¿pero porque la protegería?, tiene una fuerza bruta inmensamente mortal, claro que eso no lo admitiré nunca por supuesto, pero cuando lucho sola contra mi y me venció baje de las nubes, nunca pensé que un humano pudiese vencerme, ella lo hizo posible.
No se que es lo que le ve al dulce chicle afeminado, digo, por favor, el no puede defenderse por si solo, además de que es un completo cobarde, ¿como i
GoodbyeRight now I don't want to remember,
And I hope I won't regret this,
But I know I won't want to forget this
Those final hours, and that lingering last kiss
Was the type of moment dreams dwell on,
No I won't forget this:
If that was the last time I held you,
And thought we'd have time,
The last time I tasted you,
And felt your skin slip against mine,
It's the type of goodbye
Writers write about,
Singers sing about,
And dreamers dream about.
Well, I'll scribble about missing you,
And about wilting flowers;
I’m always looking for a story, darling,
And 'goodbye' may be the best of ours.
Love calls, homeLove,
I hear you calling me home.
my heart is bleeding, alone.
Should I pick up the phone?
My love is calling me home.
And, he's calling me home.
Loud SilenceMy tongue cannot convey as much emotion as my hands can.
My hands can dance a dance of love & ecstasy, as I caress your beautiful skin.
My hands, they can express how much you mean to me with a gentle stroke of my thumb over your knuckle.
They can scream in anguish and displeasure as I pull my hand from yours, my futile attempt to
shield our awkward affection for one another from your eccentric, pushy family.
They can experience a euphoric sensation as they, ever so slowly, part your silky hair, silent pleasure emanating from my fingertips.
And they can aid in my eternal struggle, -to express my love for you and all you stand for, with a simple squeeze of your smaller hand.
Kite StringsI am kite strings,
playing in the wind like us in bed;
except here flight is tethered
I cannot fly free.
I am a wild cherry-tree,
my roots hold me to my moorings
caught between earth and sky.
I blossom and shed days like leaves,
I am waiting for the harvest.
but I bud contentment in time
for once not running out of moments. Days,
weeks bring breezes,
bring hurricanes and passing flickers
temporary fingers touch my dancing body
cotton has no time to hit the floor
I am kite strings;
clinging in blithe freedom
safely tethered to your dawn.
Little Miss It“Do you enjoy her company?”
That, Avadaci concluded, had been the extent of his grandfather’s kindness. Thank the stars he had broken his neck after a failed attempt to ascend the castle staircase. Not that many were privy to this information. The official listing on the cause of death involved something along the lines of falling in battle after slaying at least a dozen demons, although this was treated with quite a bit of skepticism by the general populace. Yet, interestingly enough, a decent portion of the locals believed a tale about the cannibals of Unkhtom devouring him whole.
Not that Avadaci really cared how his grandfather had died. He was just glad he was dead. And if he was glad his grandfather had died, Avadaci wondered, why did he have to attend his funeral? In fact, the whole kingdom was glad his grandfather had died. Why did they have to attend the funeral?
“Oh Avad,” proclaimed his mother, “obv
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