dirty laundry

An octopus climbed into my washing basket this morning. His tentacles wrapped around my dangling stockings and he hauled himself up and nestled into the sheets. I poured him into the top loader, doused him with the remainder of the washing powder that hadn’t been spilt over the floor, closed the lid and pressed start. It didn’t take long for him to find a spot to unbalance the machine, making it spill all over the laundry mat and then freeze to a halt. In the dryer I noticed him spit little ink droplets on my whites and then he followed me all the way home. I tried to escape to the pool up the road. I thought he’d lost sight of me as I slid in, submerged myself and paddled with all my might. I felt the webbing in my hands and toes expand and my breath adjust and I turned onto my back and let the water stream over my shoulders. But as I opened my eyes, I could see he had clawed himself up into the sky, arms outstretched like a giant tent above me and he wept now, poured his poison all over me and the ink got in my eyes and I couldn’t see where I was swimming anymore, so I climbed out and ran for cover. Under the tree, I picked up a towel from this mornings wash and it smelt clean and felt warm and comforting on my skin. I wrapped it tightly around myself as I walked out into the winter day, willing it to hug me just a little bit harder, as I heard his arms slap on the concrete behind me, propelling himself forward. He stayed close all the way back home and squeezed into the shower with me where I sat on the tiles and hung my head. My wet hair clung to my body like a net and I started to sob into it a little. Mr octopus must have gotten a bit scared, for as the ink washed out of my eyes and I picked myself back up, I finally saw him disappear down the drain.

of cupboards and pencils and things

Did you know, that when I was little, I was the rat girl? My teachers cast me for the leading roles as runaways and tattered dress wearing strays in all the school plays. I got picked on sometimes, but mainly, I just blended in with the wall. I was always a good chameleon. I used to spend hours or days alone in the cellar in my room with my markers and pens and fresh notebooks, which I used to fill with imagination and melodies and stories which I could tell myself later when I tucked myself into bed in an empty house. I whistled to the birds in the sky, confided in the cat and conspired with the neighbors dog. And I still do. I learned to fall in love with melancholy because it didn’t abandon me and the loneliness etched itself into my skin. I cut it with razor blades in clean lines under my breast to hide its evidence and it bled. It still does, rolling down my cheeks. Perhaps I could explain to you that inside I’m hot lava, leaking from my always volcanic heart.
Your face is one I want to whisper to. To say, I love you. I fucking love you.
But I reach across you for another piece of apple and cheddar, my head held high, while I still wish you held me with tightly clenched fists, that we held each other and that for once, you didn’t let go. I still do.

a walk in your weather

You watched me
feeding the sparrows.
I watched
your eyes
smile into a moon crescent.
You watched me
watching.

And I watch you
walk out
into the loud,
busy street.

I’m the stray that follows
you home from the pub,
pushing up under your claws.
You grip
as you stride
and you pet
my weathered fur.
I keep close
on your heel,
dodging kicks to my face.
The sun is hopping
on hot little feet,
right
to left,
to right
behind silver lined clouds,
trying to squeeze through
for a moment
to kiss your cheek,
but you’re racing
out of her shine
and I glance up
through sparkling eyes.
My coat
shivers in her warmth
and I think
I can stop
and just smile
at her
for a while.
I think
I can cry
pressed against that wall
in her shade.
I can jump
in this puddle of rain.
I can float
in this wind through the day.

You watch me
stretch under the tree
I watch
your eyes drift
to a grey horizon.

I tuck
frozen hands
into pockets
and scrunch receipts
into tiny balls.
They fall
like paper snow flakes
and leave a trail
for you,
should you turn around,
missing my pitter-patter toes
and my pink tongue
at your fingertips,
my love.

the bridge to reality is a mere hop

I can hear them scurrying downstairs. They have grown, the rats. They are plump with life and they are freaking me out a little, to tell you the truth. I closed the door on them yesterday, after another one of them gave birth to a dozen squirming ugly pink creatures, writhing, like a pool of maggots. And then it happened. I saw one of the elder ones take a bite. There was a weak little squeal and I quickly turned my head in shock, too disgusted and terrified to interfere. When I looked back, there was one little body less in the pod. A nauseous wave came over me, forcing me out of the cellar. I locked the door behind me, flew up the stairs and out of the house and drowned out any thoughts of them needing food or water until the guilt stuck its little teeth into me the next morning and argued back and forth with the disgust and the growing fear and the noise penetrating the cellar wall.
I make my way down the steps slowly, juggling little trays in my small hands. I stop at the door and hesitate for a moment, but I can’t block it out anymore. The screeching is getting too loud and I swallow hard as I place my hand on the doorknob and turn it. There is pressure on the other side. I push a little more, create a gap and a line of rats falls through it, followed by more, pushing from behind, creating a flow as high as my waist. They have multiplied and I feel sick in my gut as the door opens now to reveal a massacre, a room of doom. Bloodied walls enclose corpses of pink hairless rats, squashed, grey bloody ones on their side and chaos and terror and I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe and I’m suddenly sitting up straight in bed, my hair clinging to my face and gasping for air.
‘What’s up babe, did you have a bad dream?’
He rolls over and lets his arm drop over my lap.
‘It’s o.k. babe, I’m here, go back to sleep.
You worry too much’
I get a drink of water and curl back up into his body, my heart still racing until the alarm goes off and pushes me under the shower, dazed and prickly skinned. I catch the peak hour train from his place into the city with bodies pressed against me from all angles until we all spill out as if the train were punctured. We pour into the streets, into the chaos, into the swirl and confusion and my stomach matches itself to the sickness I felt a few hours earlier. As soon as I get to the office, I book a weekend getaway for us in the country, far, far out of the city.

danger in the shores, ring in the courage

You shouldn’t have done that
I’m pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth
and I hear the sea laughing.
The sea,
whom I love,
who knows me.
Cunt.
I thought I did it right.
I ripped my heart out.
I held it high
up over me
as I waded in.
As my toes tingled
in your murky shallow shore.
I moved on
and sank a little more.
Into your wet
and you were beautiful
I didn’t have to open my eyes.
I felt my way.
I felt you around my thighs,
then my waist
guiding me further.
My arms were stretched
above my head,
you pinned them there
and you see,
they were still holding my heart,
so high,
you couldn’t reach it
and you were inside me,
kissing my breasts
and the waves were crashing,
they were fucking smashing,
you’re violent in your gentleness
and you know how to play
and your mouth reached to my ears
and I stretched to breathe
as you whispered,
as you wrapped
yourself around me
and pulled me down,
into the dark
and I forgot it up there,
just for a moment
though its beats were so loud
I let it drop
saw it sink,
down into the dark.
I untangled myself
from your forrest of arms
I dove after it,
I grabbed it tight.
We came back up with a splash,
my heart and I
and I carried it back to shore,
laid it under the sun
We coughed up sea water from our lungs
and I tucked it in
at 6pm
while I pace.
Back and forth
back and forth
willing it to sleep it off
make it through the night
and I hear you laugh
while I suck on a spoon,
clench a jar of peanut butter,
turn it up,
the music,
drowning out the voices
in my head.
I told you so

the weather lady predicted a sunny day with few showers

We’re in your car, driving down this lonely street. We’ve been here before. There’s a chill in the air, we can both smell it. It creeps up slowly, a storm like this. Our stomachs know before we do, they hollow with the approaching dark clouds. They hunger. They roll. They thunder like the weather, like waves in a sea bringing in the snow and laying it on the icy shore encircling your toes. In and out. In and out, until they’re numb. You look over at me, pleading, and your hand grips mine. We need to pull over. We need a place to hide. I spot a motel down the road. Its neon sign is flashing. The manager frowns as he checks us in, he knows our kind. We take the keys from his hand and we run for our room. It’s on our heels, it’s nipping at our ankles, this fear. This god-awful fear. We let ourselves break once we close the door behind us. We are stones crashing to the floor. Our arms search for each other. It’s dark, so dark, we cannot see. You find me first and you tug at my jumper, pulling me across the floorboards. Your breath is closer now and I exhale in your direction. I find your legs and pull myself on to them. I need to get these clothes off you, they are crawling, mine are clawing, rip mine off too. You are hard and I slide onto your lap, trying desperately to push myself into you until our skin is seamlessly bound. Fingers can’t quite claw enough as you try and pull me down deeper, your face pressed tightly to mine, our tongues laced with each others wet and my legs wrapped around your waist and it’s starting to hail now. So loud, baby, it hurts my head. You’re covering my ears with your hands and the thunder seems a little fainter and I think I can breathe in again. The air seems safe, trapped between my lips and your neck. Your cheeks are soaked in tears and I nuzzle them as your heartbeat slows down and I think we’ll be o.k, you and I. We’ll be o.k.

When the day is short

I woke up sweating from a nightmare in the morning. One where dream and reality get each other confused and tug at corners and images until one of them surrenders and fades, yet stays close on track, keeps watch, so it could pounce back again at any given moment.
I turned around to find his chest and that place. You know that place, the safest one in the world, with your ear on his throat when he talks and the vibrations of his voice lullaby you back to harbor. Because there’s no sound more winsome, no steadier pulse and no smell more secure.
But the sheets next to me were cold and I didn’t even need to close my eyes again to cave back into the terror.

with a thousand windows watching

Up high on the rooftops
where the city packs a punch
and the wind means it,
I lift my skirt up over our heads
and you lick me warm
while winter tickles.

I almost forgot that it was twilight, lover.
I almost forgot that darkness steals you away.
Takes you back to her.
And my fingers
have to unhook themselves from your hair.

Ah,
but you didn’t know
that the brick wall
hard against my skin
scraped a little
and left a gift
rosy red
and pinched my hip
to remind me
that it ever happened at all.

Sometimes

...I wish I could pluck his lips and spear them with a cocktail stick. I’d lick at them at regular intervals and when they are wet enough, I’d rub them between my thighs.

dirty morning coffee goodness

Nipples can’t lie in the morning,
with a chilled winter sky bearing its warning.
But with cinnamon skin
and burnt orange hair,
i could show him warmth.
I visit him most days.
He grinds coffee beans,
pours velvet
and slides it down my throat
before the sun has climbed up over the horizon.


He smiles as I walk in the door,
all early eyed and dewy sighed.
(_come on, make me sigh a little more_)
We small talk and he asks if I’m well,
(_I’d be better if you moved a little closer_)
pitter patter glancing,
shy eye dancing.
He stretches to reach a top shelf,
his t-shirt reaching up with him
(_just take it off_)
and exposing rum and raisin dimple
from the hip,
(_grab mine_)
in a stomach that moistens my gums.
His arm wrestles with lean muscle and machine
(_wrestle ME, don’t be mean_)
‘Would you like sugar?’
(_Yes please,
you tease_)
But I shake my head,
swing my curls
as he paints milky swirls
that impress the girls.
(_impress, press, PRESSS!!_)
His hands move fast,
they are so clever
(_I’ll show you where to put them_)
He lifts the cup,
brimming with aroma
(_just spill it over my dress_)
and wipes a lonely drop with his fingers,
that he brings to his lips
(_oh, ohhhhh_)
and kisses its tips.
His tongue is swift,
it’s pinky red
(_my pink is swelling_)
He hands me my drink
And accidentally brushes my finger
(_@%^&(*#&^&_)
And I smile my goodbye
rush back outside
to where the air calms my flush,
chills down my red,
cools my cheeks
and sends mischief back on her way

of dolls and scars

I’m waiting for my tram.
My red painted lips help disguise my bed hair as a deliberate kitten do and give me something to hide behind, a person more confident and ready to fight than is true.
The raspberry muffin I’m eating lets me forget for a short while how tired I am and how terrified.
It’s just another day that started with a hangover headache and a man’s body beside me. I climbed on top of him before he quite woke up. His hands gripped my hips and I let him wrestle me onto my back. We lazily ground against each other for a while and the gentleness rocked me steadily into the morning sun streaming through the windows. Sex always makes it better, lets you feel close, if but for a moment. I felt warm towards him while I watched him in the shower, swaying back and forth under the hot water and I resisted the urge to jump in with him. Though I was keen to have him leave fairly early, I felt instantly lonely the second the door closed behind him. I could have confided in him, asked for help, but nowadays it's hard to trust anyone.
The tram door closes behind me, like a hiss and sends a chill down my neck. I take a seat next to an elderly woman clutching her groceries. Nerves gather in the pit of my stomach and argue back and forth with my thoughts which gather speed as the tram accelerates. I bite down hard on my lip and by the time I reach my stop and tread down from the steps with shaky knees, the red has vanished from my lips and there is nothing left to protect me from what is standing right before me.

Take a Seat, Pride

It always fails to place itself correctly,
my pride.
Or my lack thereof.
Very rarely does it walk into the bedroom
or interrupt love.
Yes, baby,
yank my hair like that.
Enslave me.
Bite me.
Fuck me.
Hurt me.
Oh, please hurt me.
Sex just always shoves pride right back out the door.
It prefers itself abandoned.
Stripped bare.
Naked.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
to suit body and skin.

And love,
it never cared for pride much either.
A love without grit,
without wantonness,
seemed like a love not worth having.
A defeat of it’s purpose,
in a way.
Oh,
but my pride found a good home at work.
It got in the way quite a bit.
It wouldn’t let anyone tell me what to do
and when they did,
it would circle around me.
Pacing.
Push up all the little hairs on my back,
Right up around my neck.

When people started to call me stubborn
and a snob,
but could walk all over me once close,
I knew we had to fight it out,
my pride and I.
I sat it down,
looked it in the eye.
I rattled at it,
tried to make it understand.
That it was running us into the ground.
That if love pushed it away,
it needed to push a little harder back.
I needed it there,
I said,
putting a hand on it’s shoulder.
It hung its head,
unusual for pride.
Took my hand,
squeezed it tight.
Promised to stretch itself around a little.

Well,
we’re working on it.

But I still like rough sex.

To Touch a Hunter

She woke up because she was cold.
Chilled and rattled into consciousness.
There was no cover to pull up around her.
Not that it would have made any difference if there was.
Her limbs were powerless anyway.
Arms outstretched.
Wrists bound to a metal pole,
an arctic crucifix.
She looked down at her body.
Her flesh was naked and exposed,
covered only in goose bumps and dirt.
As her gaze covered the length of her left arm
to her stiffly frozen fingers,
she could see a sparrow pegged by it’s wing at the tip of them.
Eyes closed.
Neck dangling.
It appeared to be dead.
Lifting her head, she made sense of the wind.
There was nothing around her but a muddy frozen swamp.
Her lips felt dry and she ran her tongue over them to check.
The cracks tasted of salt and blood.
Weak lips,
she scoffed.
Bloody dreamers.
She pressed them against her shoulder blade.
Pale blue skin cooled their heat and sting.

She remembered the fight.
It had been a fox,
larger than life,
disguised,
hiding under a lambs dress.
It had attacked as she knelt,
exposing the sparrow on her collar bone,
as she stooped,
as she trusted,
as she blinded,
as it tore,
as it ripped,
as it bit,
as it knew.
Foxes always do.

Time in the wasteland went by
until she felt movement in the air
and the fluttering of wings on her fingers.
It was the sparrow,
awakening,
trying to escape.
She whispered to it,
reassured it,
calmed it’s quickening beat
so it wouldn’t hurt itself any further.
It quickly recognized her voice and stopped struggling.
She turned her wrists,
Gathered its small body in her palm,
stretched its caught wing
and cupped its quiver.
Its tiny soul started to warm her skin.
The blood tingled in her fingertips.
And they,
in turn,
warmed the body of the bird
and it warmed her back again,
until her joints could bend,
they creaked.
And the stiffness gave way to pumping veins.
Her right hand,
coming to life now too,
it summoned its strength,
it tore away.
Broke the wire in two
and unbound the rest of her too.
The bird,
unpegged,
it collapsed,
with her,
and fell to her lap.

She noticed the chicken bones stuck in her throat,
sharpening themselves more and more against her breath,
though she couldn’t remember swallowing them
or the feathers that she coughed up.
That’s what you get for running with foxes.
The remains of their feast.
A bitter taste.
Her closed eye lids gave way to hot little tears.
And the sparrow,
it glanced up at the rain,
clawed itself back up to her collarbone and
drank from her cheek.
It grew stronger and soon took flight,
brushing away her frowns with strong wing flaps.
Throwing up the dusty air escaping with her thoughts.
It flew up high,
it literally soared.
And from up there,
so high,
it’s easy to see ahead, you know.
She kept close to its flutter.
On the heels of its pulse,
guiding their way out of the desolation.

She’d come across many more foxes in the future.
Some of them,
they’d run,
some would try and bite,
but there were some too,
they renounced their teeth
and advanced with care.
They pushed their head up under her fingers
and let her feel their fur.
Let her trace their shapes.

But she knew to check every lambs mouth
and to approach slowly,
holding her hand out in peace.
So they could smell it.
Sniff at the scents that lingered.
Of the snows,
of the mountains,
of the islands
and the sand
under the sun.
Of the marshes
and the fjords
and the bees
and their honey
and of all the other skins and flesh
that made her up.

And the sparrow,
that nested by her throat,
it curled up in her hair,
sung in her ear
and revelled in its safety once more.

Yaseminka

She was a pretty little elf.
Dresses neat and tidy and so polite her eyes would fall to the ground, though she saw aplenty.
On her own, she danced a lot and curled her toes.
Dug them deep into the ground and enjoyed the earths whispering lullabies.
One day she twirled herself further into the dark forest.
She smelt the trees and the moist ground and let the branches and the wind guide her away.

Suddenly she stumbled on a pixie,
shuffling and swaying in the clearing.
She was about to run away but the pixie’s dance kept her gaze
and instead she watched
and then said,

I want to shimmy like that.

The pixie smiled at her and stretched out her hand.

I’m not sure I can take it

said the elf.

I don’t always know how to let go once I’m holding
and it’s been a while,
my fingers are a little stiff.

Don’t worry

replied the pixie,

this is a lesson where it’s most important not to let go.
In fact,
I will be squeezing your hand so tight you won’t have a choice.

So she took a step towards her
and they quickly found their rhythm.
They sang to each other and realized that they often knew the same songs.
When their feet grew tired and heavy,
they sat down on mossy rocks
and soaked them in raindrops.

I think I want to smash your toes with a hammer, they are so good

confided the little elf.

The pixie returned the mischievous glint in her eye, bit her in the shoulder and muttered:

I love you too

The sky started to close up over them and it’s dark ink spilled dome-like over their faces.
They took refuge under a rock and quickly fell asleep.

In the morning,
the sun was kinder and warmer than she’d ever been and the little elf,
who’s hand was still clenched tightly in the pixies,
stretched and yawned.

She realized with a growing smile
that she hadn’t slept so well in a

very

long

time.

The Illusion of Slaves

I wanted to part your lips with my tongue and your chest with a dagger.
To get at your heart.
To wrap myself around it and sew you back up over me.
I tied back long blond locks and floral dresses.
There was love in my hair and hope in my palms.
You knew me better.
You ripped that shining glow from my shoulders and I stood there.
Bare for you
and I meant it
and wore it naked.

I picked up the clothes from the floor after you left and the outside ripped through me and chilled my bones,
rattled them.
The dress was dirty then and torn,
so I went out and bought some darkness and delighted in the tights whenever they ripped.
I joined cats in the backwaters.
Hungering and hovering for strangers to dice me up.
I watched their mouths while I stood choking
and my scalp tingled in their fists.
And their fingers.
They were rough, hard and everywhere.
It was a cold growl in a hell where the fire had long gone out.
And I learned about the sea when I went back to the water.
You know I did.
And I swam to be driving with you again.
To a no-mans land.
Making lists.
‘10 people you hate and why’.
With my feet free and my toes playing on the dashboard.
The wind tussling my hair in excitement and repeating myself over the loudspeakers’ gospel to us
and wearing each others smiles again with pride.

To Race with your Beast against a Storm

My horse smelt of dust and hay.
Strongly so, even on such a cold winter morning.
I leaned in to soak it up, my hand gliding down his strong neck and whispered my hello.
My father had already tightened his saddle and after jostling with the reins and bit, I led my horse out of the stable to meet his.
Our breath competed for clouds hitting the chilled tight air.
One hop and pull and I was up.
As high as Dad.
We decide to take our time that morning, traversing through the forest.
Loose armed and legs hanging lazily off the sides of our safe treading animals.
We headed down to the river, knowing it would be deserted in this weather and took lefts and rights off forked paths that lead into valleys.
And we talked.
We talked about my schoolwork,
all the things I wished to be
and the things he’d wish for me.
When we hit the thick fog at the bank of the river and felt the earth soft under the hooves, he turned to me with a slight tilt of the head.
“Let’s race it to the end!”
My heartbeat accelerated even before my horse did and I dug my heels into its flanks to shock it out of its trance, my fists clenched tightly into its mane
and off
we
were.
The ice in the wind roughened up my cheeks to a crisp red and demanded tears from my eyes that travelled back and out of my face, mingling with my hair flailing wildly behind me.
I thought about the advantages I had over my father.
(Just a small girl with new legs, still strong and determined.)
I thought of how proud he would be to see me pull up and take charge,
headstrong into the bitter,
the cold,
the destination,
ahead,
ahead,
ahead.
to the end of this freak scene.
Of how he would be able to loosen his reins with a smile, seeing me so far ahead of him.

But I got lost in the moment.
Let the beast beneath me take me for its own ride.
Listened closely
to its tremor,
its breath,
it’s beat.

I closed my eyes and smiled.
Intoxicated with the rhythm,
the speed,
the smells,
the scenery.

And when I opened them again,
I realized with a sinking heart.

I was never quite able to catch up with him.

Naked as I came, a little faded from the winter

You collect bodies and souls like butterflies,
pinned neatly to your wall.
Pretty wings
gorgeous things
Shining colours.
Coaxed with the promise of a big open soul,
bleeding honey,
small drops all over your chest
until my tiny feet get sticky in it
and my wings are glued.

I fell again,
Lured by the sides of your mouth
and the way they create smiling crevices,
by how much I wanted my mouth to be near them.

the pins were a shock to my body,
when your indifference laughed it’s evil laugh
and you pierced me right through.
I couldn’t feel it at first.
I sat listening to everyone’s words when I felt my body grow cold
and my head heard thousands of needles drop on a concrete floor.

It wasn’t until my throat felt swollen and I couldn’t breathe properly
that I looked down at myself and saw the wounds
and the trickle of blood running out of them.

I can’t free myself.

I am hoping.
Always hopeful,
regretfully hopeful.

I am hoping someone will enter this small room and find me.
Gently pull these pins out of me and lift me off the wall
to be placed firmly by your side,
feeling the earth and all it’s life
in between my toes again.

to spring-clean late in the year

I have a love,
it’s ten storey’s high.
It towers,
achingly aware.
Exposed and unshielded.
It has sturdy walls,
in a determined sort of way.
Earthquake weather safe.
Its appearance is a little dated.
There are marks and cracks and bruises
that speak of vandalism
and a rough neighbourhood.
But please step inside
and have a browse
at all the pretty veins.
The doors are wide open
to allow for easy access.
There’s a room with velvety cushions,
that mold to bodies like tongues
and embrace like lips
and gentle arms,
begging for you to take off your shoes.
She wanders its corridors,
my queen of joyful whispers,
watching you come,
making you come,
then watching you leave.
She’s awkward in the mornings
whilst watching your limbs climb into clothes,
aching to climb in with them,
neatly tucked into your shirt.
And she draws the curtains when you close the door,
wishing you’d stayed for supper.
She lives on her own.
It seems the safest choice.
She sweeps out the mess you leave
and sings lullabies
in her crying shower.
She holds a key to the dungeon
where the fierce creatures dwell,
with their fangs
and their claws
and their chains
willing you into their clutches.
To keep you near.
Without the fear
of losing you.
If you can handle it,
she’ll open the door
for them to lunge,
to eat from you
and to feed you back.
To tear you open
and to lick your blood
into a clean wound
that will heal into a smile.
And she will lick her lips
while watching yours
and prepare for her next visitor.

Jolly Good and Peachy Keen

Your veins seem to be a great place to get lost,
bouncing to and from your heart
but
I find myself in a house of flies
and silicon lies
where the paint on the walls is peeling
and there’s a hole in your roof
the fridge greets me with Dijon mustard
and a halfempty tub of margarine
and well,
I need some fine wine,
travel time,
for me to be mine
and you,
you need to be nicer

Trust in a disposable take-away cup

She stretched out under the sun,
chewed a piece of grass
and exposed her freckles.
They grew dark with worry.
But that was their issue,
not hers.

The sun would always be there,
burning if you got too close.
She clung to the rays nonetheless,
made them appear beautiful,
for she had to think that.

So she could concentrate on the warmth,
the distant embrace
to numb out the hard blow to her stomach,
(the boy’s stones)
after she heard those words.