yum

I wanted to warn you girls today not to wear over the knee socks. The air is crisp as fresh white sheets and bites and nips at delicate skin and my thighs feel like baby mammals exposed to the elements by their mothers careless abandon.
Unless of course, you had someone with two strong but gentle hands, covering them every step of the walk, which would be entirely hot but rather unlikely, in which case, you should try and walk out the door naked today and see if his hot hot hands can keep up with every inch of your body.

origami

I’ve been folding lately.
This corner of my mind
to that corner
creating origami landscapes
for thoughts
with deep crevices
for the devil to hide in
and edges
of ideas
so sharp,
you could hurt yourself on them.
I’ve scrunched up failures
and thrown them in the bin,
pushed cranes
across a sea of light
and I’m watching my dreams soar
in the form of paper airplanes,
all pointy nosed
and determined
and I think
I’m able to tend
to the tiny paper cuts
on my fingers
all by myself.

talking through pillows in clouds and echoes

When you and me are thrown,
when we’ve shed our skin
and scales.
After our lips are all different types of wet.
Wet from you,
from me,
to be free,
oiled
and ready to move
some more.
After the throat has exercised
its strings
it sings
and foreplay was like warming up
in moans
and husks
before striding onto a floodlit stage
where we both play the lead
slowing our speed
and our dialogue is of the spontaneous
intimate sort
that makes the audience sink
their muscles into red velvet chairs,
tickles their hairs
and wraps them in blankets
of truth.
When the pressure is off,
on the floor with my dress
there is no need to impress,
when the animals can relax
their coloured feathers
and release their tall necks,
when they can fall back
on to all fours
let their collars curl back up
behind their ears.
When fingers start to tiptoe
gently back around
the paths they hunted on
just minutes before
and they discover
undercover
how beautiful the scenery is
now that they have time to stroll.
When we stop teasing each other
about our differences
and I think,
yes,
I’d like you to teach me
about the complexities of jazz music
and you smile
while I explain
the beauty
in the simplicity of a dance performance.
Your voice sounds sturdy
reverberating through your chest
and I feel beautiful all of a sudden.
So beautiful,
without my mask,
in my bareness,
naked and soft,
once you’ve peeled
away all the hardness
that the wind
and day coated me with.

sticks, stones, words and bones

She keeps her head above the water,
wades in on tippy toes
clenching the sand firmly between them.
She clings to algae and mangroves,
Wraps her legs around a buoy

_'why won’t you let go darling,
It’s safe over here.
Let go of that branch,
no need for fear’_

She squeezes her eyes shut,
shakes her tresses.
She won’t,
she can’t.
Not again,
not here.

He picks her up,
swirls her around,
lays his lies in her hands
lets them mingle in the sands.

_‘Say it, bitch!
You know you’re close
It’ll be so much grander,
if you brush away those woes’_

He rattles her lose,
shakes her,
breaks her

_O.K._
she thinks
_O.K. Here I go._

_I love you,
you knew
I love you,
I really do_

_Aah
There you go hun,
that was great for me,
made me come,
real hard,
made the fuck so hot,
Don’t you see?_

He wipes his face
from his feast,
just another beast.
He lets her fall,
sees her drown
and doesn’t even turn back
to watch the last bubble burst

stale days, fresh bread

“All off, thank you”, I confirm to the waxist while I lie back and think about the rest of my purchases and errands I want to run today. It’s our 3 year anniversary and at first I was disappointed this morning as you canceled our celebratory picnic by the river to attend a work field trip and left me between lonely sheets in bed. I sucked it up though. I truly did and decided to plan a surprise dinner for you instead. The farmers at the market load me with fresh herbs and spices and weigh my arms down with pumpkins, runny cheeses, aubergines, garlic and crusty breads. I cook all day for you, my love, a banquet of 8 different dishes and I wipe down the work of the hours from the stoves and kitchen tiles before dashing into the shower. The hot water excites my pores while I exfoliate and buff away at my skin. Through the steam I reach for body butters and lotions that linger in the air mixed with a spray of my favourite perfume. I paint a red little pout to match red nails and dark cat-like eyes behind velvet waving curtains of caramel hair. In the bedroom, I tighten up my corset, one hook at a time and slide my fingers down its skeleton pulling in my waist like gentle slopes and waking up my breasts. My toes slide into feather light thigh high stockings which I attach to suspenders that tickle milky thighs and I lengthen myself in 6 inch heels. There is just enough time to light a candle on the table and stir the pots one more time before you walk in the door and comment on how wonderful things smell, slap me on my bare bottom and to my horror leave it at that to sit, choosing the feast on the table instead. I cry a bitter embarrassed little tear into the curry and hope to god it upsets your stomach, while I suck it up, one more time, smile and hand you a bowl.

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.