red wine

A light red wine with
Raspberry overtures,
But not Rose, for God's sake!
I despise a dry throat
But don't hate
It.

Hate nothing,
Not even those bitter bores
Who cannot find the time or
Space of heart to enjoy
Enough
In this life.

spiritual revolution

Is there?
Out there somewhere?
Here
Now
Presently
Eminent
And rearing it's pretty head
From the morass of deceit?

Come to think of it
Pretty is far from the word.
Is there any word?
Illuminating
Freeing
For seeing the world
As it really is
n't.

a short, festive thought

I saw a little girl on Christmas day
Wearing a Cinderella dress with wellies
Almost tripping
But caught by a Grandparent.

I thought
Are spines made to be broken?
The spines of the books I love
Yet they're simply
Concoctions of words,
Collections of letters,
Frozen in time
Like this
Simple poem.

midwinter melodrama

You might find me melodramatic
This midwinter night
In my navy, posh frock
With my magical moments
And flame-haired nonsense.

I digress and romanticise,
Express myself impulsively
Alongside evergreens,
Companionable fires and
illuminations.

Animal Collective
And sounds of Hejira
Remind me of you, with your
Walking boots and skew whiff
Pirate stance, lolloping into

Lamp-posts because part of you
Resides in 'an(other) dimension(s)'.
You confuse my senses,
It doesn't matter now if I write
With a nice pen or not.

Filled with warm fuzz in Narnia,
A sore hip and near-bust lip
Remind me of being a kid.
A nice, anti-traditionalist
Veggie dinner,

Pressies wrapped by Pops in
Recycled paper
And lovely as it is, I might just
Volunteer at a soup kitchen
Next winter.

Precious, bijoux gifts including
Sweet Music (oh Bijou!)
Garnet earrings and the romantic catalogue
Of an ended relationship
Through objects (ironic!)

Love notes, postcards,
Items of clothing, polaroids
And all the while
My brother catalogues
Lifetimes of song in decadagonal order,

Desiring to preserve the life of a dearly
Loved Dead-Head.
I also have recently rearranged my
Books according to Colour-
This therapy reigning order over chaos.

We're all obsessed with this in
Individual ways
But there were too many
Blacks and whites in the pile
To oppose the balance.

"It's just a book" representing a
Subjective collection of moments;
Separate lots of a life
Reflected in objects
To be viewed by collectors of detail.

I remember to avoid detail in life,
Concentrate on the same -
An album, a book, a poem, a photograph
Dedicated to love
Of the singular.

Should these islands of minds
Not be plural, please?
Connected by fluidity and sand
And yet, I fret
Not immediate contact.

Wavering, bonded, on a plateau
Below, my face like chalk to

Hide love's wings and

I jump at the noise

As lamp-light swims.

The residual spark,
The soot of contact, I envisage;
Foot to foot with those toes I love.
Dense hair on an open head
And sombre navy blue eyes,

Both dark and bright
Thus connected to life
By a solitary silver thread.
I dread the day you go away
But my arms encircle freedom.

I respect Your disregard for possession

In our recycled air.
Yes, You (and did You notice, You have
a capital letter?)
Even as I speak of removing possession.

Balance is key to all as I
Shake snow from the branches
Of trees like sprinkling dust,
Those symbols of solstice
Amongst frozen time and berry wine.

veggie-ism

Once upon a time
We caught and KILLED our own food.
Wild, eh?
Blood and guts - survival,
Hunting - the hunted,
The food chain argument.

But if I could find alternative sustenance
I would not kill more than
A little fish
Or at a stretch, a chicken,
(Though apparently it's difficult to catch one,
Let alone KILL it).

I doubt Coelho's love to breastbone
Technique would work in this instance!

My Mum says she's not a hypocrite;
Knows where it's come from
And would kill it herself if need be.
I don't quite believe her
Which makes me think -

Perhaps we're getting
Softer and softer,
Nicer and nicer,
As a result of these negatives?
Battery farmed chickens
Paving the way
For future chickens and their
Long
Harmonious
Lives.

contents of my bag

i'm rifling through a bottomless bag. it's paisley patterned, not carpeted - but almost mary poppins territory. the first thing i find is a blue leather wallet, filled with plastic oblongs and copper coins, a few notes if i'm lucky ... there's a poetry society membership card, a national insurance number and natwest (the fuckers). all clues to me, myself and i, or my identity anyway. the lavender roller ball is for dabbing on that delicate spot on the inner wrist at stressful moments. the grotty labello lip balm is almost empty, after fighting a raging battle with the winter's chapping effect.

i grip a phone (necessary evil, cheapest going, but still somehow i'm always texting like a fiend!) and also several books, which i love to love. there is a notebook and pen combined with the crackling of empty cigarette packet plastic. there's very rarely a lighter. often, there are several bus tickets, crumpled and scrunched, representing days of my life. there are always, always inhalers. i'm fearful of losing my breath as ever. and last of all come the keys. attached to plaited leather that's seen better days - and is long, so as not to lose them. jingling, jangling with the sound of home comforts; they take me to another door, another space to fill. i won't even get started on my bedroom.

isms of everything

Sectarianism, Buddhism,
Yorkshireisms and Fascism.

Pescetarianism, Terrorism,
Anarchism and Absurdism.

Commercialism, Elitism,
Humanism and Antagonism.

And the showpiece; Antiferromagnetism,
Along with all the other anti-isms.

I could go on for quite some time since
We're so ism'd up to the eyeballs here!

But You say you don't believe in them
And I think I must concur.

an inflamed world

it's hard to resist an inflamed world once in a while,

when the tip to base follicle of each single hair,
that's every hair has a feeling, wavy or straight,
attached to a thought directly in the brain.

when goose-pimples begin at the base of the neck
and transcend outwards in waves until they
combine with afore-mentioned hairs on end.

when skin like thick jelly is numb, and excess
is drawn until each pore is sore with feeling.

you may not feel the hands upon you, but you shall
feel a thousand hands in every spot of skinless space,
when your nose feels cut to the bone and cold.

historical fragments of alien substance psycho-act,
confuse time and space over years:

the gas van that sold ice cream,
the paralysing dreams,
the fingertips which painted
dancing patterns in air
and the restorative power of apricot juice
in france.

i remember vividly, the heart attack fears,
and the shearing of de-sensitisation
as hurricane katrina occurred.

when i think about it,
there were copious amounts of bonjela
smeared on moments of clarity,

but the blaring light of beauty
was clearer than ever, when sleepless
with our weakness exposed together.

and the chemical abates, pulse returns to normal,
pupils no longer dilated, experiment over for another night,
yet we repeat this with various concoctions -
like the play poison i buried in the garden sometimes.

always, lights rises, and ears ring as the song
of morning birds tempts motion back to swollen lips.
i remember a time my cheek looked like i'd been punched.

tramping streets flushed with morning,
away from peeling paint, unadorned floors
and dirt between some four vibrating walls,

i've felt faint often - dehydrated, i radiate heat,
then freeze, and always, the blankness of the bathroom
is dangerous/disorientating,

as you swipe away the grime with grim tuesdays,
loose haze and a lack of perspective,
for which you prescribe wine, chocolate and chinese.

but i'll always have such memories to thank
for some profound revelations,
their small release paving the way
for compassionate things. 

it's hard to resist an inflamed world once in a while.
when the sigh of speedy heartbeat booms on chest,
and the gasps for breath just choke out quietly,

when we all want to swallow the whole world whole.

the current outlook

"Ne'er fear man nor beast".

"Eager for the year ahead
And damn pleased",
I said, on this white, bright morning.

I believe every word
Conceivably. And reaching for
Meaning helps to ease my
Roaming soul.

As broken leaves limp down to the
Ground, I know that life will return.
New moons, new tunes
To dance to in the strangeness of all of this.

Untapped horizons which may
Mutate before my eyes
And cause another rotation.
Just as the world spins on it's axis,

I self-learnt didactically
Concurrent perspectives and the
Kaleidoscope of possibility.

A splattered mouse and I think of giving,
A raincloud and I know that seeds will sprout from this,
And the ending of a story brings only more in future for me.

Have I eaten too many bananas?
Overdosed on the Dalai lama?
For I am walking on nothing again -
Not road, not earth, not air, not feet,
But replete with love.

At home in the madness here,
Where the urge to flee flies overhead,
Even lands on occasion -
But I still have my own direction to tread.

Centred in the salt of the
Pit of my stomach,
I hope to have a good old Yorkshire soul.
Away with the faeries but
They'll always be Northern in nature.

Henceforth, I endorse the view
Of multiple everything;
Unsure smiles in the face of danger, and
Goodwill to all men (women and children).

on hearts everywhere

my friendly heart knows not
it's own violent crimson.
my other self and her sly tactics
outflank, manoeuvre and double bluff,
using the heart as a red herring.

"when heart-broken please take care
to stitch back together,
slowly and delicately,
matching the seams exactly.
don't allow the vitriol to grow
but believe in your own lovely ventricles,
which go on pumping day after day
on earth, as we create our heaven".

but this earth is full to bursting, beware.
one slip, one tripped, lost beat
and we're out of here. our fragility
never ceases to amaze me.

and how many are underfoot?
ancestors jesting at our
lovesick looks, romantic woes
and waning appetites.

this ebb and flow is often all we know of love.

the blue room

i stood in the middle of the empty room, a little girl lost, as i stared around at the four empty walls of my new home. the magnolia paint was flaky in places and punctured by marks from previous pins, which had probably once held in place some other inmate's attempt at decoration. not knowing what to do, i plonked down my suitcase and sat in the middle of the floor feeling bereft. glancing up, i fixated on the one adornment present on the walls. i stared at the clock with such intensity; i became almost positive for a moment that i could have made time slow, or even stop, had i really wanted it to. it was a thought that was both tempting and repellent, for here i was, poised at the cusp of a transformative period in life, the beginning of everything after the painful stasis of the last few months.

i counted down the minutes obsessively, clearing the thick, foggy mess inside my mind with structured sentences, viewing my predicament from the numerous perspectives which clamoured for attention there. the tick tock of the clock marched steadily onwards. it's repetitive rhythm comforted me, yet i no longer wished to see life through the frosted glass of hypnosis. i shook my head and refused to be drawn in, instead turning towards the large bay window. i dragged the heavy, solid, wooden chair from underneath the desk in search of the bright sunlight of the crisp autumn morning. the low grating noise of the chair making contact with the threadbare carpet irritated my frayed nerves, but again, i forced myself to ignore it. getting over these obsessive idiosyncrasies was necessary to lead a normal life, so i had been told.

as i squinted out across the posh, landscaped gardens, the ding dong of the doorbell shocked me back into the here and now. i whirled around. visitors. but I didn’t know anybody here? who could it be? opening the door, i stood face to face with a petite, dwarf-like girl wearing dramatic eye make-up and a long, flowing tie-dye skirt. she had the appearance of something magical. she grinned a wide, toothy smile and told me her name was ella. before i knew it, she had bounded past me towards the window, rabbiting incoherent sentences over her shoulder. squinting past both her and my green surroundings, i could just about make out manchester in the distance. the skyline betrayed the cities industrial history, now also joined by sleek, contemporary architecture. this was the same city in which i had begun university a year before. didn’t get very far, and somehow ended up here instead. looking back, it was doomed from the first.

the white room

it was all enveloping, yet infecting so little of her senses that she could not be sure that it was actually there at all. once inside, it was impossible to tell if anything was real or not. even her thoughts became indistinguishable - were they her own, or was it all around her? in the whiteness, the blank buzz of noise dulled deafened ears further. she was suddenly afraid; terrified that she would be locked up in this box forever and eternity. 'the girl who got stuck', the headlines would blare, in an alternate universe. she had arrived here by strange chance and had no clue, as yet, to which yellow brick road her sparkling shoes had stepped upon. where, oh where on this godless earth was she?

it had occurred slowly, or quite suddenly; she couldn’t recall. but over time she became vacuous, as though a big, gaping crack had opened in the surface of her. ‘little girl lost’, she called herself, in recorded words and wondering, as she contemplated her surroundings. the girl was helpless as a fly, and squashed - that much was evident. flattened, almost eliminated, it was true that she had felt mildly invisible recently. she must have been slightly so - since though I can picture her right now, with hair the colour of autumn leaves and a wonky grin which did not betray her insides; i cannot for the life of me remember her name. jane doe was pale as a whisper, transparent as a shadow. a shell of her own delusional grand plans and technicolour dreams, perhaps?

one day, she went to the office as usual. for a few days prior, she had felt difficulty in drawing breath. it was as though a hand was applying a slight, yet constant pressure upon her throat, causing her to swallow repeatedly as she gasped, drowning. half-thinking it was asthma, she had ignored it thus far. but today was different. her cheeks ached with pressure and her vision was beginning to flicker indeterminately. she felt light, like a child at christmas, but without the pleasure, reminding herself of someone who had been on the waltzer too many times. something pounded in her throat (was it her heart – and what was it doing there, we wonder?), and in the end she dissolved. dissolved into a puddle of tears. a melancholy sight, on a bright summer morning in july. bundled into a car, she hardly felt the hands on her as they took her home.

sunday stories (number two)

Discern the flannel shirt
Uncuffed, it flaps in friendly wind

(These waves of air
Will surely never hurt me?)

Behold the orange hat
Distracting warmth to mind to ears
And Why Oh Why
Would I roll it up to expose them?

Contemplate these feet
Be doused in peat and mud
Through weather, the moor and heather
(Each with two syllables, please).

And alive in our lollop together,

Accompanying bereaved dreams and
Splitting seams on this patchwork,
To rearrange in light of new beliefs

Our insides and surroundings.

A 'rustic' sarnie with smoked cheese
And beetroot. Attempt at detox
Always ends in beer here!

With frozen bones

When the flannel shirt no longer works

To discern anything.

And then a bus, chugging to

Soul trio, Bright Star or Bratfud -
Must I be so susceptible to direction?

Can truth be found here?
Amongst peeling paint, bare floors and
Dirt between these once redundant walls.

And You call me a filthy article!

All night I stretch out
Your solemn eyes gleam and grasp
Like half drowned trees underfoot of flood.
I want to experience unconditioned love.

But for what do I wish to analyse?
As Veronika Decides to Die each night
Somewhere. But not here, not now;
I won't be running for the hills for a little while yet.

kites and towels

Absolve myself from absolutism;
Envision stinging skin, soft as a baby's bum
And fresh as a daisy at dawn,
Simply because I choose it to be.

Consequently and constantly
I'm in a state of Morning -
Those first few moments of the day
Being in essence, unaffectedness.

I skip along this yellow brick road
Each day, allowing Mythical creatures
To breach my unbelieving
Eyes.

And a towel is a Thing of Great Mystery
When I inhabit this space,
Post-wind chill on 'that there 'ill'
Where experimental theatre took place.

And everyday
Arising with fluffy, white fibrous material
Brings home to my self-starved persona
That we deserve to see the view like this again.

A view, not just for us
But filled with kites above
(Multi-coloured ones) which I prefer to believe
Would be there anyway.

midnight swimmer

Torch-lit water illuminates
a chasm of hard darkness,
where killer sharks could likely lurk
in stark discord with quacking ducks
which scatter, scared
when artificial light flares.

The vast expanse of rippling blackness
is in shock, a delicate nervous system,
when you submerge, just for kicks.
Re-surfacing, (in)observing lacked light
and child-like tricks - is it a tall tree
at the water's edge or a monstrous, macabre 'Man'?

Oh man it's floor-less here and
the reservoir shore escapes you.
The cold ingratiates into bones and
you're searching, sightless, for something there.
Where oh where would you be
but here, at midnight?

Toying with the edge
in a sweaty and prurient palm,
relishing a drama played out deep down
in the submerged, underwater world.
Can you jump? Feet first and unafraid,
the silky chill of the night swim
draping shoulders, numbing limbs.

I've never ever seen the sight of night sky
from undercover of water;
I stand mesmerised as you emerge,
baptised and disguised as a mermaid.

not from a tap

I rarely bathe,
All that sitting in your own
COLD WATER
With the music on, candle-lit
And tricked into thinking
It's relaxing.

It's taxing to wait in water like this!
Not wading through natural pools,
Young fool at my side
And playing at being water babies.
We're catching fat, full raindrops on
Tongues, and simultaneously
Swimming strong against
A tide of continuum.

sugar-shower

A metal-edged and treacherous one
made reckless motions towards,
showering sleek cheek-kisses
(mwah! mwah!) and lovely exclamations
of exaggerated estimation
of our closeness,
our knowingness (of each other),
and the time that had lapsed
since we had last met.

Hot feet wish to flee
her glacial vacancy of face,
the sugary-plum dahlings and
oh-so tweety pie embrace.
Wrapped in tinkly tin foil, covering treats
for half-rotten teeth
she makes me feel foul;
sugar-coated and sticky,
like my mouth after coke.

Shaking free, testing no holes
have been singed in the soul of me,
I exit this vacuous acidity.
She genuinely scares - empty bird,
pecking away at the world!
Terrified and tired I lock the door,
pull the cord and raid the treasure trove I find here.

Lavender shower gel and running water,
(imagine, momentarily, digging a bore hole?)
Such products give way to a freshened smell.
Artificially cleansed, a vile smile;
"Well gee kids, isn't that swell!"