little worlds

my rasping heart
clasped one hundred pictures,
but observed them not.

my skinned pink feet
sought just one kindred soul,
but touched it not.

my wavy fingers
grasped one thousand treasures,
but freed them not,

and then i saw
all within and without,
for a timeless second

and i needed not
to clasp, seek or grasp anything,
within this mikros cosmos.

midnight cowgirl

positioned between two mirrors,
she observes a warped vision;
there's two of her,
twelve fingers and three noses.

she rocks back on hardened heels;
shorn with contact, cracked and fraught
in contrast to the sheet -
which is virginal, in non-judgement.

she strokes it's cotton-skin 
long before the lines creep in,
but bloodstains still flower,
spreading sordid tye-dye across the bed.

faint grey lines emerge and
she picks up a rubber,
but the lines remain,
persistant grass stains or period knickers.

her voice withers with
explanation as the mirror
beckons; she is resting-less
for the lack of the lotus.

i suppose it's a question
of freedoms exchanged,
peeling the onion, layer after layer,
crying out freeing fears
but weary woe betide her;

for i wonder what we will find
when she is all gone?

lotus flower

just call me nymphaea (or ms nelumbo, if you please!)
under favourable circumstance, my seeds
remain viable for as long as 300 years ...
even when recovered from a
barren lake-bed in china, i thrive.
i am the aquatic perennial;
ever fertile, and emerging baptised
and disguised as a mermaid.
how strange to be the lofty lotus;
sacred with sexual purity and divine beauty,
it's petals unfold like lovers souls'
alongside one another, in perfect unity. 
i like the anecdote about growing from the earth -
that my flesh and blood will return to mud
is certain, but meanwhile,
i will try my best to make a pretty seat
for the feet of deities.

a riddle-poem

they decorate oreilles;
snail negatives of open space,
in which the tunnel funnels down
in sound.

like dream-catchers,
these dangly apparatus
capture secret worlds
for little girls,

and twirling them
between fingers
is somehow
always comforting.

plain paper

i love to write poetry on plain paper,
i find it more natural
to create on this fresh slate.

and you are a human being
in plain paper form,
with the rare simplicity

of nourishment without the adornment
of sweet decorative barriers,
all the better to contain me with.

fences, hedges and pledges of allegiance
all melt, there are no taboos
between me and you.

it's exponentially true
that i could observe the freedom of this
woodland creature for time immemorial.

the beauty of blank paper again,
the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
and the unconditioned energy of touching souls.

seekers of secrets and solitude

Kinks of ink black hair frame his face on blue air.
I embrace the teeth and scratches of carnal rapture,
the skin of secrets, the green itch of acts and
silent pacts witnessed by the wind today.

In an isolated ampitheatre; with only the bleats of
sheep to break solitude and submersion in
each other. The sides of the valley rise like new love,
enclosing and unfolding with the fear of feeling.

On occasion, we run to the top in opposite directions,
but we return to the idyll to un-eat the ancient fruit.
We are seekers of knowledge and wisdom,
yet know that we know nothing, so do not worry.

We drink cammomile tea with the stars;
talk of past loves and outdoor poos.  I find
solace in brown owl-eyes, dusted with dusk
and the lust of libertarianism.

Within the sticky sweetness of a tent for two,
beads of sweat adorn him. With each one another
necklace of love forms, but why decorate that
delicate spot with chains?

Some freedom can be found in reins and the
tender pain of change. In the highest pub in england
I have enormous wings. I laugh that the table is
too large, too much space between me and thee.

Before momentary seclusion even from you,
surreal time-space perception and a snag
as I sense your unrest. You have descended
into the abyss, where I can see nothing.

Nothing but you, shape shifter, as
chamelion-like you reflect light.
We light fires, the archetypal chamber
of mystery for us seekers of secrets.

The caramelised coals look good enough to eat
and I long, long for something sweet ...
Yet hold back - must be careful - as sure as I can,
that those crackling coals don't burn my new tongue.