Friday, 2 March 2012


ennui’s firmament
mixes like wax
betwixt  separation
between night & day
a new one entering

Thursday, 1 March 2012


I’ve been burnt here
and not for the last hour
the proportioned figure
ambles past my lust

Here it is happening
but no, she doesn’t heed
what hurts when the pride
does swallow the lower fire
and spits out the prickles

Brittle as her flaxen bones
too tiny for a whole soul
to cling to or to reject whole

No gods to protect
the healing process
of you belly-harm that
skin will compensate

Hoping he’ll never
ask or notice as
my concern must
rule singular

I ask for mollification
for my spleen that burnt bases
so I can repair the rotten riven
like so many never did before

Should’ve somehow known
to have commissioned the courts
but I was six-years old at the time

Burnt on your stove
thinly-veiled, below
beneath the comfort
and the warmth, home

My insularity vocalised
as my biceps sprung
and condensed my heart
to lax and unloaded air

But you’re so slow
to witness your
own moves and motives
it’s no longer repetition
for you or for your killers