I don’t like WordPress themes. They are ugly, although free.

So, you can follow me over to tumblr for a bit.

Must. Stay. Focused. Get. Little. Ball. Into. Centre.

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Illustration par James Jean

gaiety
drooped from our laughing fingers,
interloped and suspended,
conjoined by the promise of tomorrow.

we snuck into the womb of night,
me, you, and him.
down a lolling tongue,
into the gully
where fewer stars flicker,
where mulch and mud became our bed,
where gin passed from lip to lip,
where we breathed in pine and exhaled blood –
the violent, anxious pieces we’d stored
and would release on a night like this.

– the busy strumming of fiddles
the raucous looks
the hearty hellos
the taste of buried bones –

we forsook all on a night like this,
just to lie and look, through fir,
through hemlock, and into the night.

we raised our selves above our selves,
we sought refuge in the sky,
hoping to catch sight of this place where we’d fallen,
where we lay, arms agape,              holding onto a promise of tomorrow.

we sang a love-weary love song that night,
ten octaves higher than ever before.

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photo via David Blackwell

I have a piece in there too.

Happy December 7th, by the way. It’s good to be alive, isn’t it?

from twenty feet away
you can only see the outline of my arms
swinging gently at my sides
waiting to touch your furrowed face,
to bring it to my own so that
those words we need to say
can be said.

from twenty feet away
the leaves look faded,
the horses run slower,
my mouth mouths things
you cannot hear through all the
cacophonous thoughts in between.

from twenty feet away
you forget the spiders whose widening webs
first caught your imagination a lifetime ago.
you leave behind my sallow palms
and their stories of once when there was
a war we were waging against

against time
against spite
against the twenty feet between
a lens and its beheld.

from twenty feet away
all you see is all this –
perhaps a little more,
perhaps a little less.
and if the gods have yet a sense
that these tales we tell are not undone
by our alien tongues with which we pry,
perhaps there is time for she who is encased
to shake off her sullen skin and breathe.

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photos by .mwj

Also happen to be the names of my twin cousins. How does one choose?
(Nicole. Sorry, Laura.)

i am so bloody tired
i’ve been lying here for years
trying to catch some shut eye
before my time is up and
i’m
back in the rear of the shop

he polishes my pupils once a month
thinking the glint will glare
something seductive to passerbys
something that will bring them in

in the meantime i
just want to wink at you
or you
i want to slap that pervert tin soldier
who’s been ogling my breasts
since he arrived in his box
some time around last fall

please sit me up
or roll me over

there are so many things to tell

under sheets should i
perspire perhaps
pleading plumbing
perhapsing

per hap sing –

a dreary nomad’s tale traipsing
trespassing
talking
of the dark morn when the ceiling of the sky split
and the sun broke, yellow and runny
a yoke that spilt over my eyes and through my hair
and past our toes into the earth

we couldn’t see one another through the albumen

is this the story that’s sleeping
under sheets?

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We’ll make a movie, we’ll break into cinema
You’ll be director and I’ll be your movie star

Just another Tuesday, sitting around listening to Roisin Murphy and writing about celebrity gossip.

Someone make me famous, already.

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