I wasn't going to put these up, but then I remembered something my guru, Natalie Goldberg said: 'It came from me, so I'll put it out there.' So all irate letters of complaint to her publishing company, please:)

The cliffs were so beautiful that day.

So pretty, so wild, like I had never seen them before.

The inky spring waves gnawed at the rocks beneath us, chewed at them as they had for centuries, confirmed by a number of small rock falls a mile or so along the coast.

It was damp that day.

Damp with the spray of a thousand breakers and scratchy with days of salt that hung around since the last rainfall. It made my hair frizzy and my skin dry.

  It was cuttingly cold, through my thin top and your arms.

Cuttingly cold, yet we never spoke.

We never said a word.


She says she hates the red.
It stains her lips.
And stains the mirror in another club bathroom.
Red is the colour of love, she tells herself.
As she checks the red bruises he gave her last night.


He is old:
Skin of burnished leather and chewed bark;
hands splattered with coffee stains of age,
only an excuse for hair remains.
He looks at me, dips his hands inside his coat,
and holds them out towards me.
I expect a gift of magnitiude, a golden moment.
Instead, empty palms.
he quirks an india-rubber lip.
I understand.


I see him as
he kisses the threshold of her door;
Half-lit: face shadowed, peaked and troughed
with age old worries.
I see him as he goes to her,
her back to him
body screaming 'leave'. But
but he was never one to be daunted
by such minor obstacles.
She shuffles feet, suddenly
fourteen again and holding back
tears of fear. She
Wrings her hands, chipping her
Whore-red nail polish, watching as
it falls in a rain of mistake.
He whispers in her ear; I can only guess
but  she shakes her head: No.
And again, more firmly this time.
'I should be working,' her voice is stronger
than I expect. He puts
his hand on her shoulder-- 'I
should be working…..' a whisper now.
His lips dip to brush hers,
and she ducks away, instead
collapsing on the floor amid
a mess of pillows and throws.
She hides her face. He turns to leave.



Blood-red mosaic:
Yet sicker than you are.
I saw that tumbling blue aura
You choke me, dirty tangles of dust and air
that somehow filter through experience.
I hammered at you: days of pounding to change your shape,
but your rough edges
still cut sharp.
You can play with the words,
If all else fails:
Fuck with the meter and say it slow but
Don't dare to creep where the
gargoyles and unicorns go.
did you weep those tears of purple haze?
I forget: Maybe it was me. 
Spider webs of never-never and onyx eyes;
I hate you for this.
Once I saw a dancing demon; he had thoughts, perhaps:
thoughts like yours that dampened and flattened mine and
spat in the summer dustiness and slept in the heat.
Watched sunsets and movies and chewed dried grass.
Maybe his eyes were yours. Maybe mine.

Emma says: 'Today, be nothing'.
I try to explain that I already am.


   if we had trailer parks (not just a cd)
she'd hang out there (not just on Fridays)
and compare her lipstick (it's red)
to body parts ( giggling)
hitch up her skirt (black and leather)
for greasy bikers ( who drink snakebite)
who pay her in ( candy money)
promises they break (with yellowed teeth)
'cos she's empty. (hollow words. hollow girl.)

                                                   |Home|FanFic| Poetry and Twisted Tales|