This glinted blade engorged in avarice and ‘friendly’ vice,
parting fickle hope in words, frustrating masturbation.
Non-touching toxin, safe advance to woo and then to slice
skin so thin it crumbles under slightest connotation.
To spill your seed on Phoebe’s breast, obey the sacred heart-
pulsing, gorging, make believe you’re drunk upon your ego,
Malignant raging centrepiece, a cock and counterpart
hanging there defunct misfired-re aim your bent torpedo.

Re-jig corruption hewn in fickle sentimental farts
talk in code-Enigma never undermined libido-

these mind games lost in sentience, within the worms do squirm-
judge your stock by cut of jib, not cunts you left bed-sided.
This warfare you create inflicting sex upon your germ
harsh reality, your penance, ignorance misguided.

Room spin, raw throat
spottled spittle depravity.

Clenched jaw, head high
undermined.

Formidably uncrossing pale legs
juncture and crevice
yearns.

Broken glass
sickly remnants of whisky
dribbles half-heartedly.

Listless kiss regrets,
double-jeopardy jumped.

Unfurling luscious betrayal wafts
ruffling, tempting.

Open mouthed, salivating;
discarded.
Thirty-four.

Finger shaking intellectualism
“I know this one”
licksliding Jagerbomb
flicksniding barkeep,
yanking jeans over muffintop creams
“I know this one”.

“What do you know?”
Dark ballyale potbellied dirk
grins copping ample bunned cleavage
exhaling halitosis drool.

Cold blue eye stare

“The meaning of fucking life”

Slither in shame
beneath flagrant fingers
pointing judgement for
your discrepancies and differences.

Punish the innocent with Mustard gas
intoxicated throat burn
the sin of being human.
Immortal memories ingrained
within the grey mattered annals of history.

Capsuled with wailing horns
iconoclastic details overlooked.
Slipslide out of memories reach.

Devil is in the detail, so they say.

Cold meat,
bare bone,
blood sacrificed-
shoes thrown.

Caress of the breeze,
reminded me why
escape was a requirement.
An eternal gratitude
which for a still shutter-framed moment
made me more
than I was before.

As it froze, solidifying
an accumulating tear
it dawned,
the realisation that
this woman is three-dimensional,
much more than vapour
dissipating like morning dew
from heating stone.

When I look
beyond those clouds
which enshrouded you
I die a little;
because all you stood for
was fabricated.

I can’t be your redemption
in a million languages
I cannot even find my own,
mottled beneath your downy need
and blinkered juxtaposition.
With only a veil of clarity,
we cannot touch
although pink pulse yearns heart beats
for the want of your void shaped hole.

I wish I could be more,
but I’m forgettable.

Dawn here, is different
somehow still,
stretching slowly awake
beneath a cloak of frozen fog
tinged with sea salt
and fertile earth.

An alternate reality
where I struggle to
bring myself to life,
to awaken against the stifling
English morning
to be heard, although silent
and still.

When all is grey
your streak of blue
is visible in the distance
where you abide and belong.
Far from my fragility
reflected in frigid droplets
of sallow mist.

I am undecided
whether it is you
or I who does not belong
here
standing in the ploughed ridges
where gulls circle cackling
waiting to move on.

Meander with me,
stranger,
a while in the sadness
behind glacial eyes
which hope to melt

someday;

dripdropping their raindrop strata
somewhere within the realms
of your fingertips
which stroke those strung out
anticipated words of hope.

I can’t cry like normal people do.

But when we walk together
on these occasional outings
we
are not alone.

Did I go mad when all the lights turned red?
Clawed honesty from deep within the pit
I thought there was a lover in my bed.

I know I ran from all the things you said
and spat my satire at your stagnant wit;
did I go mad when all the lights turned red?

So many times I wished that you were dead
the countless times ashamed, I must admit,
you thought there was a lover in my bed.

on glassy shards so carefully I tread
I dance around the place you used to sit
did I go mad when all the lights turned red?

Insanity crept up my pages read
chomping, breaking teeth upon my bit
they thought there was a lover in my head.

Scar me with those fickle flecks of thread
simple sighs, tripped words you did omit.

Did I go mad when all the lights turned red?
I thought there was a lover in my bed.

Bit of background, my friend and I were discussing Sylvia Plath the other night, and we stumbled upon the Villanelle a mad girl’s love song. I decided I wanted to turn it on it’s head so using the familiarity of Plath’s work I think I did! As much as I love her writing, this is not one of my favourite. Mad girls run about freezing moors in their nighties, ask that Earnshaw girl…

Remember hours spent
in this same room
contorting under tye-dye throws
meant for beds and sofas,
clothes strewn, naked gratification,
exploration of skin and fold,
awakening on levels never achieved before
or since.

Sun breaks through the clouds
lighting the room.
Haunting smell of you
lingers in these relics,
grown cold and dusty,
dissipating in the ether.

You found me again then.

That phone never rang.

There is a fine line between loving with a passion and insanity. Through poetry maybe we can learn to love insanely