Note to Reader: 

These are some of the things I have been lucky enough to have featured here on tumblr. 

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Silence lies between us,
heavy in its meaning. 
You’re tired of the lies, the betrayal
so blatantly demeaning.
You tried your best to be fair,
and ended up feeling abandoned, 
a second thought - a spare.
Your face tells a tale of sleepless nights,
of a brave young man, 
falling from dizzying heights.
I wish to alleviate the pain,
that my hand on your cheek would help.
But you flinch away,
Like I am the hunter, and you the prey.
You’ve reached the point, where you see
us women all the same…
Plotting your downfall,
in a cruel little game.
I want to help, but you’re scared of me. 
I am not your friend, buddie or pal…I am ‘she’.
I am dangerous in your eyes,
please know, 
not all women are filled to the brim with lies.  

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Almond shaped eyes weep,
with the flick of your wrist.
You rip the tigers roar right
from her throat. 
Graffiti her with inadequacy,
besmirching her self worth with 
strokes of betrayal.
Artfully, yet carelessly turning
the white walls of her existence
into a canvas, to illuminate your own destruction.
Her innocence was the perfect material to work with,
for you could manipulate and mould her 
to your will. 
She never knew any better.
Not until the definite click of the front door,
resounded finality,
echoing his indifference.
What else did you expect from a graffiti man?
For one precious moment you are thrilling,
your potential to be something, anything, is endless.
Then he is done with you.
And moves onto the next dull wall, 
the next railway bridge.

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“Teach me” He whispered,
as we were lying in bed.
“Teach me, how to care.”

I can’t teach you the 
education of emotions.
There is no knack, no flair.

If my caresses don’t
make you gargle fire,
or put an electric current 
through your hair…

Then, I cannot teach you to care.
Because your heart was never even there. 

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Before you, 
I open and close my mouth
like a fish swallowing solid air.
One wrong turn of phrase 
and you will have me in choke hold,
tightening with talons of treachery. 
Then gobble me up whole.
It all hangs on the knifes edge of my tongue,
how I choose to decipher riddles and rhymes.   

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Moth Psychology

We girls flock to you like a moth to a flame. 
So logically we only have ourselves to blame. 
When things go up in smoke, 
on the ‘I love you’s’ a moth will choke. 
Our transparent wings get charred, 
our fragile fluttering hearts scarred. 
Some of us, lose themselves all together. 
Taken in by your blinding brightness forever. 
How is it that you inspire such loyalty? 
Minute minions, worshipping you like royalty?
When behind your back you balance a gun. 
If I was a smart little insect, 
I’d skip past your glow and run. 
But I’m trapped in this moth psychology. 
I’m surrounded by fools like me,
who fail to see, 
no danger and let themselves be, 
lassoed by your light. 
As a little moth,
I’ll be lucky if I make it through the night. 

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The Pupil

You tip toe, 
up and down my neck,
the spider sending splinters
along my spine.
Knuckles, wading into each vertebra.
Kneading and pummelling
me into submission.
I wince as your words blind me
like a camera flash bulb.
As you entrap me in the web,
of your hatred. 
You Saint of Sinners.
Unwittingly making me your accomplice.  
I wish to be on the side of the angels,
yet find myself embroiled in demonic affairs.
He owns secrecy. And hand picks pink, juicy 
truths to feed into innocent ears.
Corruption is his trade, skill and craft.
I am his star pupil.  

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I flip between my fingers a pair of interlocking angel wings. Suspended in perfect harmony on a silver chain. I fancy that I can see them flutter, I swear that my finger prints are tattooed onto that metallic surface. That somehow living cells have latched itself to lifeless, gilded metal. 

I never take it off.
So it never feels cold to me.

My angel wings were given to me by my Gypsy Grandmother, and right now, at my most vulnerable, I long for those violet eyes. 
I long for the musty smell of incense, the jangle of bangles piled high and the rattle of beads. But most of all, I wish for her guidance. 

So I rub the angel wings talisman, hoping she will materialise before me, like a genie from a lamp - stranger things have happened.   

The phone rings…

“Un Poco…you called?”

I will never understand how that Witch of a Woman does it.  

We are all atoms, whirling around.
Bumping into each other,
rummaging in life’s lost and found.
People collide.
Bump, 
new love - spark dies out.
Bump,
new love - becomes old.
Bump,
love is gone - altogether.
We are all atoms, whirling around.
Bumping into each other,
rummaging in life’s lost and found.
Colliding, crashing, clanging and collapsing - 
into one another. 
Silently searching without a sound,
for your other matching speck,
So you will no longer feel insignificant, a mere fleck
on the vastness of humanity.  
.
.
.
I’d like to meet my particle partner soon. 

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I’m not obsessive, 
I don’t give two hoots,
If you have a problem 
with my cowboy boots.
Honestly, I find you impressive. 
All ruffled hair and tattoos, 
and your home-brewed booze. 
I find the way you kiss excessive,
like you’ve spent a lifetime as a monk
…or maybe you’re just permanently drunk?
Perhaps, its because you’re so expressive,
I don’t know where you got this power
to make me think about you, 
every moment of every hour.
So you can’t blame me, when I’m possessive. 
Those brown eyes belong with me,
their adoring light is the only thing I long to see.
I don’t care about your supermodel ex,
She’s not the one,
who is going to give you sex. 
So yes, I’am possessive.
And I’ll think you will find,
In the end, you won’t mind. 

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Rumours are like glitter,
they sparkle for a moment, 
then get stuck in odd places:
Under your fingernails,
as you spin your ghastly tales.
Lingering for days behind an ear, 
where you strained your neck to hear.
The latest lie,
“Oh! How I wish I could have been a fly,
on that particular wall.”
So you can spread the news
that will shock and appall.
The glitter will get in your precious hair,
“Oh! is it true?”
“Honest - I swear!”
Rumours are like glitter,
they sparkle for a moment, 
then get stuck in odd places:
In my experience - usually on ugly faces.  

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I remove my miniature 
chandeliers from my ears.
I am a professional
seduction my only career. 
I peel off everything, only
perfume and crimson lips remain.
Smiling with delight, as a muscle 
in your neck jumps and strains. 
Eyes locked onto your lips
shirts with buttons,
trousers with zips.
I want them gone. 
Turn on the stereo
and click to a rock’n’roll song.
I’ll pull at your business tie
and make you dizzy with my best
impression of a sirens sigh. 
I’m your devious angel,
your scarlet red letter. 
Trust me, when I say:
“You’ll never have better.” 

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I have a constant love affair with places

captured in the elegant curve of an archway,

or in fragments of the past, offering tantalising traces 

of Renaissance Romances,

looked upon by many,

available for your viewing pleasure,

for but a penny.

I fall for fields.

Abandoned ones,

full of dandelion seeds

that make my eyes water and head sway.

Sometimes, I wish I could kiss those sweet smells of remembrance.    

And walk the streets of the place my heart calls home.

To get lost in them,

to commit them to memory

to simply roam.

I fall far more often for places,

than I ever have for faces.  

………………………………………………………………………………..

He put her there, 

up on that lofty pedestal. 

“She belongs to myth’s and fairy tales“ 

He kept telling himself.   

Meanwhile, all alone up there 

she sat convinced that he had left her on the shelf. 

Hurling her shoes at him to get some attention, 

curled up with the clouds

desperate for affection.

She didn’t want to be worshipped, 

or be a deity of his pride. 

It’s a sad little tale, 

of a love that will only ever fail.

For he adored her, 

and she mistook it for loathing.

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I’m hiding in humour. 

Dwelling in its security, 

to help me out of this obscurity.

I’m hiding in humour.

Lurking behind witty anecdotes, and jokes. 

Its an illusion, its one big hoax.

I’m hiding in humour.

Because soon the laughter won’t be a lie, 

or my smile a strain, soon I won’t have to try. 

I’m hiding in humour.

Waiting in the wings for a happiness that will stay,

the kind you wake up to, repeating itself day after day.

I’m hiding in humour.

But I’m holding out for hope. 

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She’s still the same girl you once knew,

Laughing behind her hand, veiling herself from your view.

Wearing cowboy boots for comfort, red jeans for kicks.  

Still confusing, with her share of conflicts.

Fool hardy, passionate – yet never astute.

Wanting a tattoo, but knowing it wouldn’t suit.

She’s the same girl,

Hair dictated by an unruly curl.

She’s the same.

(Only a little sadder) 

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Call You Stranger

Years from now, 

You call me Stranger. 

Vague remembering of 

a past long gone.

You call me Stranger.

And I call you Stranger too. 

I hope in years time,

that you won’t struggle

to pluck…my….Ah!…name…

out of your head.

Something so fucked up

and magnificent in equal measure,

should never fade into nothingness.

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Maybe it’s because your lips curl on my command, 

Or that you never have them calculated or planned. 

Your smile is not a weapon, but an expression. 

The revealing of a secret, a meaningful confession. 

That’s what makes me smile back at you. 

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I lie on my side, just watching you. It’s dark and cool in this room, and the glow in the dark stars are beaming down on me. What children we are. The record player has reached it’s end, making a repetitive “clunk-duh-duh-clunk” rhythm as it searches methodically, mechanically to find the black vinyl.  

You love your records.

But there is nothing mechanical about you, your all heart and soul. Courage and strife. All, uneven breaths and smiles of pleasure.

It doesn’t matter how many times I repeat my sidewards glance, you still astound me. Something new shining through each time. 

And methodical? This right here - it was a shock. Like something out of a Greek Legend. Could it be possible that these fickle Gods are playing us like puppets, for their entertainment, for their pleasure? I never saw you coming. There is no method or pattern or reason to it.

So, here I am. Lying in the nook of your arm. You have no idea how comforting it is to be in this position. Feeling the rise and fall of your chest, seeing that crease on your brow soften into nothingness as you sleep.

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