Do you remember when the honey went?
Do you remember when the honey went?
When golden yellow turned
And saccharine at once turned
mean and salty in the cavernous bower
beneath the tongue;
how was the sweetness overrun?
luscious lips once able to linger
unable to devour or digest…
Do you remember when the honey went?
There are ghosts in the house.
I count them:
Folded clothes, numerous.
Cereal boxes, 3.
Chocolate I’d never eat, ‘8 pieces’ times 4.
A plate, unwashed, 1.
Piles of books, as many as you can indulge yourself to buy at a market.
A face washer, folded and drying, 1.
New soap, untouched, 1.
A toothbrush no longer needing toothpaste, 1 (beside the 2nd one).
One side of the bed unruffled, 1/2.
Your smell, …between hangers, in the carpet, in your towel, infinity.
There are ghosts in the house
I count them.
Bare boned and
starving under the moonlight
How long has it been?
Only a day I’m sure.
But already the beginning—
a devouring of all this glitter that falls about us in the dark
as though its been a lifetime.
Already a quivering
already a hands-full
a sucking in of air
smiles broad and
Already a burning belief in something other than
that lies around us
And it begins to disappear
And I begin to laugh
And I begin to frown
because it’s more than I can take
but I want more
and I think
as if I’d never thought it before.
The Testicular Gesticular
You must have a lot of balls to show love it seems.
when the heart truly knows
half hour or so…
When you shrink back
what of your other limbs?
Cause here’s the thing:
We don’t operate from one place only.
Our nerves aint ending but
We are all the way through
and back again
and again …
And we are not done yet.
Not. Even. Close.
do not gesticulate
Because we know more
than we ever did before
and we will not settle
to just be board.
Bone and Gut
It’s immense body was hauled upon the deck
Thick, leathered skin
and it shook
and all men puffing stood
and bowed their head
and held short their breath.
‘Hats off!’ boomed the captain as whale became mumble.
One seaman began to weep
as soon, not long from now
He would have to open her up
spill her out on the deck
all silver bone and stringy gut
And she would reveal
What all men did not know
The child that lay inside her
Still waiting for go.
Her big, agonized eyes
Cast one last look at the sea
and she heaved a great sigh
and she sat deep in her lament
and she mourned for two,
one who’s life was not met.
The Niggle nibbled
skin that prickled and
earlobes tendered by the touch.
Vast fields and blossoming buttercups
the hooves of stallions trampling earth to dust
ALL was set to erupt
But before this
She wore a little black velvet
and fast tracked time
to morning hours where snooze buttons inched
red wine lipped the lines
of hour by
Between the folds of skin
I am in complete.
This morning comes in a
It rolls over and around
Twisting sighs into
All thighs and thoughts of…
The way this morning comes
In soft patters to the door
Gentle knocks and
Can I crawl in?
This morning that
presses it’s face against your pane in steams that dream of nothing more than soft whirrings and this
Sienna is a fever
A hot clammy mess of sun kissed lips and sweltering shoulder blades
spine tingling dribbles
and a matted mastication of memorable moments.
You wish to gaze and daze in her fervent haze
Pour out beneath her feet
But do not expect to tickle her fancy
She’s quite capable of doing that on her own with the trembling residue of those…
Fathom the stars
matted in a multitude of feathered freckles
Fathom my eyes as they speak
in rhymes and rhythms
whispers and words wonderous
Fathom the length of my spine
from crevice to divine
Fathom this breath
panting, sucking in sensorial sights, sounds, skin
soaked in daydreams of dusk and dawn.
The Amorous Cantankerous
I find myself a cacophony
of mind and state
worm hole apart
…and time back bend
and fend again and again
Belongs to an erst universal
an ever gorging morsel
And a youth who
in remembrance said
‘When was it last I really knew you?’
Lips to skin
I will soften
All will become a past tense
we will enjoy
A Poem Instead of a Drs Certificate
I’m writing a poem
instead of a Drs certificate
Because it is not a Dr I need this, the Day
I need to take off.
I need dark clouds and a doona
My old crystals and charms about my neck
Glitter and bare feet and a fantastical children’s book that says
‘Believe in the elsewhere’.
I need to paint
Even though I am not a painter
Sit on the floor of my home and dip my fingers into inks and charcoals and oils and spread my them over a black canvas…
I need the opportunity to meet a stranger and have those kinds of conversations that reignite your faith in humanity.
I need to try on everything in my wardrobe
Create new outfits
New hairstyles while listening to music that makes me feel
W r e c k l e s s.
I need to
and look at known streets in new ways or
find streets I’ve never been down before.
I need an art gallery
A good cup of coffee while watching people’s lives drift before my eyes…
I need someone to drive me somewhere til images past my window inspire poetry or
I need someone to transport me to bed
To lift me up in their arms
Stroke my hair
Caress all my beings who need to know they
need to wake for
until they are ready.
I am but one in an
I am dispersed,
All of a flutter
across a blank canvas of
to that thing you call,
What is this thing you call
I am but
in an infinite cluster?
I am a no thing.
(this poem was published by Elephant Journal and can be found here).
What the writer does
Is try to articulate things that
Cannot be done justice
On a bad day with pen and page
What the writer wishes
Is to be a dancer.
There are some questions a person only asks at night
When the lights are out
and darkness creeps up to their skull with it’s fingers.
Twinkling stars burn with much offense from here
but yelling at them only makes the silence slap harder.
these people retire every night
Not to sleep
but to figure out what they might do when light finally touches their face.
I am trying not to
end up a puddle on the floor for people to slip on and exclaim
‘someone clean up this mess!’.
I am trying not to arrive
to take the birds and the bird nest out of my hair and brush myself to the lady that comes to the world
whatever time of day
I am trying to do fancy
to take off the boots I have worn up the mountain a thousand times and
cross. my. legs.
and say ‘oh yes one must’
and wear the kind of earrings that do not sway
do not flirt with the air
but just sit
With gritted teeth I am trying to scrub myself to something picture perfect for somebodies and who’s-a-what’s-its and thems and theys and he’s and she’s.
I am trying
Do not apologise for your behavior
I have to apologise for mine.
Do not look on me with
those eyes –
they are not meant for me
those are the eyes of love.
And do not leave your ghost in my house
when I cannot leave mine with you.
Your ghost does nothing for me
but tickle skin that desires to be grabbed
on nights you can’t come over.
…and the Woman who Loves.
I would like to sleep with you.
…you misunderstand my meaning.
Though of course I would like what my words may imply
what I mean
is what I said.
I wish to curl up beside you in the aftermath
and drift off…
I would like to be in comfort
There will be a time of course
where we separate
where we drift off into night time imaginings…
but this is a perfect place for people who love:
I would very much like to sleep with you.
An open letter to the night
It is high time
As it were last night
(And the night before that)
To put yourselves in pockets and save yourself
And night is for sleeping.
The rest-less body.
An open letter to the night 2
This left over lipstick
Has got me to thinking
Where I left the rest of it.
I have let the window down
There is more than just a hint of rain on its sill now.
There is a downpour.
All I want to do is drink from it
Drink from my windowsill until I am as fluid as the spill
Until we can
The man who wasn’t there
I found myself walking out onto a beach
where desert and sea meet.
‘You would have loved this’
As I beamed and skipped and
tripped over my own feet, I heard you say
‘Hello there little one’ as I,
in my element
had become the woman you once loved.
I emerged from the water
almost naked back to the tent
and imagined the moment we would have made love on our return.
I would have hungrily licked the salt from your skin.
I wash myself under a shower
And watch the ocean drain beneath my feet.
Spit or Swallow
I have taken a mouthful of words
past my lips
I am reserving them for when we next meet.
On this occasion I will let them fall out into the air and
My fall will come later
…when I am drowned by all the words I have not been able to
You will never come to meet me again.
You’ve been set alight.
Time to Burn
Time to murder
Take no prisoners
Carry no ball and chain
I’d like to be enjoyed.
Like to be taken into the arms of another
I’d like my flesh
To be taken into their hands
The smell of my hair
Taken in by their nose
My breath to make the hairs on their skin prickle up;
But most of all
When they take me in with their eyes
I wish to see everything I can’t
And feel nothing but
‘It wasn’t so much the warmth of the evening that caused her to kick back sheets plentiful; she had become distracted by a series of questions marks in the dark of whom, quite simply, deserved a good roughing up’.
‘She wasn’t in the habit of doing anything too delicately, but this evening found that each page deserved a certain courtesy as it was turned’.
‘Quiet contemplations cause cavernous carnivory’.
‘At the moment she realised it was only the still fading sun persuading her to stay awake, she crawled under her doona and created her own midnight sky’.
‘Wrapped up in arms and legs imagined, she threw her weight into the body of her mattress. At 7.13pm. A body sinking’.
‘The cello invited her to dance. In amongst the rain and the busy city streets, she swayed a little on the curb’.
‘The moon cast shadows across her bed. With every move her body made beneath the quilt, the shadows began to dance. ‘So it’s going to be like that is it…’ she said to the moon; and began preparing herself for a long affair with the night’.
‘With a minute left to the new day, the girl clambered fro string, frantically tying together the stories of her day together before it was too late. At the last second, she threw her arms around herself tightly and squeezed her eyes shut; ready to be picked up and carried away… all over again’.
‘If it was the cool beginnings of winter that made his kisses visible in the dark night air, she wondered why, all flushed cheeks under the shelter of a bus stop in the middle of nowhere – why summer was so often written as the time for lovers. Surely, skin prickling, bubbling, upwards, silence only breaking in the rustling of jackets and tongues warm beyond cold lips…surely this was the season for lovers’.
‘She scrubs herself with cinnamon bark and soaks her skin with honey; at dusk she drowns herself in cardamom milk to drizzle into slumbers sunny. As darkness falls and stars light the sky, rose petals impress upon her lips; that as she sinks and curls and whirls, the earth shall soon soothe her swollen hips’.
‘The daily whispers keep her awake.
In the early a.m’s, she talks to ghosts
And admits that she is frightened’.
‘Sofia wandered into a dark & foreboding room. With its terracotta walls, the blacks and greys of Goya’s paintings created shadows that lurked like adult nightmares. The blood that dripped down Saturn’s face, in possibly Goya’s most famous painting, was intoxicating. Sofia took a moment to imagine what it would be like to devour HIM. She suddenly found herself to be as hungry as hell’.
All poetry and musings by