Red Skies at Morn

What if conversations on compression socks are all we have now? What if my cloudburst eyes
and inclement guilt are the only things I’m left with when I hang 

up the phone? I’m scared there will only be the memory of a therapist’s office, recalling the
...

black thursday

mother nature, with her office-walls of melting icebergs
and burnt amazonian boughs, will not negotiate on this:
eventually the eleventh hour will peek over the horizon
and streak the apocalypse across the sky. your ceo’s
checks cannot slow the cavalcade...

Pageant Queen

pageant queen wants you to know

that it's a scholarship contest,
to blind you with swarovski crystals
so you don't notice that the application

requires a tan instead of a transcript.

pageant queen wants to bury you
in the tulle and pleats until you believe

tha...

Goddess

I am the woman
the goddess of springs and words.

watch me rise
through threads of raisin

like a vintage blob of sun,
a phoenix from ashes.

My mouth is covered with cellophane
of rust skins,

it knows how to unwrap of sins,
a murderous night,

Watch this body of cold mo...

I won’t be able to make it to the cemetery today; I’m lowkey annoyed,

and the concrete faces in black wool remind me of my own skin,

and how I couldn’t bag it and give it away

Haven’t my aunts always told me I look maudlin in dark shades?

Yellow is a better look. If we’re...

Ebb Again the Wild

La tendresse/ for the old lie of affection/ between us,

for the eccentric caught in the rain, for friendship / once

held tight, for the woman / on her way to the seaside,

who insists on dancing the beach / in a long ball-gown,

barefoot, but / otherwise ut...

Druridge Bay

bell notes shimmer

hang in the air     ring and rhyme

and shower shore-wards

                                       they ripple out    whipped egg-white...

Pondlife
                 

                    after Blur

Indolence is an aspiration for the whale watcher for what is known to the profess...

Such Small Furniture

And it hurt,

                                   my 

                       fury

made                   

of 

                                 splinters

                       She never tries.

dynamite        ready

to explode

     our

...

The Man in the Bookshop

George’s Bookshop, top of Park Street,

The second floor.  It is high summer,

The tall trees in Bristol’s Berkeley Square

Spreading pools of shade.  His back is to me

And, although he is no longer gowned,

Dusted with chalk, or speaking sonorous verse,

S...