Lady Killerz

i was a video girl

though too shy to

step into the light

i hung back

watching dancing initials stiched on the back of their jeans

she was beautiful

i know it

just awkward in her skin

uncertain of stepping out; disjointed

occasionally feeling the power of the flow

when she shone inside it

stars on her belt glinting fierce

wild lights and Oh My Goodness!

her hips would wind and God smiled

were they wasted years?

those perfect bitches that were my inner critics

colonised my brain

spoke a language i only partly understood

well dressed and operating with

Brutal Intent

their violence targeted the potential for creative collaboration at my heart

i kidnapped the weakest one,

stuffed her in a cupboard

slipping out through the kitchen door

ready to fight a mighty battle on the dance floor

these are my creations after all

this poem my offering

for a New Year


Woman Cake

I bake a woman cake
A girl named Macaroon
Sweet and lovely
Luscious hips
Thick sponge thighs
Coco brown icing skin
Crimson tinted full lips
Marzipan striped tank top
(Ancestor red and white)
Jeans made food colouring blue

Assembled life sized
Her hair hangs loose past the jaw
Black waves created by funnel
Soulful eyes are deep, unblinking
She is as me
Neither traditional nor modern
A dream girl
Large and delicious
Edible and fresh

The Boy with the Aztec Eyes

Narrative therapy, remember?
From the heart
Shaman Girl
Check the story on your phone
Dream some more
Don’t be scared, Maybe
Watch him, Probably
I want you to sing…
Any day now
Any day now
I shall be released
They tell you you aren’t enough
To keep you enslaved
So don’t edit
Stay focused
Take it easy
You are all you need to be
And then some

The Art of Invisibility

As they figured out
The next phase
Of their
Six Point Plan
Love blossomed
Until we are cleared
Of murder, we
Hide our groceries
In busy shops
There is an art
To invisibility


This poem is made out of last nights dream scrawlings.  I woke from a scrambled dream at 3am.  It was a night of broken sleep as the baby was poorly.  There it sat, vivid and fresh, though my exhausted body had not caught up.  Catch this, so I write in my bedside notebook, in the dark, as I do when dreams wake me in the dead of night and my body is not fully able to co-operate.  Strange, looped handwriting, widely spaced to avoid overlap.  When I read it back the following evening, now, I get a wow sense.  Because now I don’t remember the dream at all, just the fact that I wrote bits of it down.  And it sounds like poetry.  These words bubbled out of my sub
conscious and writing them semi-comatose was how they got to connect with the outer world.  The last time this happened, the writing down of a dream I then had no recollection of, the result was the poem Dream Mermaid.

Those strange scrawled words that had formed themselves poem-like…. it was cool to see them, they had come through me, but they were not consciously mine.