Does She?

Does she know?

It is my name you spell

in the curvature of your tongue

as you try to uncover her name again

in the heavy breath on her neck

The soft gasp that escapes her throat

leaving her hip-shaken

lip bitten

unaware that her cum is my doing

that my memory is all over her cunt

a memento of a search

you made in the wrong place.

Can’t Speak A Word

I want to be the best of you

To beat my chest and cheat the rest of you

To the end goal of freedom found

In soft sheets

Hard breath

Pulsing hips

And heaving chest

To wayward mind my tongue

The words you said that came out wrong

The slipped solipsists

And recanted whoopsies

The blue off the lips

The fucks and oh shits


This is where I get off for a moment, bear with me here, I tend to lose myself in the words I want to say and forget regress regret? I’m not sure where I’m going with this yet,

But isn’t that why I am appealing to you to give me bits that I can use to bolster my words into something bigger than the lines I’ve written here,

Because I listen to you deliver this sermon this liturgy and find myself in literal ignorancy of the ability the capability of using rhyming words not so much religiously as with intent to perform a part of you that falls out of pages and into view

That rides the listeners jacked up on booze whose attentive ears are your cues to start your testimony your lyrical matrimony and tie the knot between you and your audience who buzz off the adrenalin of this verbal dalliance.


I want to be a known to you

A noun

a place

A rendezvous

To steal a memory I am not allowed

Instead of being lost in this

Crowd of people whose minds are blank

Who’d rather stay home watch porn and wank

Than stand on streets

Waving feminism and politics

The difference between equality

And cutting off dicks,

To say I did it and did you all proud

But most of the time I can’t read my own poetry out loud

I don’t like my tone

I hate the way I can’t zone

Out the people who coughed at me naTASHa

And laughed that unspeakable hormonal subject matter

Or stop the speed at which I’m talking

So that you’ll understand I’m not joking

About the lack of protest my legs have tread

Or the amount of time I’ve wanked in bed


Of being the best of you

I flail around and protest at you

I wine and moan and say sure maybe tomorrow

Which is usually followed by…

Finding The Middle

I want to find the middle again

the mundane the stable

from this life that enables

all the “freedom” finance can bind you

to the “luxuries” that can blind you to

a wasted youth and selfie nation

of future payback from spending inclination

a time of now, immediate, of want

living like a pauper

but advertising yourself like a fucking debutant

a taunt online of everything’s fine

but numbing yourself with what’s fashionable

and ruin a beautiful mind.

Bring me back to the centre

where all that I enter

onto Facebook is normality

rather than this “look at me” insanity

where we talked about a plan

not splashed it all over Instagram

where the future was a dream

and things were as it seemed.

Take down your update

release yourself of pictures of everything you ate

the restaurant critic

who doesn’t know dick

but likes to ignore realities with filtered boomeranged banalities.
But what’s in a like?

are you afraid that when you die

there’ll be no record of you

no friends list or event group

is all you are just a series of blog blurts and hashtags?

of saying on screen opinions

without the face to face truth gags?

You scared that without binary

you’ll be a nothing

a never was,

rather than a something?

So I dunno

I’ll throw stones from this glass house

I don’t own

maybe I’m forgiving

this life everyone’s living

the pleasure principles the fake

the published fun and mistakes

to be part of this planet

this earth worn this granite

and maybe I’ll tell you  just what it is I need

nah, won’t have to you’ll see it posted on my Twitter feed.

Two Words

Two words
pulled from lips as though


observing from a place that was other
where I’d run to
and ducked for cover
Flew from my unconscious mouth
shaped so like my mother’s

In a voice
of knowing without knowing

Like I was six again
with night-tears
scalped knee
bike wheel still spinning
Two words now like a stranger’s memory

– Oh that it would be!

Two words a knew of sound
carried with your leaving
one I still can’t accept a reality
a signal that she…

Two words: “Get Daddy!”

A Cry For

The beatin of my war drum needs a little high hat
a taster of the sour flavoured words just been spatI don’t believe in violence

but nor do I a world filled with negligence

This insurgence of most urgent intervention

needs peace lords to provoke and strengthen,

to fatten the heart and pound the chest

to light a fire under asses normally at rest

So we can be believers in a cause a change a possible something

rather than sit on our thumbs

accepting this numbing ungracious succumbing to a life led meekly

aligned with a non-action that threatens weekly to incarcerate our ability to have thought flexibility, 

a muscle death of the gravest kind,

the savage dissuasion of an active mind.