Leafy Bones

Monday, 19 November 2012


My home is empty,
wherever I stand I'm blind.
I've never lived in this land.

Fifteen and I got to say yes to the first boy who asked,
two months later and I made him cry.
I could never understand why
they didn't want to get out of this place.

This is home?
'This is home',
I've never felt compelled.
I've always seen my area
as a place I simply dwelled.

It's not that I don't love those within this isle
It's just I'd hoped there was more to see.

But what person doesn't have a home?

Is it just me?

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

The right thing

I've loved a thing,
not your eyes
not your lips.
I fingered the motions
from hair to hand
watched words tumble behind ears, again,
danced down my cheek

I've loved a thing,
half smile in hide
it slipped up my mind,
you only loved the thing.

I've loved it to death,
strangled the acquittance-
pulped the organs dry.

I have done the right thing 

Wednesday, 19 September 2012

Repris sur le jardin

I fear my explanations
poisoned at the nub
speak with such lips
to my misfortunate one-
take care of me, take care of me
though you’ll never know how-
I’ll take care of me,
before the round becomes spiked
with the thorns she grew;
mine never shed the forest floor.
I fear my explanations
are dreams I can’t amount to
are themes without war
and therefore no reasons to stand for.
I’ve got a body in water
whilst my own mixes in,
skinny fingers are like toys
grabbing baby face
searching for the things to destroy.
Take care of me, I’m in the garden again.
Elle chante pour les libellules.
Counting flowers.

Thursday, 19 July 2012


I couldnt be in a place

Where my skin signals advantage


I couldnt be in a place

Where my sex signals advantage


I couldnt be in a place

Where my hair signals advantage


I couldnt be in a place

Where my accent signals advantage


I couldnt be in a place

Where i exist

As i am taken

And returned

With no signs of advantage


Just my thoughts

My beliefs

My soul

Your body.

Saturday, 14 July 2012

Describing Brautigan

I tried to describe you,
but I ended up describing them all. Sideways on, face glances: my cheek's then the ceiling’s, reiterating the stars of your tongue.
Eye’s, lips- somehow all those colours and shapes can sound exactly the same. Individuality lies only in my memory, the inn keeper to your reflection. You couldn’t be more wrong, you couldn’t be more dealt with, yet it’s your’s I think of when I read this poem
that has no meaning to me at all.


This poem is inspired by another by Brautigan called "I tried to describe you to someone" ( http://www.flickr.com/photos/emilyw_tbs/2193909590/ ).

I'll leave it at that- quite a few people have said they want to know more about what or where my poetry has come from before, so, it's not much maybe but I guess it gives more of an insight if you  want to read Brautigan as well, also just because he is another poet and might be worth a read :)

SM x

Sunday, 1 July 2012


Tinmen bake pig hearts
for women who want to starve
he creaks when he bakes

Friday, 22 June 2012

Gorgeous Creature Who resides in my belly

The gutters run to one mouth
strumming pitfall
these golden dragons
cementing bile
and hum the prisoner deep within
I am him.

Leaves mesh calling bones,
and I am not a fool
in these rains,
the structure drowns.
Within skin and thumbed slices of ligaments
her hands are climbing
to scream, to dance, to kill,
and I
unable to walk without legs
have only this bitten quill.
To seek locked-
whether my eternal includes death or
if it will let me away.

Friday, 1 June 2012

The importance of being stubborn

When I die I want you all to know I'll be living-
I do follow the bands one leg backwards.

Right before I wink off
I'll think "that's all?"
well, the only reason it wasn't sooner
was due to the fabulous excuses
you made for my brain.

If all's the same
I can hope to be
smiling greedily
croaking "I was right!"

Saturday, 19 May 2012

Inside Closed Palms

Combs for paint pots or syringes for bulbs,
Somewhere mingled cuts
recover infection,
drinking air-
the liveable side.



Inside closed palms,

Thursday, 10 May 2012

In the movement

I miss my bracelets
they fleck noses as they grazed and swift hair
the movement of night owls,
I'm in the movement,
I'm in the movement no more.
I miss my bangels
braided tangles, and dirt gritting clean
teeth on the skin of your knees,
the dear's nocturnal
and her smile puts devils and angels at debate
from her winged movement,
I'm in the movement,
I'm in the movement no more.
I miss a solution
of a vice, melting plastic hands smoulders
but into holders of all that's nice.
The littlest hearts burst with colour the dragons
couldn't train to roar,
always in a movement.

Monday, 30 April 2012

Slowly they vanish

She's meaning to take
but never gains without grip,
slowly they vanish,
She is meaning to take it
but there is nothing to gain.

Watching men

Warriors don't need thoughts
just forgiveness
and stamina.

The dripping paint
comes to quill
historians spiel,
we listen to power.

Where can we find the warrior
that takes the words
and makes them drip
before our saliva drowns us?

Thursday, 26 April 2012

Doggy Night Terror

Do not whisper things
catch me, that catch me.
Not wary things
seize me, that seize me.
Be grown to
hiding, that hides her.
Thrown under
tyranny, killing times
killing times killing times
equilateral triang-u-lar
ordinance taking covers
keeping meat warm,
flesh worn in the winters clap.
Do the tongues
silent lips for palms kiss?
Cracking jaws of my hands
to break amends from
Winston's midnight puppy,
tucked up,
no whisperings to things
just sleep, let sleeping.

Down fall the creatures

Eye kept on spider,
elegantly cruel,
till eyed the hourglass
spitting kisses on ears.
Homeless web
stain, retain
that eye kept
on such a spider.

Keats Doors

Come, wait
I'll wait no more
the stars are cut glass
curving early eyes.
Come, wait,
my soul wants no needs
no tiptoe the dye on sheeted floor,
come, wait,
my dissolve is to hesitate
to lean for the beckon.
Believe in unreachable
and that's all it'll ever be.

Middle Beginnings

Emptiness is the future
which we can colour
as much as we wish.

My day,

My day is not young
my day is not old
my day is not buried beneath the soul.
One day you will find it
and it will speak out to you
"good morning, good noon, good night,"
then explode with flight
ecstatic you'll affix your sight,
whilst dusk brings tidings
and dear day will disapparate,
perhaps to a far corner of some parallel.

Messy fragments scattered
along your weeping smile,
lickable memories for a fond friend
upon distant isles
of the same galactic supermarket.
My day, some day.

Wednesday, 25 April 2012


Hands cope worst
bound with charge
of we nestled
amongst the diamonds.
My hope is my enemy
my hope is my all
one day I will fall six feet
and my hope shall be small.


All I find are windows.
Little person, little life, see's little of everything.
There is no gold
just spun faerie tales.

Sunday, 22 April 2012

Thursday, 19 April 2012

Said the Bambi

If we have to be young before we get old, lets be beautiful & cliched, then if our brains melt into a chaos of memories-it will be as spectacular as it is now

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Ideas vs knowledge

I'm going to drop
wearing nothing but a paper helmet
I made just now,
when I crash the water
I'll sail my hat
like a slumbering bat.
I'll grow deaf
and dehydrate from loving leeches,
my sponged sight
will drench in world.

Monday, 16 April 2012

Nicely Norman

Que the mirage of the mirage gone extinct.

Arms that cradled my mind.

Fingertips that pressed blood like book flowers,
a smiling demon
and our entwined drowning.

Cursing she coursed my brain
if hell has mercy she will be further gone;
I kept her so close,
but we let go of our childish hand-locks;
and when I must ignore the tapping at the window
I know she is not the same.

Uprooted and talent drained
muscles weak, skin slim.
Normal, normal
the paint picked out

Starry Eyed Patchwork

My stars awake,
gas and bubble over tides
far distant
upon a time.
Beg my core
no more separation
and for eyes beyond the blind
aging glass.
We are Narnia without return;
live stock playing
the blackest stage perfection,
glimmering audience and ultimate canvas,
the world to meet the universe.
Burning, growing
long after
my stars and I have fallen

Saturday, 14 April 2012

The Underground

This vacuum
of empty face,
trickles condensation
of empty smiles,
foreign tongue points
and at last a happy mouth
on aluminium stairs,
as the light descends
my reflection.


Foot to leaf
toward the ivy
my hidden garden.

Goodnight howls and wind,
my pool awaits.

The moon alone knows.

My hair trailing my dance,
swimming amongst the oranges
that bob along the waves.

The book

Phantom days
are split colours of rain-
seeing vales;
but roses keep their beds,
smelling the same every summer.

So wilt
under my skin,
autumnal whispers
of the inextinguishable debris.
I will wake tomorrow
and thereafter till I wake no more.

Arsing around

My vanity is implied
in my very existence,
But yet I am not allowed
to love myself
the way you love
your own

Tuesday, 3 April 2012


lip-s fo-ld-
aba-ted ea-rs
lip-s twi-tch-
ela-ted i-ris
This Con-ver-sation
is over

Monday, 2 April 2012

The Fox

Here is one of my nightmares, I found it quite hard to describe but here it is.

Forest dew kisses my cheek,

I balance my eye,
but her ears alert themselves
to more than my painted skin.
Run, she's begging.
the fox!

"You've seen the Dow"
velvet purple suit to match each Iris,
smiling breathe of fire and ice,
she appears, human
He whispers feathers down her neck.

and he LAUGHS
and the birds sound like fire-
each ripple dribbles
to plasticine-
she is a pig!
shedding each layer of blood and vessels
and he LAUGHS
how can I help her?

Blood down my body,
I pull on the blue dress.


If all I see
are rolling amber clouds
licking the babes
whilst their breathe
coughs Alice tails.
Then I would be at home,
wearing death
like the rich wear their kills.
mortale forma

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

Writing Relief

Let the pain drip down
my irregular boned fingers
slip into her octopus beak
down through the eye
of my pens physique,
let the paper bind.

Sweet Goodmorning's

Along your body's side
I lay in peace
and when the sun did arise
I merely pretended I had helped you to sleep.

Here's a very short, short for Bluebell Books this week, and a little poem for Dverse- hope you enjoy it :)

Tuesday, 6 March 2012

From flowers to vines

They'll measure me Braille
tip by tip
absorb these freckles-
leave the olive eyes grey,
gazing on a stormy sky
trickling skin to sand
and let the rest curl
from my scalp to the sunset.

They'll measure my Braille
and leave the cold slab,
my visions an autobiography of
skin within.

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Little Riding

It niggles the gelatine bit,
tilted lids and slightly bit lower lip.
If I were to-
it would never end,
one moment delirium
is my larger,
the next I can't handle
a half.
Leave/ stay
I daren't.
So long distilled solitude
and your unrefined path,
I cannot care
but you pump the liquid so neatly
it's best to stick to the levelled cement,
ride out the wolfy.

Tuesday, 21 February 2012


For something a bit more light hearted...

Xylophone player I wanted tin

drums, triangle, piano piece not
glockenspiel mahogany.
ma-harmony two
brown or red sauce?
Penny feat jaws
everyone stay in doors
till it thaws
but its your heavy footed
ing lips,
I got up to.
Hard little cupids
gently pull me out the snow,
making angels till my hair drips
from the exhaustion
of loving in the living
flesh, they say-
bringing out the smile-

Monday, 6 February 2012

My favourite shoes

I've got... 9 pairs of shoes
in scattered destinations
Two I'm not sure on and one I didn't count
another isn't listed but the first in any doubt;
number 2 is a friend
young yet good still somehow,
4 is full of laughter-
two evenings of the whiskey matrix master,
5 I probably loved,
to this day strangely
but never the same.
6 buried me with deceitful size and comfort,
whilst 3 & 7
I threw away without a glance
and 8, strange, exciting 8
I miss but never had, only for a mate.
So here is 9
the beautiful and happy
not quite eternal but with
endurable souls.

Thursday, 26 January 2012

Student shopping list

Remember you're well skint
but treat yourself to a pint
then a pill
and a designer duvet,
as long as I'm going
I'll keep buying till I feel comfortable enough to
not look so dodgey in your shop,
even though I've been here 10 times before
walking the floor
for the non-brand noodles.
Stash the rest for tonight,
have a glass of pinot
and just a drag
get yourself some crisps-
maybe a large glass.
I'll have a shot but I hate them
I'll do a line but it does nothing for me
I'll buy this now because I can't quite remember if I have it in this colour,
and by the way I'll have another
whiskey and coke,
make it a double and diet-
3 times lucky as long as you don't get stuck in the hole
Don't eat- get a donnar
don't eat- don't eat- don't eat.
And a pen-
make it a nice one and a plastic one,
you'll only break one up for the shoot.
Remember we've got to be quiet,
SCREAM and laugh
and laugh and scream
and go and see these doctors about those recurring dreams,
get twelve extensions
and 1 with every meal,
slice them nice
ring your fella
go back and grin
you're nice and thin
and fat and fat and fatten you up
we're better-
never gone, just another
and another
and keep smiling
Itch it now it'll be like chicken pox,
just keep laughing
and you'll be dandy.

Inky eyed reflection

I hate to say "you're right"
so I wont.
My life is a ticket for an empty showing,
thousands of masterpieces
that aren't worth knowing,
My eyes can't be trusted,
and especially after a glass of two,
neither can I.
Vodka made me brag for singing
but the truth came out
when I said I'd lost my voice in a fight with a bull.
I hate to say "you're right"
because it is so miserably wrong;
to be made for writing
and writing made from pain.

Tuesday, 24 January 2012

The bible and the babble

Dear father
who art in my veins,
voices of vice
birthed in the contrite lice
running the apocalypse down
my suspicious lanes.
Dear mother
who laid the sacred nill,
your intoxified vanity
spread nails to my will
but could not kill
the sanity
I let spike my facial
Good girls listen and work
whilst they obey
they never feel dismay
they know what they are
and who they can't.
Stay my shephard
crying from wolves bitter
I will carry sins
of my nothings,
your hushing,
on my imploding muse.

But not whisper at all
so not to hurt you.

Monday, 23 January 2012

The letter to Oz

Fear is love
and there is nothing more ferocious than the creature herself.
Listening quietly and glazing politely
wishing crooked smiles on the windowsill,
enraptured fingers hovering over your desolate skin.
You loose your mind
it'll never come back,
not without the rats and worms.
Living with new memory
speaking, running, understanding
loneliness and fear.
Fear the affair that casts your endless sleep,
how I wish the kitten would lick my wounds once more.
The empty pit of conciousness
I know that of wrong
but I wish it right anyway.

Thursday, 12 January 2012


I have faith in you,
I see, I know, I believe in you;
but why is it those who have faith in what they see
always seem to regret it later,
and those of you have faith in higher places
will never know.

I have faith in me,
no guides or spirits make me see
that this life should count as much
as any eternal moment I will ever have,
I have faith in me.

But sometimes I'm irreversibly wrong,
and rude and disappointing and even weak.
I say I believe but it's just to keep me going,
keep me knowing that if there is nothing left for my bones
when they have sung their last crack
they'll be none the wiser than I am in that moment.

Faith in nothing,
faith in anatomy and logics that keep me to the ground-
soon I'll be in it,
and that's all there is to it,
to keep me believing in nothing
but all the beauty I see.

Wednesday, 11 January 2012


The snow has forgotten our appointment,
and the sun has forgotten where to shine,
hour after minute after the loss of time
twilight is around us
until the dark begins again.

Sunday, 8 January 2012

Woman on street in B&W

I'm on the tip of your capture, licking acid in red light, with your thumb staining the grey blur I became. A momentum ruined by the light.

Pack up your tins and help me make some money dear,
the oil drenched her beauty
and she's only been gone,
she has only been gone
Wash away and she'll only be gone.

And I felt like tonight was today,
set on my heart having done it's pay,
but the rims have rings where the eyeball lives,
and the trunk gives away its age
like the knuckles of your grandparents do.

I'm on the tip of your capture, licking acid in red light, with your thumb staining my grey blur,I became a moment ruined by delight.

Thursday, 5 January 2012

Bunny in my robes

I pulled an eggshell
from my bed,
and thought what omelets had been made-
but alas only scrambled, chucked, poached
and fried I could think of,
with one acceptance
a bunny gave.


When you are able
to own up to the pen
that bled that tear,
you wont be able to write
a single truth
to it.

Memorial for the black coat

And in any hour
she would tare aware my gaze
the scoured flacks
of cheekbone,
hungry for face.

Memorial for the black coat;
never really gone though,
are you?

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

Inside the ribcage

here is an art version of my poem Inside the ribcage :)

Also links onto my facebook fan page if you would bless me with a like :) xx


The rolling twenties

I'm in love with a sailor
who cruises deadly swamps,
his eyes are scarce under his eyelashes
though big as the pools he plunders,
so I can't tell what he is thinking
whilst his lips move or cease to part.

I'm in love with a sailor
who has emptied my heart,
of it's liver, of it's guts, of its frost bitten blood.
In place there is dewy bark,
of my ever complicated woods-
but like the rain forests drenched in sun
the floor is an eclipse of it's stature.

I'm in love with a sailor
who rids me of all life,
and I am to live
as ever in the darkness of knights.
Dear traveller I cannot see you so far off,
my eyes are over age
for the dreams you left me to lead
me, in that other universe...

but without them,
what, without them?
Shelves of ideas of words of numbers of
realities that drain lemons
to make bitter lemonade.

Happy New Year :) DVerse Poets and The Poetry Palace poets too x

Tuesday, 3 January 2012

The barble and the Garbfish

"Not I"
"Not me"
said the Barble and the Garbfishy!
"It must be her!"
"The cat!"
and there she sat,
oh so fat devouring the poor little rat-
(subsequently, Ratty squeeled
"it could be worse, your skin could be getting peeled!"
and Barble bubbled and bloated
whilst old Garb he giggled and gloated
"It could be worse, we could be a rat!"
-"no, no" said Barble "a cat,
who must dine on a rat,
to get so fat,
I'd rather anything but that!"
and they both did roar,
until they stopped roaring that is).

"Silly mog, it's time to work!"
and with twink of her second left whisker down,
the place began to drown,
"spinn spannn spick spock"
(she purred)
"What a devious feline you've got!"
(the rodent eeked),
Old Poseidon let the Dolphins loose,
who played chess with a portrait and stole a goose!
Whilst Barble battled a belly dancing jelly fish,
hanging on to a genie granted a pig it's final wish
and Garbfish swam
the deadly mile of hangerclam-
but all too soon...
The doorbell zapped them all
and so the dust fell from the wall
and so it was ready for the call
from their relatives...

"To dinner my dear"
"To tea indeed"