Poem: Spectre

Let me see something real?
I envisage your eyes, dark
And the slant of your lips
So untrustworthy is your soul.

Dark, is the slant of your lips
So untrustworthy is your soul
Embrace the spectre you are
Yield to your hypnotic appeal

Tired of the spectre you are
I Yeild to your hypnotic appeal
Justification in my palm
I forget with the 7am alarm

Poem: Not

I’m just reviewing my recent poetry. And considering how, when I’ve only just started to write again, after a good year or so of being frozen… It’s pretty dark.

My moods fluctuate alarmingly, as you know, or can imagine, if you ‘know me’ – but, I didn’t realise how ‘dark’ I was.

I worry that I’ll be alone forever, tormented by men forever. Never to be … normal (I did struggle to use a different word just then) and I actually wonder what that would be… ‘normal?’ Everything is so far removed from what ‘normal’ was.


Poem: Not

Warm hands held on a cold night
The stinging hotness of a slap
This is not a picture of love.

Midnight whispers cheek to cheek
Voices raised, mouths wide
This is not the sound of love.

Funny how a smile can miss the eyes
But shards of malice can chip the heart
A blindfold made of water, a soul torn apart

Poem: The quality of dark

I wait for the ‘adjustment’
The opaque film to… clear
I’ve been waiting a while
Eyes strained, nails driven
Into my palm
The minute hand says, ‘ near’.

I’d watched the light retreat
when the sky turned midnight
I braced against the stars
Dreading the bright orb, which dared to rise
And doused the world blue-white.

This is not called patience,
blood seeps between my fingers!
No, just steady, like the moon’s path
Fleeing far from midnight,
And into the darkness linger.

Poem: Beautiful

I glimpse myself through your eyes
Only when I’m most filthy
Your voice, light through mud
flames burning purity
You make me beautiful

I am what I most despise
But you never see me filthy
You see light in thorns,
My flame ignites
You make me beautiful

In my most desolate cries
You whisper what I can be
Shining light through my
Dark heart, Trinity, with me
You are so beautiful

A ‘down’ day

So, I’m less than 100 metres from Church, sitting in All Bar One with my second large glass of wine…

Now, worshipping God is not at the forefront of my mind, it’s just the guilt that lingers. What’s really making me want to go? Love? Not sure I’m feeling that at the moment. Actually, I’m not feeling it at all…

I’m watching the big hand on the large clock swing round, and it’s nearing a quarter past.. I should leave very soon if I’m going to make the service…

I’ve been torn, really torn about my posting recently; taking where I’m working into consideration. But recently, especially since I didn’t pass my three month probation, and I’m on probation for another three months, I think I shall revert, and continue to be honest with myself (having taken all Facebook links etc down!!)

Two large glasses of wine… And I’m driving. I’m not sure what I think I’m doing, but I’m not ‘well’ today. I’m thinking of Jules

Lonely. How can you be lonely in a house full of people? I think it doesn’t help that, being at mum and dads for a while, I have to listen to constant negativity from their part… They walk backwards, constantly. They offer nothing to look forward to.. Except, the worst.

It’s a quarter past. I’ll go to church. Half cut. And see what God has to say to me.

Poem: Sliding

I finish my first quickly, belligerently,
Avoiding clock, phone, others.
I feel my mood falter, dip…slide
Belligerently, I quickly finish my first.

I feel my mood falter, dip, slide
Headlong toward the stinging place.
I finish my first quickly, belligerently
I slide, feeling my mood falter, dip

Finally tired of goodbyes
This night, I choose alone.
I finish my first quickly, belligerently,
I feel my mood falter, dip…slide

Poem: Vauxhall Bridge

I hid my chapped lips,
The last vestige of winter
Save for the wind which blew tear tripping cold.
It ruffled the watery murk, blowing it across the vauxhall bridge traffic;
Now surreal by osmosis.

Later, balm smeared my wine glass.
Merlot hid the cracks,
And you painted a similar picture;
Something cold, and murky
And we didn’t give it a name.
We didn’t stop for dessert,
And I only had myself to blame.