Meredith.

She lay stiff
like he laid stiff
and the blood that ran
from that gutted throat
was as red as the mouth
that opened in kiss.

Their party.
With their music
and their songs
and their
dirty sheets

and their knives.

And her life
that hung somewhere between
the smashed bottles of wine
and the mixing of
fluids.

Take that trachea
and drag a knife
along it
severing all veins
and turn, turn
the music down
and turn around
turn around
on the dance floor.

Turn from the bed with
its array of bodies
and its three
sets of
lecherous
red eyes.

Naked skin hits paint;
plastic,
halloween candy
and somewhere
a mouth, slit
is screaming wide.

Her body.
Covered in fingerprints
and glinting in the night.
Take a knife to what you know is best
Shining, Shining, smiling
Girls;
If you're going to leave-
leave a sacrifice.

Birthday

Pink
Sticky
Icing giggles
and tears
And ribbons

and beautiful boxes
with white cats inside
and no black dogs for miles

felt animals:
For Hannah

I am playing the violin for you, my dear
May your life ever
be filled
with cheer
(and beajouilles...)

x
xxx
x x
x

Loop (Loom)

that music was moving through the hot air like a train
that those eyes glared at me through;
i kept moving and i walked all the way to you
with blisters on my feet and a heavy heart
and my eyes down and my hands clasped
in prayer
i don't want to cry or drink with you;
or fuck you.
I don't want that song on loop for me to make the same mistakes
let those words fall like rain
that dusty path has been tread and i will never
leave this spot again if you refrain from those words
those words those words those words
i don't want them spat on my shoes
or left swinging around a blue bar
whilst i'm swigging from the whisky jar
and thinking I have nothing to lose
you can walk away for nothing
i walk straight back into
the loop

Red.

you lay her down
screaming in satin
and glittering in your jewels
and she smiled for you
for you

you're a thief.

White.

A string of pearls
snapping inside me
flooding my senses
with your pretty, pretty white
Me;
A bride
Smiling on those tiles
remembering those pearls
spinning in the air
with fervour

Everything was soft
and liquid then
The evening of pale white moon
and you;
my wan faced lover
No point in ever
wanting those pearls on my body again;
your kiss on my body.

The last days of Summer

Liquid-
his love's a liquid fire;
a drowned moon.

He is peeling away, like plastic
yellowing in the corners,
He is slipping through my fingers,
I can feel it.

Falling like pollen
the last days of summer
are definitley
drawing to a close
and I pray to bring with them,
glory. I want him to think of me,
fondly, to think of me when
he should be asleep.

Oh my love,
I don't think these words can fix us.

Not with things the way they are.

Anatomy.

Oh the softness of your skin
Compressing my broken bones
That beloved skin;
Such blessed bones it holds!

Your eyes-
throw stars on me
like confetti
I'm staring at you darling, and
You are bleeding from your eyes.

Tears fall
down the Virgin Mary
Push me, push me
Push me open with a smile
and dive into
Crescent waves;
skeletal celebrations
meet fluid beauty
meets the thrashing of spine-

-meets the beating of heart
meets the throb of your cheek on
the pillow next to mine.

One time, two times, three times.

For Jon

All the beauty of the Earth,
the galaxies, the milky way
is held up to a mirror
and reflected as Jon.

All the words from the beautiful songs
twist around eachother to form Jon
and all the flowers that have seen the sun
open up in bloom
to capture the gorgeosity of Jon

Jon who has been, and gone
the lately lamented
recently reverant Jon

Jon the golden son.

The impossibly gregarious
delectably delicate

Jon

Tell me where I went wrong?

The Writer

Under the ink
the words flourish
they bring on a new level of commitment
from the writer to the muse.

The dumb, ineloquent writer
always faces opposition
from the beautiful, aching muse.

The blank statements that leave the writer's pen
are no less a shakespearean sonnet
than a shakespearean sonnet is
it's just that the muse
can never properly be loved on paper
the muse can never be forsaken
with shallow, simple words.

The writer is writing her masterpiece
the muse will read it and be pleased,

The writer will delightedly dot all the i's
and cross all the t's
for the muses smile

On the first page of the rest of her life
the writer writes

For you.