 
Dawn, February 29th
I drive all night,
following the skyline
through the trees
until I reach your side, deer.
It's something about the way
you're lying, mid-leap,
as if sleep has taken you unawares
that stops me there.
And it's your eyes that hold me,
your unseeing gaze
that somehow holds me whole
in the haze of the moonlight,
on the rim of the world.
Like that moon,
you have run yourself blind,
unfurled
as if in a dream.
And it seems
your legs are broken, yet
in my headlights
you rise like heat
to the place where night
and day finally meet. Dawn, February 29thin Poetry
By Heart
Now that I have your face by heart
I look to piece the other parts
of you together – less your lips, your eyes,
like a knife-thrust, bright as dawn skies,
than the shadows gathering in your wake,
the bruises left by every heartache.
I long to drown in the depths of you,
to feel the waves breaking over me, the moon
inhaled, exhaled, cancelling out the sun.
I want to watch the lettercut light come undone
in awe of you, to see the stars run blind and tear
the very fabric of the sky. To hear
my heartbeat breaking on the same
shore as yours, time after time -
calling your name,
calling you mine. By Heartin Poetry
Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never Meet
Thursday nights are silver screened.
At nine, it's time once again to air
the prelude to a dream.
I wait, eyes square, for the immaculate
contours of your face to appear:
the features of a lover I'll never meet.
It seems strange to say
(a kind of admission of defeat),
but to be honest I'm OK
with the pause, rewind, replay
that makes up our relationship.
You have to admit,
knowing I'd never flip
channels or walk out when
you're in a scene
is a devotion, of sorts.
I expect nothing in return.
I know you know nothing of me.
But I can't help but love you;
your close-ups, your scripted smile,
the way you lean towards the screen
Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never Meetin Poetry
Willow
It's freezing, sub-zero out here. I make my way through the park to the lake, where the trees open out and you can see the sky once more. It's beautiful, on a day like today. Not a cloud in the sky - just a pale whiteness, a hole in the fabric of the heavens. I take the mud track through the undergrowth and find a place where no one will see.
I grew up here, in this town, by this park. We used to come here all the time, to ride our bikes, feed the ducks in summer, and in winter, we'd take our skates and head for the lake, where we'd carve patterns into the ice. There's a photograph of me I remember, one of those old Polaroids that Willowin Prose
Wintering
It's a canvas of mouthings,
of open throats, that wave of grey.
Storm clouds pass like sails torn,
loosing their limbs to the wind
with each stroke of the brush.
There's a symphony in the rush
of them, howling their wolfcry, O -
breathings holes into the fabric,
Lethe leaving their lungs. And low,
tugging at the hymns that line the sky,
the moon, sister of a stone,
rises, rises with her hood of bone. Winteringin Poetry
Home
Home, again. The dome of night
presses down like a mighty bell jar.
She hides her face to escape the looks
of other travellers on the last train.
It pains her, their pity. Their stares
and their half-smiles that say
that bruise really sets off the blue
of your eyes. As if they understood.
Instead, she examines her reflection
in the window, fragmented across fields
and clouds and telephone lines, reaching out.
She's a garden of black and blue blooms,
a harvest of half-moons and blinkered scars.
He says he loves her, needs her.
Sometimes, she's not so sure.
She's late, again. She imagines him,
sitting in the dark, hands before h Homein Poetry
Forest, Fathomed
Dreamscape, whitewash. Snow on snow.
The curvature of love's dumb cry
beneath the arclight of the sky.
The hillside rises up, up – a shadow
hung in the shadow of a heaven,
clung to the sides of all it has been,
the air gauzed as if in awe of it.
The trees are only as solid as they seem,
cut-paper casts like the heads of dolls.
Fathom-deep, deaf as dark under the mask
of sleep: the toll of blackened hearts.
Below, the train pulls on through the snow
like a string of beads – all pinprick sparks
and needle-eyed stars - a trail stark as the tail
of a comet streaming 'cross the hollow of the hill,
seeming to fall into the Forest, Fathomedin Poetry
Between The Acts
Shuffling in the shadows,
they fight in the halflight
with buttons, clasps, the ties
on stiff-toed shoes. To the right
the wardrobe juts out like
a branch of stars – all glass
beads and sequins and shards
of coloured fabric, hanging
like the ghosts of people they have been.
It's strange, this limbo between faces,
this place of neither here nor there.
How do you begin to comprehend
the ones undone, dehusked in the dusklight?
The dress before it's worn, the button
before it's clasped back into the heart
of darkness – torn and shattered like a jewel.
Between the scenes, the fits of flight, they are on hold.
They have s Between The Actsin Poetry
Lady M.
Act V, Scene I.
She's sleepwalking again,
white as the sheets she's slipped from.
Eyes open, nightblind, she spoors the shadows
of her mind, treads barefoot on the floor.
"What's done cannot be undone," she says,
retracing her steps once more.
"Like the undead," he murmurs.
He watches her from afar –
the quiver of her lips, the twitch
and falter of her hands. He tries
to understand why she lifts her scars,
examines them under the light.
"The dead don't walk, can't talk- "
She says this every night.
Her whisperings fill the corridors,
the secrets she seeps flood the floors.
And still she shakes, mumbles -
fumb Lady M.in Poetry
Night, Light
[It is dark. The darkness is full and heavy. We are somewhere in space beneath a belly of sky – we could be anywhere. Nix sits cross-legged, a sheet held stretched above her head to form a tent. She reaches out and, with the click of bones knitting, the lantern beside her flickers on, as if of its own accord. The darkness shifts and sways.]
[Nix hums 'Mary, Mary', slowly, deliberately, quietly to herself as she repositions the lantern before her so that she is fully illuminated, up-lit. She seems calm, but glances around herself before she stops, abruptly, and begins to speak. As she does so, she gazes intently at the lantern.]
You kno Night, Lightin Prose
Mariana
And still he doesn't come.
She sits and waits, aches a little.
The sky has emptied out its eyes –
she cannot look. She hates this time,
when the day slopes towards dark
and the free evening fades to grey.
It is a reminder: once more forgotten,
once more forlorn. She scratches a name
into the old wood of the window frame,
wonders, fleetingly, if she sees a face
flickering across the glass - the scar
of an angel, fallen like the evening star.
Old footsteps pace the upper floors,
old voices echo down the halls.
Her heart haunts and hurts,
catches on the barbs of her ribcage
with each and every breath.
Still, he doesn't come Marianain Poetry
The Prosaic Poet
I am not beautiful: I never will be.
I am not brave, elegiac or tragic,
I do not have doe legs or orphan eyes.
I could never lie convincingly to myself,
and you, you could see right through me
if you tried.
I shall never be good enough.
I wear cardigans, eat takeaways
and watch trashy movies too, you know.
I'm an artist only in the sense that
I, too, may bleed or cry on command.
My words are nothing but the performance
of integer upon integer: em – tee
like flightless birds.
But still,
there are some things with meaning.
A light on the blink, the smug hum
of the refrigerator. The well-thumbed copies
of Johnny Panic, Nor The Prosaic Poetin Poetry
Astronaut
Once, I stood in a downpour
and sought the dark side of the sun.
I could feel it in my rib bones, the pull
of that something, strong and sore
like gravity, or breath.
And that was that: the death of reality.
I had teetered over the edge of reason
and into somewhere more glazed,
more dazed, and altogether
much too perfect.
I wonder if reeled-up life
should ever feel this real,
whether six shadows are more than enough,
or whether colour should be so luminescent,
as intravenous as sound. Can I ever
be grounded enough if I hold conversations
with the ceiling above, or if I crouch
and look for love behind the radiator?
I live on Astronautin Poetry
Girl Glitch
I am found wanting.
Every day a little more so, with chips
in the paint, creaks in the joints and the hair
wearing thin. Like an old rag doll, I swear
I've buttons for eyes and a smile of stitches.
They call me girl glitch.
They write stories about me, scribbled
in the margins of their pocketbooks,
about how I cried wolf - how I lied
about nothing in particular, and how
I've a heart with a hungering.
Though what for I am never quite sure.
There are too many things to think at once,
too many colours, too many sounds, pulsating
to the whir of a car crash hymn:
my last coping mechanism.
These are the dog days, when the worth
of Girl Glitchin Poetry
.Set
It is Akhet, the season of sorrow and silt, and Set
must tense his sandbreath against the slick of wet
once more. It's always the same: though he's unsure
who started the game, or whose face he wears,
he knows he must prepare for the beginning of the end,
the bite of night and all the slippages in the inbetween.
And he swore he'd bait their breath,
but they'd rather choose death than fear,
with their tombstone legs, arms pegged
in sockets and their locked ears,
burying themselves beneath blocks
built to the sun. They outrun him, every time.
It's a crime. He remembers what his mother said:
do what you're able to keep them faithful .Setin DDs, Egyptian Mythology Poems, My Favourites, Poetry
.Isis
In the sands of silence, the living ones split, endlessly.
They're waterborne, broken and torn, limbs flooding forth
until the river runs red again. A tug of blood in the undertow
as the fevered arms and distress alarms rise from below,
grasping for their sisters, their wives, their lives -
for the daughter of the overarching skies.
Caught in the water, Isis knows the cries of the orphan,
the widow spider. She can reconstruct the faces of the dead
as they suck and well round her feet like collapsible gods.
It is said that when the rains come, she sweeps the grain
to the brute mouths of the deepworld, the bowels
clamouring between .Isisin Egyptian Mythology Poems, Poetry
Brackish
After the wet season, before
the midsummer night's drought,
I flight for the floodplains, where
the northern downpour bleeds out
and sweeps its love to the mouth
of my lungs. I sleep in the crux
of an oxbow, let my dreams flux
and flow fractured, deltaic. For this
is the way I piece myself apart,
a resolution, my absolution
in a new avulsion.
During the day, I move south
towards the river mouth, picking
pebbles, coral fangs from the riverbed.
A loose tooth is a common truth
in these parts. Bones are febrile,
eyelashes are made of chalk, salt.
Tears turn brackish. They cake
and crack on the flats of my hands.
This is my Pang Brackishin DDs, Poetry
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Sta.sh
