Friday, 20 March 2009


The empty silence is biting my lip.
Down hard I bit
right below at the tip

Black and grey pigeons and puppies might scream
as they talk of
my mannequin alien being.

The blackened window has broken my head.
Shards in the lead
as I crawl from this bed.

Sunday, 15 March 2009

For Sasha

The rain will stop falling,
the bitter descend of cold
polluted water will dry,
become steam...
- and close the lid on the kettle.

Like you forever do,
Let the electricity run and
switch the light on.
For it is you,
who we all listen to.

Monique Le Soleil will
forecast sunshine soon.
You may wonder,
if it is still winter,
but spring is here.


Friday, 13 March 2009

A Silhouette for Anna

You spin on that
Victorian street,
a thaumatrope. Yet, here
there are no birds in cages.
The air is barren.

The two people forge.
But spin and laugh!
Obtuse. Look, for the mirror
produces the truth,
your necklace reversed.

I will paint you
a black silhouette of sorrow, Anna.
Seeing the pain in the statue
breaks the crystal of my eye
but the other stays open.
Why do you still not cry?

Saturday, 7 March 2009

The Gytrash

The Gytrash seeks out the empty novels. Their covers lie abandoned upon the moors of West Yorkshire. Pages scattered and walked in to the mud and manure.
At night, the Gytrash with his yellow eyes and black, furry padded feet, creeps about the paths and hills of the Yorkshire moors, waiting; an unsuspecting man, of Victorian eligance complies to his demands and sits beneath the oak and writes him a fable. The Gytrash reads this, then sleeps in a small cave, his black fur brushing lightly from the wind.


The staff of life has been
edited to resemble little but
a broken fruit tree.

Tuesday, 3 March 2009

Dzien Dobry, Mother.

Dzien dobry, Mother.
I fell through that thick quivering
bankrupt void of flesh.
Coated in mouldy, overly blubbery conserve.
A copious seal, beached upon a blanket.

I still wear your witches scarf.
Gags me, like your future. The moth-eaten fox
hanged in the cupboard, hanged in darkness
did not file away your secrets in its matted grass of fur.
Secrets of Sharnford Lodge
where you became---

“Ladies and Gentleman!
Baba Jaga!”
Polish face and sharp, English tongue
Manipulator of Society! You speak-
“Beckon forth Mr. Inebriation.”

Re clothe yourself in the purple bruise.
Change your scales for
the next woman, the latest disguise.
Disappear in the mountains,
Blen Cathra. I do.

You do? Thank goodness
for the treasure that you cannot touch.
Remaining padlocked
until blackness and division descends.
That blackness is you, Mother.

Manipulator, Comedienne,
Ex-Smoker, Future Widow,
Artist of influence and
Master of ripping the hair from her scalp.
I remember.

Adjust this storm in my brain
with your family of barometers.
Your negligence Mother is simply a grin,
a grin on your face with that Lion’s mane.
Your sister’s eyes, knowing. Kaziameira. Petrified.

Your pedestal, cracked, lit by torches
just like the Baba Jaga in her Polish Salem village.
But you shall be silent.
Quiet Mother.
Watch the photos and my antique table burn.

Parent. Mother. Mum?
You have aged, but you still command guilt.
You have shaking hands like the host.
I have finally figured you out,
Yet, I have nothing more to say.

Leave me now, Gringos

Put the prenuptial in with the compost.
It will never grow. Instead,
Just like our love, it will decompose
with worms and beetles, bitter words,
small moss and fleas.

Leave this lie for
when I fly to the city
Recouperation is sullen.
I would prefer it if you were silent,
Yet again, I beg for silence.

Forget me and I shall
never forget you,
yet why clutch at this artery for so long
when nothingness
is palpitating through.

I shall tether my veins
our connections too.
For I do not think it is wise
to be about you.
Leave me now, Gringos.