Cold Skin

She’s amazing, she loves swimming but only in rain water.

She only likes yellow flowers, she freaks at her own reflection and jumps around back at it.

She loves trees and climbing, she hates aeroplanes,

she can sense them before you even see or hear them.

She looks right at me when she hears my voice, saying nothing but staring.

Her heart is cold but always full, her skin is tough and she likes only when I touch her face.

When I hold my hand under her chin, she smiles and she waits,

like a doll she sits, until I look away.

And then she’s gone, through the grass and the bushes, taking flowers with her, yellow ones only.

Clawing across stones and digging for something, the great escape from my arms and my embrace.

She never does explain but I hope one day she will come back to me,

I will sit outside until that moment, cold skin and details of she.

Piano cat

The arrival home is one comfort to soul, dare I escape a world of dismay.

The heat of skin thanks me, as I crash rather than lay

on cold plucky leather and take a drawn out sigh, for it feels nice to release the heat of mind.

What catches my eye away from the ceiling, while invasive thoughts I try

to block, I must lock to keep from running wild, instead they knock and harder they knock each time on in-doors with lights

left beaming, and still now I look to the ceiling, and stare into the empty white and imagine it inside my mind.

But again what catches my sight, a menacing puddle staining my empty ceiling delight, is a thick black cat, resting upon a piano top,

Whose stare would shock even an owl, a bat awoken with crocodile yellow eyes, is this cat.

Paws with an eagle-like claw intwined somewhere in a thick matte of colour-void mop.

My sigh has awoken this beast, one and then another ear pricks sharp; unfamiliar against such soft strokes of dark.

Unwilling to admit is this beastly girl, that she is wearing a winter coat, laying in a peak of unhinged heat, unbothered as if to gloat.

Stretch does she, as I begin to speak; are you mad cat? The forecast have you seen? As mad as a hatter I puff, frustratedly.

She looks only with one golden eye, ignoring my plea. What use is asking a cat of its thoughts, they all contain sleep.

Maybe the loss of mind is mine, for I am interrogating a cat and one that ignores me,

Back to not thinking I go, trying my best at-least, stop thinking! stop thinking! stop thinking you beast!

In the ceiling I saw peace, barely almost at ease. The mind… oh boy does it tease, for almost I could reach

a rake in the sand. All the while the silly thoughts they danced, and raked pictures in white ceiling

grain; drip drip into my eye so now I abandon any view today and breathe a long drawn out goodbye.

Tightly shut does stay mine, and somber keys mirror my sigh, like the sound of a heart slowly healing, dreary but yet so defined

by a sorrowful note, so low and behold it wallows like a mother who calls for her lost calf. Who wrote this beautiful tune that chokes?

It flutters for a moment and then higher the key floats, pitter patter into a minor like rainfall against plastic, or when the wind charms the chime the detail is fantastic.

Who wrote this? I must know! Was it my soul? afraid to open my eyes in case the sound revokes, who plays this I must know!

Sound Of Clarity

The noise up top is the chalk scraped board, not one thought formed, just white lines dragged into cloud formation. Constant irritation taps the side of my head, like blood dripping from the double-edged sword. Each murky drop, that faceless figure outside my window, or the smug ticking of impatience’s clock, is a tap never turned off. Wind it down and gather your mind, for the noise up top is juggling a lot.

As the wind chimes in, escape to the fields. Stay close to those trees, remaining unseen. Wander this dark, blissfully lost. Except from the growing noise up top, like a woodpecker to bark. Tap tap tap until a hole is remarked, freeing the dark noise maybe, maybe not. I invite him to perch upon my shoulder. “Please rid me of this noise woodpecker! Peck my soul will you not?”

The request falls to deaf ears of course and my chances are long gone, or maybe I didn’t shout loud enough, can’t hear anything with this digging up top. Pile it all on because if anyone’s to handle it, I am that one.

The petrified cry of lonely bird whose mother has been gone a little too long. Smothered by that harrowing noise up top, which is like every tree on Earth collapsing at once. Heard not by anyone else clearly, but I hear it all together, everyday another noise up top. I don’t quite know how to make it all stop. Bury my head in sand, and now every grain on this ghastly island is a mini big-bang. They climb the peak inside an hourglass as if to mock, my attempts to escape the noise up top.

Scouring the small world amongst blades of grass, for that Little Lady I do remember so fondly in dark times. Answers I must find, wrenching questions swirl my insides. I wish on her presence to ask… how do I silence the noise up in my mind? Lend me some weightlessness Little Lady in red. Help me see colour up top, instead of only in dreams. Now the layers of noise are getting the better of me, with a long drawn out sigh I close my eyes, feeling the departure of sanity.

Until I hear the soft hum of delicate wing; as it lands on the hair of a leaf. Little Lady looks up at me, her tiny brown eyes offering solace and I begin to weep silently. For clarity I did find, gradually.

Check my hands

Static rain grows thick at every blink. Spidery branches lunge, empty handed. Stripped from leaves yet always they reach. What for? A drop of colour maybe.

Soft hum of Christmas hues twinkling like stars, restless and confused. The well known tunes play again and again until our ears fall asleep. Instead I peel and peel at skin on fingertips in anxious retreat. Clawing deep down into voided thinking; rather bleed out than weep like those trees.

New day same doors

The doors flicker open, then close. Blurred legs pass by, along with good morning groans. Sniffly red noses, tired eyes, swollen toes. The doors open and then they close. Wind knocks in a vamp-ish state, at the foot of the door, it waits and it waits. To be invited away from a grey scale world. Those growing inner blues twist and whirl within. Acute lilac veins underneath a transparency of glass pained skin. All I ask for is consistency. Doors open and then they close, right in front of me.

Past’s future haunting

Don’t look for me in the pages of your book,

won’t find me inside your heart, or in reflections of car windows,

Mirrors count too, your face oh so smug.

Don’t look for me in the clothes you wear, the colours follow me,

You won’t find me in the crowd like Where’s Wally, because I walk among the trees.

In whatever colours their leaves wear, I wear them too,

Both basking and hiding among early morning mildew.

I’m no longer on the porch sheltered from this rain, humming and counting droplets,

to smother this inside pain.

I’m screaming into hollows and jumping into puddles,

under street lamps with no umbrella, every layer letting prickly rain seep.

Don’t look for me in the songs you play, no trace or a hair in any melody you’ve heard,

Today, the drum of my heart is unheard against the song of birds,

except maybe when they’re fast asleep.

Don’t look for me when I don’t want to be found,

because that’s quite unfair.

Don’t look for me when you look deep into my eyes,

because I am simply



Good mourning

Dare I say that my heart is not broken, because it wasn’t whole when you dug it up. Damaged maybe, that’s nothing some wine can’t fix, along with all the ifs and every but.

I wouldn’t say that my heart is broken… but pretty damn close, the cracks show and people peer in. I’m ok I want to say, instead I fall to the back of the stage, filling each peeling crack with restless inhales of smoke and rage. Each toke both fixing and impaling this beating sick joke.

I wouldn’t say that my heart is broken, yet it’s a convenient time to look sad, the flowers are gone, the cold aches our bones, the lunatic light drives lovers mad. Thankfully I’m excused from her gaze, can’t feel anything in this unbroken heart of mine, for that much I’m glad.

I wouldn’t say that my heart is broken, “a pinch too dramatic” says my head. There has been one and there will be another, that much I dread.

Certainly not broken, the same ballet show every night. She twinkles and spins until the lid falls down and the crowd have tears in their eyes. Again! Again! They shout, and so up with the lid, she dances to feel barely alright. People will spend their life looking for an identical soul, if that doesn’t work go for an opposite, anything to keep these ludicrous rumours alive. A sigh of relief echoes the night.

Flames will burn, and then they will die, I’m not afraid of the darkness, so I’m sure I’ll be fine. So many candles left burning will set the house alight, so one by one I choke them out, better safe than scolded, telling myself in denial.

But it is better to shine in the dark, than deal with all those flickering flames, wax so flakey and uptight. I would hate to admit that this heart is deeply broken, partly from the loss of you but mainly from the loss of my vulnerable side.