Vicious Cycle (an Ode to the Ovary)

There is a cloud that stalks
Every bright thing I say
Or do

A stutter that sees me
Stumble through,
Occasionally uttering
A passive “fuck you”

To that zombie with
Mobile phone in hand,
Clocking my shoulder
With no eye for the time

Or the bus driver whose day
Isn’t going the way
He planned either,
Refuses my tenner
With seething grace

Sometimes I see his face
In the bag of crisps
I’ve fetishized all day,
That isn’t where I left it
But at the bottom
Of the bin

A vessel for sodden tea bags,
My body is a vessel
For rage
And sugared cereal
Straight out of the box,

But soon that lapsing
Teary-eyed bloat
Will rise from my veins
Like steam,
My skin will breathe,
My nerves will cross
Themselves blind

And for a time
The fog will lift,
My hormones
All tuckered out,
Will seem to leave
Me be

But of course like any
Horror movie buff,
I know the truth,
The butt of the joke

Just when you think
The monster has finally
Met her end,
She bears her teeth,
Her eyes ignite,
The cycle starts


To Sleep, To Dream.

Sleep is the levee,
Darkest embankment

A love as cumbersome and divine.

But love is no word for slumber,

To sleep is to dream of waking,
Walking in on another’s life.

Sleep is the anchor,
The roof concave.

To sleep and dream,
To see the very eyes of love
Only to blink.
And wake.

But love is no word for slumber,
The barefoot step.

Love is what sleep will dream
When it rests its weary head.