The Crescent

The only lips that could be kissed
Without fear
A hand held when there were bags
To be carried
Too early in the day for
Lunch or even breakfast
But goodbye was consumed
A stretch of railway
I walked alone



A losing game

Losing miserably

This sense of self

Dense and failing

Flag burning in the wind

Strings at my wrists

Pulled tight

A fight I cannot win

But I am trying for you

Even if you’d rather

See me curse

And fall from my perch

Eyes turned skyward

The Earth must repair

Her own wounds



A tangle of sheets,
You would never
Let me sleep,
My side was yours,
Dreams passing
Through fingertips
And half-formed words.

I loved you then,
Spilling tobacco on my bed,
Dampening the paper
With your tongue,
I leaned in for a kiss,
And whispered against
Your lips:
“Breathe your smoke
As truth.”


You didn’t look at the moon

Or the stars on a cloudless night,

How could you not

Stoop to one knee for the prose

Of the moon

And her bonnet of stars?

They scrambled

Arranged themselves neatly

Just for you,

For your eyes

To tilt and offer them


You offered them nothing.

You would even try.



Maybe I’m not what you envisioned
Maybe I’m soft in places
You thought would be hard
My shoulders may be weak
But like Sisyphus
I will try
My eyes may strain
But they can see through
This envisioned life
My heart is in the right place
But no one else showed
A different time zone
And you are no longer
A vision
No longer envisioning
Our life together
Maybe I’m just too soft
As you utter “stalemate.”

Some Days (or Tabula Rasa)

Some days
I want to smooth it all out,

Ground myself into untouched flour
or virgin snow,
Stretch my body across a canvas
until I am formless,
A rightly scorned mess

Some days
I am smooth and untouched,
Cold as a distant star
and shatterproof

But some days
I am too rough for time,
Do not bend into its grooves
Or surpass the old rhyme.

Some days
I am more night
Than day,
More likely to say
What I don’t mean
But felt was right
At the time

And some days
There is light on my
Light with my pillow
Propped up,
Right there
Touching my cheek

But some days
Some days

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