Archive for the ‘Ramblings’ Category

You can take my mind on an adventure

Show it the world, let it sin and stain

Until it becomes static

A head on the shoulders

Of age


Fearful living and failure of oblivion

It is so easy to remember the sweet

Drowning of the mind

The quiet

Now the volume is a solitary mute

You changed

I did not change

You grew

I grew stunted

And looking into your eyes, I see the climate change

Further away from you

My bruises show


Allegiance to the static

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This is a story, a pained sigh in the housing of a page.

A hundred pair of rolled eyes have bound this.

Left it sealed as tight as that hidden box of intellect that small girls pack away with the sound of the plastic rustling on their first padded bra.

It’s a stark view, the female mind to the outside

What do you contribute?

Encasing your mind in concrete, lest it be discovered and picked clean.

Ten words

Ten short moments

Ten ways to not be raped

Ten ways not be beaten beyond what you deserve

Ten ways to ensure that you are, after the age of ten, alive, dialled down, functioning and fully integrated.

Fucktoy                                Appreciative                      Pretty                   Muted                  Hesitant                               Chattel                 Accepting                            Sacrificing                            Forgiving                                                              Capitulating

From pigtails to rohypnol

This is the story of ten words to help you navigate, to fly under the dominating radar

To be the girl that is to be owned with a veil and a hymen intact, or at the very least a count under seven of previous owners.

A tale of ten small words to keep you small

To differentiate between Dolly and Doxie

Ho’ and Her.

Ten words preferable being fucked up the ass in an alleyway by a faceless stranger because he can and you can’t do a single thing to prevent it because you lost your way.

Distracted amongst the millions of words in the English language.

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There is breath left in my body

Waiting to break

On the shoreline

Spoken for at will

This blurred moment

Tales refuge inside

From beauty

It’s terrible grasp

dulling the senses

This bed cold and empty now

bereft of the troubled moment

There is breath left in my body

stilled and left to fail

Return to me I am empty

Give me something to hold

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No-one Speaks

This room is hothoused fake plastic orchids and nicotine

formative years grasping at some still hope

worn down, out and off

Never been who I wanted

kisses replaced with vitriol

invisible world I understand you now

You are never about me

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Backwards Born

I chose to burn all the photographs, the negatives, the absence of affection

We started and ended in a molten mess of heat

Of hedonism belying our age and outrage

falling in and climbing in

Memories of stolen give a fuck times

which though few and far between

provoked the possession of air

through the night

I will only disappoint you

There is no bright madness here in the window

no grasping need, no validation, no anti heroine

The anger spent on the sheets, the absence dissipated

The dispassionate care discarded

This fire baby, this absence, it destroys us both

Gathering moss growing under us and the unwillingness

to return.

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Words crumble to ash when they form from our lips, such are the lies you tell, so freely, quipped with a smile, that one with the crooked edge that caught my eye. There is a part of us that lives within that tainted nineties time of marlboro lights and acoustic appreciation… That time when boy bands were not bands because they didn’t perform live, because they couldn’t play an instrument, and now it is all televised humiliation and multi talent from the multi verse… When did it all fuck up so spectacularly?

Those skinny indie kids still float in the ether amongst gentle reminiscing and a more serious resentment that only grows as time moves past us, pinning us down to the claustrophobic times of penny pitching pinching parades of nonsensical sensibility.

My reflection taunts me with the vestiges of… not happiness, I was too young for happiness, to intense, too determined to have at least an admirable level of emotional suffrage, no not happiness, it taunts me with an ernest dissatisfaction rather than the resigned permanent disappointment that arrived with the requirement to use hair dye to push my feminist credibility and not to make the statement that I didn’t have to.

Christ, I remember the times of cutting into skin to purify and drinking truth like beauty, no matter the taste, cloying seminal fluid of righteousness coating every word, the delusion of grandeur, the flimsy armour of politically correct self indulgent self righteous absolute fucking certainty that this was it. The worst, the best, the everything that could happen was happening right now, or right then.

Replaced with flatulence, the inane remnants of a person never formed now walking steadily, with such complete balanced internalised hatred that turns from misogyny into a rage that would burn, if one had the energy, or didn’t have to be so Goddamn aware of the possible effects on the global climate.

Here is a true story, from a party, from a bathroom, fingers paused at throat, can I be put of my misery and condemn this future, drowning in the disapproval of the cunt, the blinds of dust permanently drawn, the sun risen and set, no land to tend, no empire to defend, just want, want, want. It draws me into the existence of power, commodity, extinction, and transparent ideology forgotten.

Our words crumble to ash, momentary lapses of kindness pour into my voided headspace as you rasp and tear, softened, dispassionate, well fucked, well fed, well to do, well read, well saddened and bereft

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Blowing in the street

The wind rustles those plastic bags I forgot to put in the recycle bin last night

Between the moments of distraction from the pounding beat

My conscience gets the better of me

As I start to worry, is this the straw that breaks the camels back


This plastic bag becomes the worldwide symbol for sheer self indulgence

I stand on a platform, gaze averted from the flickering accusations

of the future generations

As he works between my legs, trying to get little more than a drizzle of desire

I should throw myself into this, expend some energy, care, share, be interested

the bag distracts from the idle speculation


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