Fog is Screaming,
War is ambling,
deaf eyes open
but do not speak.

Social Equinox
forming my collection of “A fleeting thought, A fleeting though, See how they run”
Written on a train- as is my life :)

… - claiming I was famous and inventing historical facts to strangers whilst I wait for the bus


Instead of thinking about how aging is the slow decay into death with wrinkles and media ugliness (not to mention the sheer fear of what actually happens to bosoms- I’m petrified) I have decided to think about these facts instead:
-On a cold winters day wetting yourself to keep warm will be perfectly acceptable
-Will I have an adorably shrill comical old lady voice or will it will be husky and fabulous?
-Will I hit people with my walking stick or with my handbag?
-Rainbow eyeshadow to go the bank at 9am on a Friday? why yes it does not matter my complexion I am old and fun and I’m going to claim it is what classy girls did in my day.
-When someone is boring  I will simply say “stop talking now you are boring me” 
-Going to concerts with fellow oldies and screaming “TURN IT DOWN! GOOD LORD TURN IT DOWN”
- Grabbing relatives to sing and dance with and not being refused
- Saying jokes that old people shouldnt say to shock the youngens
- Going into supermarkets and claiming I am a ghost

Oh the list goes on!


The dead cast stares to no one,
and we drift sideless to one another.
The dead communicate in silent decay
I beg distance in emptiness.
A poverty of love.
The dead don’t care for reflections
yet I seek ours in every passing cascade.
In famine of a face,
lay me to rest in a mournless place.
lay me rest in a kindred desolation.
The world over, wanting.


Those who die of their own hand weigh life more than those who drift away softly in their sleep. People who condemn suicide are just in causing its repetition.

"A fleeting thought, A fleeting thought, See how they run"

A collection I am working on that I am sure will only see the light of my own eyeballs intake and yours should you stumble across it and not skim.


This artificial beauty
wooden cold
solid transparency
and burning china;
Tea on windowsills,
feeling at home at the edge of the cage.

Eye of the lake

How is it you live
at one with yourself?
Whereas I, in contrast
lurk with narcissistic jealousy
that is wrapped so tightly
my footsteps are echoed in broken bones.

How is it
Whereas I, not even in black
remain the ripples under the ache of each swan,
Odette a torturous phantom
of how you
live over me.

I am placid,
I am frightful,
I am needless yet wanting
like water in a flood.

How is it I remain,
whilst you
exist to my senses,
living like ribbon in the wind
and I, cannot help but wonder
how you know
which way to flex
how I don’t see myself.

The Affair

Autumn leaves falling in cascade
Colours existence a fault in time
Autumn leaves falling in cascade


We stand on a marble,
the marble,
blue,smooth curve of perfection.
Made by some man.
We play marbles,
on the marble,
smashing them to win.
Made by many men.
We stand on a marble,
the marble,
faded glass, chipped and square.
We dropped the marbles,
on the marble,
free fall ping pong on the surface of the true blue
marble, the marble.
We’ve lost all our marbles,
left them to dance on the marble.
And nothing beats a tragedy
that beauty of destruction in orbit.
Because marbles is just a game,
indeed a silly game,
it’s no ceramics.