Log in

23 August 2015 @ 05:41 pm
The albicant brambles bloom and yeild to the budding fruit within,
a heavy brow of ripe cloud bears us into shadow,
the heavens open and cry in an ecstacy of relief as the thick air is broken over the earth,
and she rises
to the touch.
09 May 2012 @ 10:55 pm


s t r a w b e r r y m i l k s h a k e

13 April 2012 @ 07:01 am

brb off to Jordan.
15 January 2012 @ 11:11 am
I am not yet ready for Spring, I fear the warmth of the sun would burn like an insult, taunting the division that currently exists betwix'd my flesh and my soul. But I know I will be ready for Spring soon. Once again my flow aligns with the Earth, once again I know not wether this makes me blessed or cursed; - the only summation I can make, is that I am human. I have choices.
07 January 2012 @ 10:35 pm
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee
And all my honest faith in thee is lost,
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie!
20 September 2011 @ 10:17 pm

w e a r i n g h i s t s h i r t t o b e d

Oh, the low-slung sun and the city burning//bitter north-wind shaking the marrow.
Aching teeth, heavy lashes, yearning flesh.
Bristle, whip, patter, tap-tap, creak.
Weighty tresses, light foot.
Conker-sand-shell pocket.

Time to lighten the load.
13 December 2010 @ 04:27 pm
I am the blood-fever on a blinding night, raising your towers to heaven like candles, raising your kingdom to its hearth, sacking the souls of your people. I am the holy war that will realign your failed, vacuous empire; I am the light. I am war, the thunder that rattlesnakes your bones, I am your body-song, the thrumming of your mortal fibre, the pummelling of your ribs from the dog within. I am the flood, I am the hope of glory, and I am come to till and turn this rotting, barren land.
23 November 2010 @ 11:13 pm

I smell of you
My body aches and
my eyes are sore.

I will hold your breath over my skin
Your bones on my bones
Your shorn hair under my fingertips

for twenty-five days now.

I cannot lie, I will not get anything temporal done in the next four weeks. I will make plans, lists, I know the things I have to do (for they are all the same things, the same list I made four weeks ago, pale-faced on the train), and I will lie and promise that I have done them should anyone enquire. But I have learned that all I can do is wait, for you. And distract myself from the fatted hours and swollen days that hold your body from my arms, my mouth from your mouth. I am consumed, and float in the belly of your absence, awaiting the kiss of your light. I know a soul is a burden, and I should not have succumbed to the ungrateful compulsion of leaving mine to you while it occupies my flesh still and when you already have one of your own to bear. But be gentle with me, be kind, be thoughtful, because I cannot be for myself anymore.
18 November 2010 @ 03:29 pm
* familiar cardigans
* the click of knitting needles
* finding his pink hairs
* thick woollen socks
* still-warm homemade cinnamon rolls
* chamomile handcream
* honeyed porridge
* old-religion/new-saints
* warmth-smudged kohl eyes
* mismatched earrings
* finely knitted jumpers
* boiled-wool biker jackets
* homemade spiced parsnip soup
* affectionate female friendships
* plums
* fingerpainting
* my special little man (my budgerigar)
* the clash
* soft leather lace-up ankle boots
* card-making
* homemade parkin

The days never truly brighten and the mist hangs close to the land, only the most stubborn leaves cling to the branches that gave them succour. The frozen air is tacky in my lungs and spindle-sharp in my nostrils; I gasp, I sneeze. My grandmother's thick cream scarf drawn up over the bramble of my hair, wind-dipped, where delft blue eyes usually dare I am blackbird lash, wind-whipped, the pale apples of my cheeks bloom bruised. The whicker of horses carries like a banshee through the trees.