the witch of you

the last button falls off me

you come just one step closer,

its one of those 100 nights,

And you can roll away in the dawn

But tonight you are too young

you are 75 years too young to know

that I am the witch of windowless rooms

and the wine has sharpened my teeth,

tonight I can gobble you up and

my altar awaits your young skin

I raise my hungry tongue

and taste you from within

I am the witch of the slaughterhouse

I have tied you to me for an eternity

you feed at my breast like a lamb

and you fall at my feet and

you still think you can walk away in the dawn

and your saliva glistens silver on me

I am the witch of your childhood attic

and you are now deep within me

smiling just like your seven year self,

your limbs you now offer me

I have eaten your heart out already

but you still don't recognise me

I am the witch of your Saturday night dreams...

Urchins

Shoulder blades shine through silk

cold beads break and fall

afternoons pass in a blue acid mist

fine china bone faces glow through the wall.

the house moves a few steps back

and overlooks the river once again

fences fall apart, iron gates rust and die

wooden floors melt in the July rain.

dragonflies fly low dreaming of the dawn

waves rise and fall against their skin

the house has swept the courtyards of secrets

but apple cores dipped in silk scream of their sin.

Like a dust ball in the windy corner

my feelings flit in circles

you look down disapprovingly

hands itching to sweep me away

and I dissolve like sugar on your tongue

just not that sweet and not that welcome.

In another city

She screamed and so did I

that night in his glass room

age-old rages fired our speech

and kept us awake past closure.

she accused and so did I

both our voices throaty and dry

trying a stab at nonchalance

swirls of smoke keeping us awake.

she cried and so did I

but neither of us heard the other

instead we slipped further away

created a chasm of desire

and bled onto the flower patterned bedsheets.

My Violent death

My veranda burns away

the old flowers now swept away

incense burns into a heap of heaven

my room smells virtuous at long last

my death is already just a portrait

my room somebody else's refuge

my hard bound secrets read out

by little girls in my old neighbourhood

older woman discuss at tea times

the number of stab wounds on me

and then the degree of the burns on my feet

and they get it wrong each time by 7 and 2.

Last week

eternal sunshine of the third kind

shine through my bedroom floors

night never begins in my eye

eternal sunshine of the third kind.

purple haze in the emerald pond

neighbors scream and children run

crows of the vicinity began to feed

purple haze in the emerald pond.

trees fall and the cows come home

owls tell you a story every night

warm headstones glisten in the dark

till trees fall and cows come home.

Gods of Sunday mornings die alone

crumbling at her fathers feet

leaving a rusty past of footsteps and oil massages

as the gods of Sunday mornings die alone.

stick insects in the salad bowl

rise to the mouth of the little bees

yellow hornets die a noisy death

join the stick insects in the salad bowl.

girls small and white and ladies young

sing songs of the pink wonder yarns

green ham sun shines through the muslin

of girls small and ladies young.

ivory hands of a mauve speechless god

clams the senses of the girl in my room

all that died last night, came alive

at the ivory hands of a mauve speechless god.