The Nurse


I saw you wrap your cardigan

Around your hips

And wanted to be that cardigan

Binding your hips

My hands reaching for the comforting

Curves

Of your effervescent flesh

 

Playing love tunes

With strands of your hair

As it swept against

The rise and fall

Of your comely breasts

My skin warmed by the scent

Of your measured breaths

And your image strained

Inside

My cavernous thoughts

Like my hand on your flesh

 

I wanted to be

The last word on your tongue

Before you slept

Instead

You opened

Not your cardigan

Legs

But your mouth

And prescribed me a thousand milligrams

Of anti-madness

And an appointment with Dr Hart

Of darkest Ayrshire and Arran

In the first Gaelic Autumn

Of my Anglo –Saxon soul

And spiritual sickness

 

Except Yourself


Except Yourself

I travelled north to learn how to be free

But the shrieking gulls delivered my spirit

To Nemo’s tomb

Buried beneath 20,000 leagues of despair

Under a doom sated sea

A fisher of souls, swept to her watery demise

By waves that tempted my mind

And stung my weary eyes

Lapping the frail shore of my bored

Consciousness

I roared from the depths

Of my soul’s new found distress

And swallowed the sea water’s acrid foam

Like a fleet of melting acid ice cream cones

My thoughts nourished by the taste of its cool duplicity

Being caught between the to and fro

Of my unique soul’s existence and human homogeneity

I had become invisible, both on land and sea

Like a single splash of water on a pier-less shore

Depositing no residue of my life or piteous form

One day, I stepped into troubled waters

Where I witnessed rising from his/her liquid bed

Like Poseidon’s changeling son/daughter

The angel of the north

Who spoke to me, “It’s not so bad, up here, with the haggis

And the local beer

Better rain upon a sunny head

Than sun shining beyond a mind

That is dull as lead”

“Like mine,” I screamed

“It is not your home location,” S/he equivocated

“Inducing your mental rot

Your soul is sick

For existence has failed to offer you a role

In this season’s production

Of the dominant model

Of the anti-social whole

This is not how life should be…

This is not how life should be”

Angel of truth

Lancelot, inhabiting a nautical incarnation

Of Avalon, for the kilted generation

Riding against the tide, with limbs of lace and leather

Your presence warmed my heart

Like rays of sun in wintry weather

Words slid from your tongue

Like a gentle elixir

I drank them slowly

And let them fix me

In 2008 I moved from the West Midlands to Scotland. In 2014 I returned home, where the air is more polluted but I learned to breathe, again.

*Except Yourself was originally posted on ArtiPeeps.com.Thank you, Nicky Mortlock for permitting me to republish it, here.

Silence Speak Please


Every time I open my mouth

You rip out my womb a little further

I become as barren

As a November Sunday afternoon

My words severed

By your blade of silence

Your gaze reduces woman

To form of a symbol

Like a child bride

Groomed to perform

Acts against her nature

Or a virgin suicide

Wrought

By the penetrating power

Of men’s inequitable ideology

Tied to our conjugal bed

Your fist of masculinity

P

L

U

N

G

E

S

Into the clenched behind

Of my heart unbound

But, no one hears my cries

For my mouth is gagged

And my tears are invisible

To all other empirical, “I’s”

Thus, I bleed for womankind

For Magdalene, Christ’s castigated lover

For Malala

Awarded a prize

For surviving

Her own attempted homicide

-A trophy voice

Which, of course

She possessed, anyway

I bleed and plead

But no one sees or hears me

For like a maiden aunt

I have been castrated by mankind

Left to rot on the shelf

With the other unconsumed

Unconsummated perishables

Past my sell by date

Putrefying with middle-age

And disconnected femininity