Taking the P. H. out of Love


For the only man I really loved and

the alcoholic Scottish afternoons, evenings and nights…

I loved him

Like a comfort blanket

I would wrap around me

Twice a week

But the blanket

Cut

Into my flesh

Like the cheap vodka bottles

Whose contents

We projectile vomited

Against a wall

Cracked with my spidery

Web of deceit

And all to prevent us from falling

More deeply

Into reality’s slow waves

Of unreturnable sleep

Every hug

The blanket bestowed

Represented a drink

Poured down my hoary throat

As dry

As a virgin’s quim

Or a mammary gland

No natural man

Could possibly caress

And hardwired to out queer

My more masterful

Sapphic sisters

And the screaming queens

Who were my soul brother’s

Chicken licking lovers

A comfort blanket

Embroidered

With the discarded nails

He plucked

From his outrageously orange

Tinted fingers tips

As he plucked me

The shallow and demanding female

Who roughly stroked his skin

And sucked his bones

Only to please

And manipulate him

I did not even feel his nails

Prick

Me inside

Rather dismissing the blood

I shed

From my womanly empty head

To the rosy pink tips

Of my inverted toes

And MY tits

With an extravagant

Swish of the hand

Of every unwanted thought

I fought to valiantly dismiss

The kisses I imparted

Were shaped

For the delectation

Of another’s lips

For, though my heart lightened

In his presence

It burned in hers

She did not break it

It was I who reached inside

My own compliant chest

And withdrew

The essential organ

Of all hope and penetrable pleasure

At the height

Of a micro second of time

When I realised

That I could never

Love his kind, again

And thus, never did

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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.

Tripping-out in Glasgow!


Yesterday, was my Mother’s 70th birthday. Some might argue that surviving seven decades of life on earth is a tribute to her resilience. I say, thanks Mum-without your love and support…I would not be here!
Glasgow City Centre is a beguiling place, over-powering in the heights of architectural splendour, it encompasses passers-by in heartfelt hugs and listens to the voice of difference. Self-expression is permitted, there; poverty and homelessness, however, are forever near. And, where economic destitution presents, depression often rears his head and roars, in fear. Mostly, however, Glaswegians smile and we all know that smiles are deadly in their contagiousness.
We visited Glasgow yesterday, cracking our lips with the force of a smile or a few. Mum and me, plodding the pavements like Les Dawson’s Cissy and Ada to a post-modern generation. “Ladies,” with baggage and noses looking for a bargain, appetites for pleasure and anxious to avoid the potential disaster of returning home with empty bags. Together, we browsed until my Mother, eventually chose a birthday present. She chose and I paid, happy to express my love for her and reduce my own bank balance.
Following our shopping we indulged in a taste of, “posh nosh,” fish and chips at, “The Chippy Doon the Lane,” a fish restaurant rendered aristocratic among the throng of Glasgow chippies. The meal did not merely fill a hole, but built a temple of contentment within my bruised persona. Like ointment, it soothed the inflammation and allowed me to rest my tired feet beneath a table.
Returning home in the evening, I collapsed upon the sofa. Last night, I slept well. Today, I am still smiling.

Whoops Armageddon! It’s the end of the world, as we know and I feel…


…scared! In accord with pussy-cat law, my faithful companion has woken me at four o’clock in the morning. Outside, the world is the colour of purity, snow illuminating the darkness, like a force of nature in the wake of human transgression disguised as progress. Even the house is shivering cold. Inside, a young, old lady feels older now, than before the snow had fallen. Her cat scratches the door hoping that she will open it; he is innocent of the horrors beyond and the potential hazards of snow. The wind screams in pain, embracing all with persistent lashes of its lustful tongue. There are screaming banshees, out there; I know, for I have seen them…in the eye of my mind, wearing sexy underwear and the pouts of witches. And windows vibrate like the bedevilled soul of Heathcliff caressed by Cathy’s ghostly presence. I imagine the wuthering heights of Kate Bush’s voice and am reassured by my knowledge that bush is enjoyed by nearly all. Currently defining the western world is a crisis of ideas. I think I shall go back to bed and pretend that it is summer.