children were us
runaway they hide their rabbits search
for silver spoons huddle harden nurse glass
box tip kerb/curb
gutter lark ascending
old skool waterbaby consolation: Larrikins!
cheery tongue in cheek chimneysweep
reward in heaven kinda thing
Innocent says this where men cut my father
mother sister burn here i run i don’t know where
the geni offered to grant three wishes:
the first was unrequited
the second was out of stock
the third automatic
jean paul what was that about
choosing? before the bloom of self
only instinct on fire running with arms wide
headlong into wind-driven will upon will
Femmes de ville
feel yourself walking down the street, with your multi-function mona
lisa smile; with the chin tilted
not too many degrees of cockiness upward, and not
too many victim degrees
down. Things could go either way. Sometimes, both.
God, no wonder your mates
cant be arsed to come out.
grandson wants a board game for Christmas. One based on a popular tv
show hosted by a retired
dj, where the contestants have to blag and bluff
their way to a cash prize not quite
large enough to change their lives. He`s only eight!
Don't even know the woman.
that looks painful. Her foot in plaster, arm propped on the edge of
anyone`s chair, chin in
hand. She`s scowling; What`s your game. Ouch twice. A
happy diversion: the
antics of an eleven week old Jack Russell pup. Smarting.
Ignorant. Pride to the rescue.
A real flame-thrower, that one.
rummaging through the freezer cabinet for another ninety-nine pee liver
and mash. Her fella`s
request is her mission. She wears her hair like hair,
but it`s all straggle snaggle and
you cant help thinking witch. Or wonder about him
indoors. It`s the
freezer`s opened lid making me shudder.
cowlick. Soft handsome features. A thousand bits of jingling silver;
wrists, ears, fingers. A
skirt which would have been a maxi in `67. Cool
almost, except for the chequered fabric
shopping trolley, dripping with novelty key-rings.
What`s the deal; at what point
do you turn into a colourful character.
gauge it by some toadying internal monitor, something your horror half whispers
is required, salutary, actually wise. Your mouth can move in an instant
from greetings to a blank
with gritted teeth and no recognition, please,
none. Ah, the
trusty mona lisa smile. The worm within us all.
born in Kent,
and has lived in Devon since 1970.
She's both studied and taught Creative Writing, with ungainly but
rather exciting forays into performance during the `90s. Influenced
(different ways, different times) by British, American, and European
poetry, but incalculably by poets she has met, read, and shared ideas
with. Her poems have appeared in Stride,
Slowdancer, Rialto, Terrible Work, Litter and Raunchland. A
second collection, SPEED, is now available