First, a rumbling.

Thunder and lightning

lines and signs rising

in my stomach,

a storm of acid – the ship creaks.


Then a tingling

beneath my nails,

my muscles rage

a fever, my knuckles raw

& eager – my throat tight,


my mind a flooded rice

field – a claw of mud,

green buds, a stir.

I reach bedside:

my trusty bucket –

pencil dull as bone,

palm-sized notebook curled

as noodle sheet in hot oil –

I grab

– and out it pours.

On my knees again

On my knees again

Dear Lord, oh Lord

I only came for the music

My soul’s turned plastic

Pumped up and shrink-wrapped

Served up on a polystyrene plate

I’m Kennedy, pretty, drunk

Dancing in a whore house

I’m a chef with his tongue cut out

I’m the v word in a burger shop

My nails ketchup and grease

My meat still bleeds bleeds

I paint to crowd a blank page

I write to decorate my cage

I’m Ophelia on stage

Staging my end before I age

I’m the motel carpet

All beige and mysterious stains

Memories of rage waged

I’m drowning loving the salt on my lungs

Hands up, lips a-singing

Let the waves come crashing

Speed up the judgement

Pronounce me redundant

My toes can already feel the sand

My eyes the land

Life never goes as planned

Neither does death, it stands