Pencil

Pencil –

Split my veins

Sing my pain in red

little stitches – a

criss-crossed road on

my thump-thump engine.

 

Pencil –

Strike my eyes

Be my guide

instead – your prayers bright

as stars lighting up my valley

of scars making them ripple

like the milky way.

 

Pencil –

Take my fingers

Lace them with your

singers of faraway secrets

and dreams I’ve not yet met

and told to hold and hold.

 

Pencil –

Love me and my hollowness

For I may yet be rescued

from my restlessness

Show me your land where

bones don’t ache

and hearts don’t tire –

I have only my fire

to give

Pencil –

Show me how to live.

Outsider

You’ve always got the look

of an outsider on your face

A burnt stump in an open sky of sand

Your smile a curve of a forgotten road

Your eyes a frosted windowpane

– always the outside, the outside

You live your second-hand life

– retold, missed, compared,

painted pink and gold

Your friends are but canvas

and oil on hushed walls

Your songs a funeral prayer

And you may shed your hair,

your clothes, curve your tongue,

your back, bend your knees

But I see – still – the desert of your face

that lost look, that lone stump –

a shadow travels on the waves of sand

Vomit

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

When I cook for you

Here, I say, is my story

On a plate or in a bowl

Soups of fire, budding mountains

Red rings of oily kisses

Stir fries of grey mornings

Under a concrete highway

The wok song, the flame dance

My eyes follow the brown hand

Splash, flick, flip, swirl

A hit of garlic in my nose

A puddle in my mouth

Of my brand-new leather school shoes

A fist in my belly

A golden sweat rolling

Down my spine

Of the car exhaust in the air

Sweet and smoky

Of the heat yellow and thick

Collecting on my skin

Of my mother’s cleaver

Rapping

On the bird’s eye chillies

The green-grass crunch

A splash of coolness

Here, I am telling you

Of breakfasts gone by

My father

Cutting, scooping, arranging

His plate, his methodology

Of my heartache

How it squeezes

And I can’t breathe

Of a hollowness

Deep clanking in my chest

Of moments I wish

I’d grasped tighter

Of hands

Nut-brown, green veins, gold rings

I long to hold

Again

Here, I say, eat

Nice to meet you

Yellow: a pondering

The sun comes down

gooey and thick

yellow

like honey.

They call me yellow too

but my skin is no honey

see-through when it runs

down the side of my mouth

no sun when he crowns

the sky, shining a toothy grin.

Maybe if I close my eyes

and my lids burn into rust

tomato orange, like logs on fire

maybe then, I am of the sun,

skin smoking, my flesh

fading under their eyes.

They look at me like the sun

too, half squinting, half

glaring, avoiding, unsure

of my alienness

my true power.

Some of us are more

of milk, freshly poured

of dry earth, thirsting for rain

of tree bark, each line

crackles a story

of tea in porcelain cups

of mud, bursting with life,

love, history

but never really, truly

yellow.

Sisters

I love that our bodies

work in harmony with the moon.

Maybe she feels our loneliness too.

Her tides tug and pull

our blood.

The earth is rich with our blood.

.

We have been dreamers, thinkers,

mothers, friends.

Explorers, believers, anarchists.

We have fought wars,

and started them.

Some of us have held life

in our bellies.

Our wombs have been pawns

in their political game.

Our hair, ankles, knees,

their distractions.

We have feasted on the cries

of men, their cruel words

our fuel.

.

And it’s true,

some of us are beaten

and broken,

some have died for being born

a woman,

but I’d rather our story

be one of survival,

a story against all odds,

one of phoenixes

shaking ashes from their wings,

of three billion sticks strong

held together by a single struggle,

of compassion that throbs

in our veins,

of healing and knowing that we

are all sisters of the moon.

.

I’d rather that

than a story of monsters.