Cotton Candy Machine

The cotton candy machine is out of control.
Sugar, cycloning from the epicentre
And now we are breathing bright dust.

The worst is this: I can’t see where you are.
You are dark scribbles on the pink cloud
A crayon drawing – disintegrating.

But maybe I pick this apart with thin sticks,
Twirling together a thread that leads
From Point A to Point B,
To your hand along the way.


A lumbering predator
Cornered by prey
In a dark room
Lined with wire.

Stone feet pick between
Spindle-sharded grass;
The appetite dulls, I say:
I’m not hungry.

Hysterical rabbits
Spin flustered clouds
Of babbling acids
In moisture-muddled air.

Pinwheels of red
Darting in darkness;
Their wild whizzing fears
Frighten them dead –

They are still screaming
Long after I leave.

IV – Metamorphosizing

My hands are stained
The colour of butterfly peas
And butterfly wings
Iridescence on onyx
And the blue sapphires like eyes
Peering from between pale creases.

Did you think otherwise? I’m sorry
Apologies make people uncomfortable
Like the irises of a painting
Palms open containing evidence
Of all the insects I’ve crushed
Between these unwrinkled fingers.

The colour of death is blotched
Bruises grape-like growing on the exoskeleton
But you live in a world of fenced-off forests:
Your hands stain
The colour of my dead butterflies
Fingers pinching, constricting things to dust –

You know what I mean? No
Other person can understand what either of us
Hides inside our fists
But I understand
That my hands are stained
That you have stained them
For good.

A Picture

Glass keeps the mould out
Where my family sits, and I
Not quite yet myself
In the off-white dress.

My cousins smile,
Their parents all are smiling
Grandparents are, too,
With a boy cocooned in the centre,
Feet dangling off the ground.

Many ghosts linger
From a pale and mouldless past
A picture tells a thousand words
But which ones, which ones?

Earth and Sky

I wanted to grasp
hints of the sunshine
behind blue-stained glass;
my fingers closed on dead clouds
which lingered, though the sun died.

You stood on the bridge,
my love, hands spread to the sky
so needlessly.
My hands kissed the earthen cliff;
my fingers rooted in soil.

I Study Every Woman

I study other women like I study books
With a magnifying glass for between the lines
With suspicion for the quickest furtive looks.

With a magnifying glass for between the lines
If or when she contradicts herself
And her trail of words for citation pines.

With suspicion for the quickest furtive looks
See if those ones grow drunk on adulation
And glue it fast with lonely love like crooks.

A band of thieves, a cave of sneaking mooks
I play this game of chasing sighing doubts;
I study other women like I study books.
I study every woman like I study books.

What You Want

You want stained glass,
the seeing and recreating lens.
You want a window
to filter out the fibrous otherness
various and vibrant in the garden.
Your garden wants to be seen
by naked eyes, acknowledged,
given light by its own right

inside the hues you want.

The Windows are Open

Walking on the edge of a sunbeam, waiting.
Someone else must notice how the windows are wide open.
On this side of sunrise, someone should see, else
sense the sultry spatter of the daylight coming in.

I’m so very sorry that I knew you, but
Dreary are your messes, they won’t seep through shutters here.
They pile outside, weary and ignored;
You were never sorry for anything but you.

Waiting on the edge of a bright ray, I watch
Huddled crowds of dust, passing like storm clouds
Muddled, tucked away by the sunlight in the attic.

Someone soon will notice
how high up we really are.

Hiding blue skies

Your name was plastered
all over, hiding blue skies
like hiding a wound
or a missed spot in cleaning,
clotting and cloying in white.

You were blotting out
the clouds with your sea blue ink;
they lit my window,
sweetened the drab view outside,
shrouding my depth perception.