As you sleep I track

The moon’s body. The way she drags

Her form, her knowledge across the sky, through constellation lines, and cloud formations.

She can not,

Sit still.

Predatory and protective, she detects

Our quivering, failed sleep, offers up an invitation of company, ready to form

Answers to questions

We’ve not yet dreamt of.

On hidden nights I miss you

There is a loneliness in sleep

That moves around our bodies

We lay in silence as you grow

And morph into your form.



Hyper Contorted

In your blue jumper

Senses sing

Outside in the sleet

Too much information

Is dark blue and imprints

On your thumb

Twisted stories

Act out

Moving from chair to

Chair they drag across your

Lips stick.

Inside rather

Than upside it’s not a black

Dog on a t-shirt

The swirls on the window

Fade you twist

Depending on the

Feeling of the hour. 


(From the forgotten drafts folder….)

Abnormal        wakefulness      white                forms               glide                 between

sleep                take                    one                  pill                   and                  crush

an                    opiate,                honey               diluted              takes               no

prisoners          lavender              drifts                you                  beyond             this

world                and                     the                   next.                A                     universe

sung                and                     died                 for.

Normal             sleep

dark                 shapelessness    solidified           in                     waking             hours,

refuse               the                     poison              caffeine            stimulants        that

flutter               eyelashes.          Free                 speech             who                  lives?

90                    to                       110                  REM                you                  sing

in                     tune                    out                   of                     pitch                voiceless

records             mouthless           do                    you                  believe              the

cycle                of                       a                      one                  !two                  !!three

!!!four                !!!!five                  (?)                    do                    you                  go

past                 go                      ,,,                    insomniac         poppy               red

Times change

This is the time for change
when the wind blows in from
the places you’ve dreamt of,
and even the trees
hold their breath
waiting for something to happen.

This is the time when the body stretches.
Air inhaled chills each branch
before being spat back out
in a cloud of hot dust.
A sigh is worth more comfort
than the white plumes promised.  

Leaves fill up the garden,
stopping water following,
and your mind wanders
to other times, when  
bitterness meant kicking up
the crimson and not the
long lost memories of
someone dear. When you
could trust the shift in
the clouds without a taste of
expectant anxiety.

This is the time, when
movement creeps in.
And as birds  we lye in wait for
spring’s frame to form,
foraging for hope
to chase away
the unease.

This is the time to be.

There’s a pier


And you’re waiting on it
Or at least I hope you are. Fear. Because the waves have covered the boards where we last stood, leaving dripping tors – mounds of you shaped clothes, on the steel frames, they’re rusted, the colour of your hair and if I muster up enough courage I might even glimpse over the edge, but you never said goodbye, one more time before you left, your arms opened wide, and the tide, the tide. and I’ll bide my time in case you return, on the ebb of the sea, just incase you return for me and then we’ll drip dry clothes, and you’ll come back to life and we’ll live, won’t we.

On a trajectory 

​Breath bounces from the
Edges and shatters on impact. 

How neat we start off in
Rows, small weeds 
That entwine before
Enacting their escape. 

But we wait patiently. 

Violent visions from the 
Lines building with exhalations
Until I catch you between my
Fingers; drawn in. 
Your trajectory is final. 
And every stop an

There is
No room for flawed
Aura torn around the edges. 
Neat rows, unruly
Surrender their thoughts. 

Nodding heads. Drift within the tunnels. 

Tomorrow we’ll do
It all again. 

Grey shells

She has fallen asleep
and woken in this
place where no body
knows. A place where
she acts, thinks and talks
on autopilot; to live anything
is to see the cogs
fall one by one from
the framework
and slowly the house
crumbles. It looks
like one of those half demolished
shells of a building,
the ones where you can see the
lives laid open, a grey
meat wound where the
blood has drained out
and even the piles of books,
discarded knives and spoons,
remain as strands
of a life once lived. But to
have occupied that space
for just two moments, would be
a breath of air. You don’t know
how cherished that is until
it’s turned upside down and left
on display for all to cast their
eyes away from.



Cards flipped over, tell a
story I don’t want to recognise
but at times I need. Corners
worn down, over and over
again, and I can’t help
but keep returning
to pose a question.

We pretend
we’re there for different reasons.
Sat on opposite sides of the table,
stale cigarettes staining
your fingertips
as you trace the outline my jaw
We are each of us, looking for answers.

I wouldn’t let you hold my
hand, wrap your legs.
But borrowed your
chain of command to
some place
I was told not to go
as a child. Before running away
giving over time as answer.
It was too much
to give up, give over.
Thinking escape would make a
difference, was my biggest draw.

Awakening. Truth.
Power. All laid out as
furtive promises.
Thumbed pathways, tested
and laid back gently
before they could be confirmed,
or bought into.

Reassurance, leading-drawing-withdrawal
converging at a
when life falters and we’re left
with ‘tell me’ on our fingertips;
thoughts crowding
under a haze
that we return to exhale
in order to breath.

A million miles

The curtain falling down
before the show’s begun
the mistaken step forward
has already been taken
when you should have remain seated.

Interrupted conversations
trickle into meaningless
consonants, bad poetry
tripping on your tongue
even though we wrote it out in full.

Your a million miles away from
the nearest
yellow, white, boarder, fragmented
solid and lite up
And you don’t even speak our language.

Curl over
we’ll borrow your
shell to the ground
shedding your skin
into a series of
sand dunes.
We’ll watch you while you sit there
licking the backs of
your hands
one hand, two fingers, three nails
four for a girl, five for silver
and then you can
come join us for dinner

The white wine will make you
feel hollow
the food is your story
and then it’s time to begin.
polish your plates and smile.
The rest of the night demands your

Standing. Moving. Going. 

There’s keys on the wooden table

Scratches that you moan about

Indenting their history of our

Comings,  goings,  panicked runs.

One of the cats rumbles. I can’t see

Which one.  But she knows what’s

Coming. Or so I like to pretend.

I would like to think something

Animate will take in a slight

Change in the air.

Fancy. Washing bubbles 

Stain the worktop

But I know it doesn’t matter.

I’ll remember standing here as

Voices hover over the fence.

It’s hard not to listen as words

Trout suckle at your ears.

My hair tangled in soap suds.

Doors close. Lights switch off.

One. Two.

I imagine it in darkness.

The bag hangs from my arm

The cars parked with tree dew swirls.

There’s a ticket.  A curtain. A step

In a direction that begins and ends