Dead Eyed Boys

I collect them dead eyed boys,
Them ones whose words are all just noise;
Them boys all gloss & spite & shine,
Them boys whose hearts just won’t be mine.
‘Cause I know all them dead eyed woes,
Them dead ends where forever goes;
The dead eyed boys that I collect
Think I’m the weak one they select;
Oh pretty, flitty dead eyed boys
The truth’s a lie wrapped up in choice.
My heart was buried years ago,
Pain’s all the kiss I’ll ever know;
So bat your eyes my wild new pet
& I’ll pretend that I forget
The first dead eyes I ever saw
That left me always wanting more;
We’ll act as though this could be real
& I’ll reach inside to try & feel
& when it ends and you fall short,
& I don’t fall just as you thought
I’ll wish you well & move along
My pretty boys all dead & strong;
My dead eyed boys I need you so;
To let me in & let me go.



This blue sky it kisses me soft as a memory
Warms these driftwood bones
Like a lover might have once
Upon a heart ago,
A once more in the dark ago;
A pray for a new start ago,
The sun knows all I ever did
& ever will
Or ever might
She whispers on those summer days
That time is a trick not a lie
Don’t fall for it.
The world is already dead
We are warmed by it’s pyre.



My face burns

with the memory of your rejection;

& then I look up,

the sky is on fire,

& I think,

I’m a survivor of all that’s ever happened


this week

this year

all my years

yes even those;

I’m the result of survivors

a whole legion of them;

fighters every one,

right from day dot

on this planet;

before it was a speck

in this galaxy;

a thought

in the universe;

& this is my reward.

I earned it

& I’m going to earn more

with or without you

I’m gonna be fine;

the sky is on fire

& so am I.


Hunting Rapture


Hunting Rapture

Rapture remains elusive, and Natalia shakes off the disappointment; she is still earthbound in the aftermath. Warm in body and cold in heart. Natalia waits till he falls asleep, then quietly departs, before the sun rises and his body is too tempting to leave in the dark. She pockets the cash from the side, and ignores the doorman as she exits the polished foyer. Her heels rat tat tat on the cobbles of the private cul de sac and she squeezes her coat tighter about her, fat snow flakes starting to fall. Somewhere a siren wails, and her eyes scan the skies. It smells like burning rubber and snow. London is glowing softly by firelight in the distance and it makes her heart ache. London has been dark for such a long time now. She misses the lights, and wonders if she will ever heal enough that she would see them from above one day. The lights will return. London is a survivor like her.

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A ball of blazing fire

A shard of broken glass;

All hate and spite and fury

All laughter, smiles and sass.

So big and wild and crazy

So scared, unsure and lost,

You never took the safe route

You never worried at the cost.

Unkind, unforgiving , unruly

Understanding, unfettered, unchained;

You saw both good and bad in me

You loved me just the same.

It seems the world is grey now

It makes me want to scream it,

I want to grab each person

I want to know why they can’t feel it.

A life is lost forever

A life that pulsed and throbbed

I am empty vacant broken

I am shattered by my loss.

All that spirit, grace and beauty

All that anger, hurt and pain

How can you just be no more

How can I ever feel again?

Inside I am a vacant space

Inside I know you’re gone;

I want to let the whole world know

That you were loved, and love lives on.

The Lady Wore a Shawl

This short story was published in New Fairytales, Issue 5 .


“Is that her?”

“Is she here?”

“Did it work?”

A chorus of questions fill the dank air, as she glides through the streets; touching walls, smearing glass, humming softly. Children rush out of the darkness, a sense of celebration filling the eerie quiet as they clutch at her dress and skip around her as she moves.

“Is it you?”

“It is you!”

“You came I knew you would!”

Their words echo about the ruins, splashing into puddles and bouncing off  the rusty  husks of abandoned cars. Small bare feet sidestep rubbish and spent shell casings with practised ease. The children are moths to a flame, pride and excitement lighting their eyes and puffing out skinny chests. They smell like sweat and fear turned sour, but the city smells of rot and damp, the scent of death is sickly and taints everything.

She remains silent, and wariness creeps in, the current of jubilation deadened by her cool stare. Quiet surrounds her and flattens the city where she treads. Her shawl clings to thin shoulders, and the jade satin gleams and winks as she passes.

The children scatter from her skirts then and hover behind corners, watching as the woman floats above the mud and debris, down streets once busy with traffic and noise and life. Now the alleyways are stained with the memory of the flood, holding secrets much darker than illicit kisses bought and paid for. Disease festers in the ruins, reaching beyond the tumbled walls and shattered glass to curse the survivors two times over. The visitor appears untouched by the decay of the city, and the children grip slimy brickwork, craning dirty necks to catch a better look as she wafts on by.

“I think it worked,” a blonde boy whispers, his eager bright eyes following her passage reverently. “We did it.”

“She don’t look much,” another grumbles, chewing a torn thumb nail nervously. “You should ask her.”

The blonde boy shakes his head, but the others crowd about him, nodding and pushing him on.

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