Deconstruction I want to slough off my body.Pluck out my crooked eyes, roll themLike pretty marbles to my children.I want to spit out my crooked teeth, store themIn a moss-lined wooden box.My hair will be blown away like dandelionsSnagged on holly for bird nests;My limbs left to melt in hollowsMy skin pressed between linen and
Hauntings Final call at the barOne of the last to leave,And this old bloke and meTalking about hauntings.Not rattling poltergeists,We saw all those off, early on.When you remember somethingYou wish hadn’t happened;A shame that comes upon youIn the dark, leaves you cringing – A cold something walking through youThat’s haunting.He drank his beer,His sorrow pooling
Lyra and Existentialism Bouncing off the kitchen tilesYour little, bare feet crave sensation.Disdainer of footwear – nothingWill cut you off from the earth,What you can learn from itThrough your toes.Everything new, you seize,So when I told you, me and your mummyUsed to make our tea like this, together,Years ago, before you were born, you stopped,Mid
