Month: November 2015

A dish best served hot

I offered you my heart on a plate
Hot, heavy…heaving
Sizzling full of passion
Yet you refused

It was too much for you
Too rich
Too raw

You just didn’t have the stomach

But with time passing you feel the urge
to re-evaluate
Crave the flesh of desire
Ponder your transformed taste buds
Regret not sinking your teeth into the unknown

So I offer you my heart
Tepid, tired…temperamental
Congealed in place

I wince as you lift the knife

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The Unspoken

Ginni bites!

We sit – in silence

It stands between us like a wall of ice,

muffling our low clicking sounds.

It has always been there

That soft, sultry notion of nothingness

It has always been curled around us

watching us go about our days.

Yet it was never visible before,

This silence which squeezes itself into our world

It was never so clear, to the eye,

to the ear.

Never before had it announced it’s presence

so loud.

And now as I breathe in our life

I hear the silence.

It pursues me with bells,

Lights a beacon under my chair,

Forms an exclamation mark in my mind.

I am deafened by the lack of sound.

Yet opening my throat to speak

only produces a soft click …. click

and so is the music of our subsistence.

But turning, I see your smile

glowing in satisfaction.

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Seaman’s Ditty

Sea chantey of eight pieces

A flagon full of rum

Twenty-four old pirates

Huddled in a slum

Yet when the dawn was breaking

And sails began to sing

They raised the Jolly Roger

And plundered everything


To be a real writer

A real writer bleeds onto the page.

That’s what they said.

A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .

Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.

Only then shall I feel like a writer.

For My Love

In the secret depths of despair
That’s where you’ll find my love

To wade past the coy lily pads
Knee deep in petals of pinks and lilac
Pushing aside creepers of lust
Avoiding the fluttering kisses of wings
That alight your skin
Sending tingles of promise
Of romance
Of lies

For you to swim
in the deep waters of my soul
Ignoring the skittering surface
Brushing away the algae
Diving down
Head first
Under the thick azure waters
To grasp at the kelp
On the floors of my heart

When you are strong enough
To part the jagged coral
Slip your fingers into the crevice
Of my blemished shell
And prise open the lips
To get to the pearl,
unbeknownst of its purity
Feeling your oxygen drain from your throat
Burning to reach the jewel
Which you only hope exists

Only when you can breath within despair
Will you know me, my love.