I hope to sit with you one day,

in a content sort of way.

Sometimes thing are okay and sometimes they’re not,

But I’d love to have you as a constant, even though you can’t be constant,

Because one day, after you’ve become my constant, my comfort, you’ll die, or I will,

And the other will be left in a constant state of grief and loss, which will in some way ease but never go.


This is the first thing that comes to mind:

that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.

This is the second thing that comes to mind:

the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.

This the the third thing that comes to mind:

my poor little dead bird in the soil.

This is the forth:

I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.

Said the tree to me

“Take out my heart”

Said the tree to me

“Take the sword to it”

“Slash it, let me die happily”

“Only, don’t use the fire, because

In the flames, I see my spirit die,

I feel bitter fear of the livid heat

And I know I’ll be consumed so fully

That I’ll have no chance for peace.”

“Don’t let me live on as a totem

For someone else’s hopeful dreams

As I stand in painful stasis.”

In the depths

Down in the depths where the man floats, you know, the man –

The man that we see. With the suit on. And that thing round his legs.

Well, down in the depths where the man floats,

The crabs sing and the fish nibble at his skin and it comes off in clumps like hair in the shower plug.

It really is a lovely environment to raise a shoal, plenty of plant life, plenty of air, just a shame he couldn’t extract it – could have made a nice life for himself down here in the depths, got a nice wife, couple of friends, some anemones.