Sleeping box

Weird Poetry

Right after she was born

I had terrible claustrophobia.

It only lasted a few days but it was

Mental hell.

When night time fell,

That always made it worse.

I was afraid to fall asleep

But also afraid to not fall asleep.

Afraid to sleep, to not fall asleep…

The frustration of that birthed an unfamiliar terror

That made me want to sleep

And to not want to sleep

Both and neither

Ever and never again.

Because sleeping felt like being locked in a box.

Because not sleeping felt like being locked in a box.

Locked in a fucking shrinking stinking box

With tingles of muted light breathing in through the little corner spots of the box.

And it felt like it was getting smaller with every collapsing breath.

It’s been a while

But I’m still recovering from that dark dwarfing feeling,

And sometimes forget

That I am not (currently)






I fear

That part of me always will be.




*** Just breathe…. It’s behind you now…. It was 8 years… or 8 seconds… ago. ***

Girl Child

Weird Poetry

*** Many women candy coat or hide their real experiences with (in)fertility, pregnancy, labour and delivery, post-partum and breastfeeding… and the task of motherhood in general.

They smile through it all and stuff their sadness and heartache into a little box on a shelf, and they often stick themselves right in there as well. I am taking the box off of the shelf.

This is a little bit of my (our) own messy story with motherhood…***


I grew her from my bones, from the boiling marrow in my bones.

I grew her from the sponge, the hollow spaces and the bloody cells in my aching collapsing bones,

And from him,

She bloomed from spurts of pearl and sun and dragonfire.

She —

A jaunty little jester with a wreath of jonquils around her golden head.

I weaved her into being with fallen hair from my crown, and cupped hands of sunlight and dripping wet garnet from my weeping womb.

I held my hand there, between thighs of heartquivering gooseflesh, and let it pool until I felt a heartbeat

In my palm,

In my heart (and his),

In my weeping wounded womb,

Left ajar.

I stitched her together with bits of torn skin from my belly, a twisted umbilical cord, and an urgent sense of unconditional love ripe with complication, and an ache that wouldn’t leave my remnant scars and punctures… ever.

I pulled her into being when hands and hands and hands and hands disappeared inside of me to read her heart.

They were reading mine too,

And they could surely hear all of the beeps and boops, but they could never detect the deep deafening fissures yawning open in that pounding beating terrified little muscle —

The one in her chest, and the one in mine.

I shuddered her into this world before her body even graced the air. She arrived when black tar poured from my birth canal, and I felt her crying in my thirsty desert mouth;

Little gasps and whimpers and sputtering coughs tangled in my desiccated vocal chords, scratching up the back of my throat.

I conjured her voice from the caged quiet of my ribcage and resonant silent screams that fell from my pinched white-pressed lips as they pulled her

And everything else

Out of the swollen bruised bloody cavity in my belly. The girl child was extracted like some divine essence from the chasmic sore of


I built her from moons and moons and moons of fruitless nights and an almost-hopeless knowing she could never be erected from our beings and bodies.

I bathed her in the ocean under my skin, that seeped out through my tear-ducts and my salted honey kisses left upon her furrowed wee brow and her perfect flowerbud nose.

I fed her with milk and blood from my breasts as I balled my fists until they throbbed, knuckling through a tongue-tied twinge that made me rage so soundlessly against my malfunctioning


My breasts didn’t belong to me again until the milk ceased…; my body and my soul even stopped belonging to me as she tethered herself to my heart

And to his (to ours).

We made her from scratch;

We made her from sweat and tears and cries in the night hidden from leering eyes;

We made her from night after night after night;

We made her from love,

And that is all I felt when I saw her face…

After countless lifetimes,

After many years of sleeping womb,

After 60 hours of terror, exhaustion, bewildering confusion and paralyzed passivity.

Her face and little wrinkled body covered in my blood and insides, though not enough to erase all of the pain, was (still is) enough to let me rest and fall in love

Not only with her

But with me (us).




*** Ya had to brag about the 60 hours, eh? ***

*** Nothing to brag about. It was hell… and I trembled in the aftermath of literally being gutted and put back together again. I vanished that day. I un-vanish starting today. ***

friends… most are fairweather… few are eternal


*Warning: This is a prosaic purge. This is me naked in a brushfire. I share some painful memories but I want to release them and move on. If you are easily bothered by exposed vulnerability, perhaps skip this. I bleed profusely. Also note that I feel no pity for myself. I am who I am because of these experiences… and I wouldn’t change a thing.*


I recently read that losing a friend is one of the most underrated heartbreaks.

It is.

And it can hurt like hell.

Especially when special ones vanish.

Those are the ones for whom I hold out a candle in their dark to lead them back when they are feeling stronger.

If they decide to turn away, that’s their choice. Hopefully I can keep the candle burning if they ever turn back around.

But we all know that candles don’t burn forever… despite our best efforts.

A single tear can extinguish a flame.

Sometimes people are just done with you… and you have to accept it.

They were special to you, and you served a purpose to them… until you didn’t.

Those losses take a lion’s share of strength to overcome. Because it was always a one-way street… and you were driving the wrong fucking direction the whole time and didn’t even realize it until you crashed.

Losing friends can even be heartbreaking when you have to be the one to do the vanishing.

Mostly because you’re stuck with all of the memories and the cold leftover hurt.

I have had to do that.

More times than I have fingers and toes to count…

And hair follicles if you count walking away from the taint-stain that is social media,

Like Fakebook and Instagag.

•••Digression begins•••

That shit isn’t friendship;

It’s emotional manipulation and reality curation,

And I think those sites are nefarious;

Even the social aspects of WordPress are not without a sense of the sinister…

This I know from the low feelings I experience when scrolling through the feed and checking notifications… or a lack of them… and having the distinct feeling that I am getting skipped over somehow….

Is there a way to have a site without the stupid “Reader”? Anyone? How can I not get notifications for anything? I hate that stupid bell and that I can’t not check. I hate all the pinging and un-pinging.

It makes me feel physically ill… the stomach acid sloshing up and down my esophagus.

The shittiness of feeling socially rejected via technology…

Even if it is all in my head…

Even if it is all of my own projected wounding…

These sites create opportunties for us to hate ourselves.

I sometimes flirt with the idea of leaving WordPress for good and starting anew somewhere else with no likes and comments and motherfucking notifications… or lack thereof.

Sometimes I flirt with the idea of being the doorless Cathedral I poemed about a while back. It’s safer to keep myself to myself.

••• Digression ends ••

But I am luckily well-versed in rejection.

Been there, done that.

I don’t mean to sound self-victimizing but it’s just true.

Most friends I had in childhood and adolescence were fairweather or just plain shit at best. Isn’t that always the way though….

I admired these 3 girls back in grade 1. They allowed to me to attend an exclusive sleep-over party once. I felt like an unneeded appendage. The following Monday when I was hanging out with them… or trying to… they all turned around and shoved me, making me spill backward onto the hopscotch grid, and said that they didn’t hang out with losers and that I should get lost.

I did.

If they had told me to die, I probably would have done that too. But they didn’t have to;

A part of me withered like a cut flower that day anyway.

When I repeated grade 5 because I wasn’t smart enough to keep up, my classmates all moved on to grade 6 and forgot about me;

It was like I no longer existed.

Except some dick named Jermaine remembered me and called me dumb for failing (don’t worry… he repeated grade 7… so I wasn’t the only loser).

One person continued to be my friend… but after 20+ years of my giving of love and support paired with her taking of it, and her giving of tongue lashings and insults, and my taking of it, I said enough, and told her to lose my number for good.

I was fed lines of the break-up because I couldn’t do it myself.

Going back… I had made new friends in my second grade 5 class. One was mean and bitchy… and I was the only person she liked for some reason. She was ok to me… but cruel to others, especially boys and men. When we got older, she chewed them up and spat them out while I watched, saddened because I would never treat anyone who was interested in me like that. She used them while I pined.

Boys never noticed me. Unless it was to call me names… or ask about my hot friends. Maybe it was a blessing they never saw me standing there.

I walked away from her toxicity at the age of 23. And a guy we were both “best friends” with who only hung out with me to get to her. I loved him. And I was invisible to him. And it all hurt too much so I walked away from him as well.

He was stupid for letting me slip away. I was a really good friend… and she milked him dry and threw him out after she had had her fun. He went back for more time and again because of “love”. I realize now it was just pathetic. I stopped caring about his feelings after. I have no clue where he is now and I don’t care.

Another friend I made my second time around in grade 5 was a narcissist… well, she filled out beautifully into one.

It was like watching a rose unfurl and turn black from the poison of broken family, entitlement and Daddy issues. They always say hurt people hurt people; she was proof.

In high school, she went after all of the guys I liked… even dated one and made me tag along with them. He would ask me for advice on taming her wildness. I laughed and knew he was a goner. She was a man-eater (worse than the other chick I mentioned) and he was fast food.

Boys had a shorter shelf-life but she had extracted years and years out of me.

My parents warned me about these snakey girls and how they were bad for my health. But I didn’t believe it until I was respectively disposed of after I had fulfilled my purpose or until my supply ran out, and humiliated in front of a large group of mutual friends for thinking I was someone different than what she permitted me to be.

I didn’t understand why I attracted asshole “friends” most of my life until I learned about the empath/narcissist dynamic… and I felt the acid sloshing again mixed with a modicum of relief and a tonne of shame.

It think it is the utter humiliation of no-self-worth that burns more than the stomach acid. I’m just too sensitive. Always have been. And the waves of shame-singed spew in my belly and chest confirm it.

I made my truest friends when I had just enough self-respect to kick the others out. They appeared at a time when I was getting ready to maybe think I was worth a little more than what I was accepting.

They are still around and will be forever. They know me better than anyone, and they love me better than anyone.

I would slay dragons and evildoers for them. And they would do the same for me.

There are 3. Truly. And my husband. Just about everyone else is either an acquaintance, a colleague, a family member I am either avoiding or estranged from, or a fair weather friend who is starting to fade into the edges from whence they came.

New friendships are almost impossible to make and maintain. I have tried but there is always something that doesn’t quite feel right. I have too many irreconcilable facets that if I showed them all to everyone in my life, most people would run for the hills.

Truthfully, I can’t handle too many people anymore. My high sensitivity demands inordinate amounts of alone time to feel alive and connected and energized, and often I choose it over people.

I have met less than a handful of people on the internets that I consider safe to be true friends that could stand the test of time… if I let them. Many people who have passed through have been great, but I have to be selective about who I let in.

I grow gardens now rather than cut them down.

For those who have come and gone, I wish you well. Thanks for teaching me something about myself. Hope I did the same for you but it’s ok if I didn’t. Your lessons are your task, not mine.

I guess as long as I have my perfectly pruned, iron gate enclosed circle of love all around me, I don’t ever have to worry about being on the outside again.

And if I ever do find myself on the outside, then I should be my own best friend, right?

But something tells me I should have started doing that back in grade 1.

Better late than never to start trying now though.




*** Sweetheart, what’d I say about the Rolaids? Don’t you remember the Rolaids? ***

*** The acid will stop splashing up into my throat like a current of self-hate when I can finally be all that I need. ***

*** Yeah, that. And some fucking Rolaids. ***

Sea Foam

Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

Her voice belonged to the waves;

It always had.

When she opened her mouth,

To lick her salt-crystal lips

With a tongue of glimmering scales,

Sea foam poured out of her,

Along with parts of forgotten songs

And little bits of forbidden rhyme.

When she was a child

She would hold her breathe for as long as she could,

And behold the refracted light of the sun

From beneath the water’s skin.

She would watch the blue sky of the dry world above

Undulate and shimmer

As if there were nothing there at all to separate this watery space

From the parched everyday world,

As if it all existed as one beneath the moon-possessed ebbing and flowing

Of the tides.

She would sing a song every time a cloud passed by,

But she always left it behind,

On the sea floor amid the fish skeletons and shark teeth.

Deep under the water that night,

She reached up to pluck from the sky,

The hottest, farthest star she could find,

And nestled it into her sea anemone heart.

She let it pulsate there,

Sensing herself expand from that single point inside,

And could feel her skin pock like the surface of sun-bleached coral

As the white-hot light from that star pushed through the porous surface of her body

And through the fluttering gills of her throat.

Her voice poured out of her once more,

And it belonged to the waves

And the shadow-drenched sea floor.




Burnt Pages

Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

She kneels before me,

Silent as smoldering coal,

Burning pages off of my body,

And tearing away line after line of me,

Like I am nothing–

And have only been nothing–

But recycled paper.

My edges curl and ash

As barbed fire tongues lick at and devour my insides

On the outside of me.

The flames melting away

Layer after layer of carnival masquerade

And clown paint

And harlequin drollery

And the vast towers jutting from my skin cells

Built by the great architects of falsity

And fear.

All of it slides down my slippery shadow silhouette

And pools at our knees

Which are almost touching.

That dark blankness where once I lived

Is all that is left of me

After her burning

And her pulling apart of my epidermal fortress,

And the sloughing off,

The crumbling,

The spiriting away

Of decades

And entire lifetimes.




Erotic Poetry

I don’t like to show the whole;

So I show the fragments instead.

I control the angle,

The body part(s) on display,

The composition,

The filter… if I use one at all–

And I might,

If my insecurity is showing.

I have days,

Too many to count,

When I hate myself wholeheartedly…

Every hair…

Every blemish…

Every roll…

Every stretchmark…

Every fucking centimetre…

And I feel that it would be better

If I actually were only the fragments I choose to show,

Rather than the disappointing whole.

It’s just as well–

I can never quite capture the all of me anyway

She is elusive and blurry,

And doesn’t stand still

Long enough to be caught.

Self-love is a constant struggle of Sisyphus… pushing that motherfucking dung ball up a hill, then, after my hands and feet lose purchase, watching it roll the fuck back down… again….

Will I ever feel good enough for me?


I will.

And it will continue to be a battle.

If it weren’t, there would be

No lessons

And no growth.

So I bear the shards of the pain and pleasure of self-actualization

In equal measure.

With grinding teeth

And gasping breaths

And tears that brand my cheeks

In bloody streaks,

I bear the fragments

And the whole of me.


Stars in My Eyes

Weird Poetry

You are the blazing stars in my eyes,

And your constellations stick like gauze to my eyelashes.

You seem to be countless many lightyears out of touch sometimes,

But you are right here,

In me,

In the two heaven-stained windows

That you look both into and out of.

Your supernovas blind and char me from the inside,

For you are much closer at hand;

You are caught in the universes of my eyes,

And you orbit my wandering wayless soul.

When I gaze upwards,

I see what can be found between the spokes of my sky-kissed irises,

And in the perpetual expansion and contraction of my black hole pupils,

Which are hungry for your light.

You are never far away,

Never separate,

You are inside of me,

Galaxies spiraling at the centre of the lucent orbs

Through which I see All of You in All of Me

No matter where I look.


Under the Pressure

Erotic Poetry

Coiled lightning bolts;

Crushed thunder claps;

Inverse volcanic ejaculation;

Crossed hurricane eyes;

All beneath my quivering percussive drum-tight skin.

With collapsed lungs and stolen breath,

Choking on lament and eternal shade,

I am writhing and grabbing

And clawing and squeezing

The errant parts and pieces

That refuse to stay coiled and crushed and compressed.

Things are collapsing and expanding,

And the skin stretched over my heart is crazing and cracking

Under the pressure.



Writing Erotica…?


I have been thinking that I need to try something different. I have always been a bit of a creative writer. But I have not written a short story in a good year and a half. I ran out of ideas that titillated me sufficiently to focus and maintain my attention on that particular endeavour.

But I feel the need to express my expanding inner desires in a creative way. I often feel like I am bursting at the seams, hypomanically creative, overflowing and exploding with fruit flavour. To channel and temper this brand of expression would be wise… and it might yield something interesting.

People have told me that erotica is a great way to explore one’s fantasies, fetishes, kinks, limits, etc…. It sounds like something I would greatly benefit from as I spend a lot of time in my internal sandbox… it might be fun to externalize a bit of it, and see what form it takes in writing.

I don’t want to commit to full stories. Maybe one day. But for now I am thinking the micro format. Like vignettes 250 words or less. It sounds like a fun challenge, and I am curious to see what comes out of me… and what I have the guts to share with all of you (included in YOU are my partner and a few very close intimate friends from my irl life… so I am a little nervous).

It will be all fiction. If anything is inspired by real events or conversations from my life, I will neither confirm nor deny.

Anyway, this idea has been bouncing around in my skull for a few weeks, and I think I want to give it a go.

Also completely unrelated to writing but related to creative output, I plan on taking up drawing again. But with no goal in mind other than just another way to channel my energies and hone a skill.

I am excited!

Thanks for your continued support.



Weird Poetry

I am afraid of first days.

I am afraid of the unknown.

I am afraid of taking charge.

I am afraid of gaining weight.

I am afraid of grey hair growing out of my head.

I am afraid of this world going to shit.

I am afraid for my offspring’s future.

I am afraid of being late.

I am afraid of being pressed for time.

I am afraid of running out of time.

I am afraid of missing out.

I am afraid of people.

I am afraid of violence.

I am afraid of speaking my mind.

I am afraid of confrontation.

I am afraid of falling out of favour.

I am afraid of failing to please.

I am afraid of the staffroom.

I am afraid of most social situations.

I am afraid of junebugs.

I am afraid of driving.

I am afraid of letting go.

I am afraid of losing myself.

I am afraid of losing people I love.

I am afraid of intense pleasure.

I am afraid of being exposed.

I am afraid of not being seen.

I am afraid of being myself.

I am afraid of more things but it appears I am pressed for time.

I am tired of being afraid of so much bullshit. Fuck, it’s exhausting.

I’ll be fine. Just having a moment…. Oddly, taking my clothes off helps with the anxiety.




The season is changing.

It started after the last solstice,

Unbeknownst to most.

The air is turning faster now,

And the leaves are too.

Better catch yourself some sun,

Bask in his rays,

Let his fingers stroke your back,

Cover you in delicate licks and laps from the blue-painted heavens,

Before he takes his slumber.

It’s sooner than you think.

Take the sun,

And let him take you.

Event Horizon


When I looked up

All I saw was the event horizon

And the last blink of white light

That ever existed.

Then all was dark.

Then I was alone.

A solipsist,

Engulfed in a miasma of forgetting,

Without a single soul in sight.

That was the fleeting moment in which I forgot

Every colour I ever knew.

But just because light cannot escape

A black hole

Does not mean it ceases

To exist

Within it.




In the midst of metamorphosis

She encountered a stone

That intended to pull her deep down,

Beneath the ocean floor,

Lying dormant under the waves.

Black strings of sting and hell spit

Fusing darkened rock to shimmering wing.

But this butterfly was made for wind and altitude,

Not unfathomable depths.

There is no stone heavy enough

To drown what was never meant to touch the water.


Eight of Pentacles


It is time for a tarot card pull from my very dirty Decameron deck.

The Eight of Pentacles is all about dedicated effort, apprenticeship, self-mastery, repetitive tasks and skill-development.

The pentacles suit represents our material reality – family, work, career/vocation, financial matters, so I know that this card is drawing my attention to my every day 3-D life.

The first thing that comes to mind is art. This card urges me to continue working hard on my craft, to listen to guidance, to dedicate effort to my creative projects and go for it… like the super hot couple featured on the card. Sometimes my efforts may feel repetitive but like the old adage says, “Practice makes perfect”. This is very true. The more you do it, the better you get.

The same can be said for blow-jobs.

Can I also take this card as a suggestion to try that position as soon as humanly possible? He looks pretty dedicated to the effort of her impending orgasm. Mmm….

But I digress….naturally.

Deck: Decameron Tarot (artwork by Giacinto Gaudenzi)


The Magician


As a student of the way of the tarot, I tend to pull cards whenever I am called to do so. I can go weeks without touching them, then the messages flood in to get such and such a deck for a transmission from another dimension… basically.

Due to the fear I have been dealing with inside of myself as of late due to my current vocational circumstances, I needed my Rider-Waite deck for guidance… or rather, it needed me to receive its message for today. I pulled two Major Arcana which is highly auspicious… major messages that I must take seriously.

This is the poem the cards inspired…

The Devil came out first…

In reverse.

It urges me to take my power back from those who aim to possess it,

Whether it is their intention

Or not;

To unshackle my mind and soul

From the will of another to dominate it.

I am not the slave of Fear and Dread.

I am the Magician,

Holding all that I need

To stand in my Light and my Power,

Above and Below,

To never back down or cower in submission.

I am the Magician,

And I have a motherfucking sharp sword.

Thank the Mysteries it’s Friday….