a photograph

there are two pairs of green eyes
staring at me,
one pair of bodies twisted
like tree branches,
a misted memory
that I covered in clouds
of smoke
from my own lips,
but a cold sea breeze
has seized
me –
and now the smoke only stings my eyes
and causes tears
to water my poetry,
one of my fears have come true,
despite everything
I thought I outgrew you,
but in truth
we were two saplings that needed
each other’s petals,
to map out our hearts
and to soothe our heads,
now I am left with
a body full of sand
a weakened hand
and unable to stand,

holding a photograph.


bruised leaf

knotted rope wound around her hips
Morphing into ivy vines,
sewing shut her rose-tinted lips
Her brain fusing into another’s mind,
The plants tighten their grip
leaving grass-stained handprints,
stamped into her bark.
leaving hints
of overgrown moss on old windowsills
that were swept off by your wings
and replaced with daffodils
next to
two silver rings
wrapped in an endless knot,
by my ankle
the rivers feel warm,
but not refreshing
and the pressure is compressing
on my lungs
the birds warn me,
of the loss found buried in the compost

that is yet to come.


[written in devon a few months ago when driving from cornwall to bath]

You lie under warm cover
with stars exploding in your eyes,
enchanted by Her, the Mother,
heart hooked by a tangle of lies,
he greedily widens your green spheres
restless: Alive and worrying of past years.

shape my name with your lips
as your hands remember my hips,
thirty-two perfect pearls encased
around a pulse that I miss.
cheeks flush with the warmth of her breath
a tongue that can move mountains
until you have nothing left.

you lie under warm cover,
with stars exploding in your eyes
enchanted by Her, the Mother,
heart hooked by a tangle of lies
you lie awake at night like the flowing streams
Because your dancing,
in his dreams.


I roll over and hold him
and witness his eyes
with no disguise.

An ocean
captured in a bottle.
A little lost sailor at sea
Curse the cruise ship that sails,
across the blank horizons
The ship has fell

_ a Lillie blooms on the hillside but with a breath
she slips into the boundless

gin brain

polarise my membrane
I can’t complai—-n
sensitise my






via an action potential

axon membrane depolarises membrane
or my brain?

NA+ and Cl-

that name
I can remember that name,
like a science equation
an invasion of sensation
on the
of my tongue.


wooded wanderer so willing to wander through the woods, brown bark blooming with bountiful beds of moss, vermillion green luscious and unseen to those who do not wish to wander as freely as the wooded wanderer wandering through the woods.



‘I’ll have one IPA’ I say,
‘Have a sip first, love’ he replies
with a blush of red, I obey
and my happiness multiplies,
judging me, he classifies
and magnifies the fact I am a girl,
who likes beer, a simple blonde-curl.
as the sweet nectar touches my lips
whilst my hands fall to my hips.
‘I’ll have two IPAs’ I say,
but the barman with a frown shouts,
‘But Madame, it’s only a Tuesday?
Are you sure you should be drinking on a weekday?’
The fact that he doubts,
Myself and my whereabouts
With his silly, little and sexist pout,
‘Well then’ I say,
‘ll have ten stouts!
‘one IPA, and please,
pour them right away!’

He stands shocked at the sight
Of a little lady,
Building up her appetite
Holding her own might, he can’t disagree
Absorbing the light golden
Liquid lifted by bubbles, oh bumblebee
Me, wait, I’ll ask, another beer or ten,
‘Sorry for your troubles,
I’ll just have one IPA’ I say
Then I’ll certainly be on my way.

And she dances out of the pub door,
Asking for nothing more
Then the bubbles in her heart on this day.

atropa belladonna

dancing down to the end of your garden, an unusual plant
grows by your toes. cautious but curious
you notice the small and maybe injurious berries that
make you smile, as they ripen in style, dilating your pupils
as you commit to the berry and it’s sweetness,
but you were unwary of the deepness
and the side-effects in the complex
of the atropa belladonna berries.

the bells of the belladonna swing and ring in the sunlight
as the bell blooms into bountiful, beautiful berries that
a poison

bitter to the tongue
and destroyer of the young love
that you so thought you found,
growing rapidly out of the ground.


the infusion of confusion and exclusion
as the juice bursts and runs off of your lips
blood red
mudded mind
wilted head,
yet still intertwined

atropa belladonna has captured your brain
and will make you go insane
because you’ll never, ever,
be able to forget that name.

Under the Skin

As many of you already know  (I go on about it enough!) that I am a sufferer of bad eczema which has the annoying ability to really scrape away at one’s soul. So for all who have skin conditions or even any type of illness’ whether it be emotional or bodily, here’s to you lot. Nobody can really understand what it is like to be the fourteen-year-old smothering herself in makeup because of her acne, or the eighteen-year-old young man who only wears long-sleeved shirts to cover up the blotches on his skin. True, there are so many variations of terminal illness that is so awful and incomparable – but it doesn’t have to be life-threatening to threaten life. Keep your chin up, honey.

last night I woke up with blood dripping down my arm
it was 3 am and in alarm, i jumped out of my bed
and fell onto my floor, hitting my head
I yelled out in frustration
because of the infection that I have on my skin
ezcema, also known as the devil’s grin
the itchiest scratch irritating MY one protective layer
an autoimmune disease that is the slayer
of fourteen-year-olds with red patches on their rosy cheeks.
eczema, the voice whispering to you that you’re a ‘freak’
and you try to seek the trigger
but the itch only grows bigger
while the sparkle in your iris drowns
in the tears of self-destruction.

however, my loves, self-destruction
can be reframed as construction
when you decide to love yourself
for yourself, for your heart’s health
because he’s not worth it. she’s not worth it.
but you are worthy enough to admit
that life is tough and your skin is rough
compared to the model in the magazines
and that girl in the blue jeans
and that man in the limousine
and the libertines who appear to have so much
but my little one, that’s not true as
no one can understand every single war
that each individual soldier swore
not to talk about.
hushed by shouting societies
that interrupt your cries of anxieties
society: an artificial construction
that we’ve constructed to consume
our souls and doom our children of the stars.
we may as well put our hearts in jars
and forget about nature and relive our scars.

my skin is here to hold me together
and yes, it hurts, man does it hurt
but I am going to stand up in the stormy weather
and wear that pretty skirt
that reveals my red, itchy legs because
it does not matter what sex
you are or you attract, for a matter of fact
please don’t hide those beautiful eyes
because you feel ugly.
there are thousands of people, roughly
who have illness’ like eczema, acne
psoriasis, exactly – so let us smile
and let go of the palm that you cling to
and shift your focus on the way
you’re a genius of wordplay
a brilliant maker of souffle
a potential writer of a great play
or even the way you can crochet
the fabrics of your being
into guaranteeing
that you are allowed to love yourself,
so little one, please
love yourself.
Draw on the walls of your existence
with bright colours
filling the distance between you
and the melody of the violin.

let the light in
let the love in
and please,
stop scratching away at your beautiful skin.



melody mirage of rouge buttercup 
notes like honey
collected by the bumble-bees
that survive
drinking delicious nectar
cupped in warm palms and
yellow petals
smile like sunbeams 
a cold cobalt stream rushing
and running through veins
like an ice lolly on a summers day
or that first sip of coffee from your favourite cafe,
two planets orbiting
singing to the stars
in such a sweet, sweet melody
mirage of rouge buttercup
elderflower flavoured cigars,
Nature waking her up,
saplings stretching their arms
to take pleasure

in this instant
a small fragment; no longer distant
peeling away the satsuma’s skin
sipping on tonic and gin,
to reveal the segment of
behind the strings of the violin
daffodils and daydreams;
flowering in the seams
of your ripped white t-shirt.