Your fingers are the lingering sparks of ash.
Drifting and lethal,
but everything I touch
would glow with the memory of your scorchmarks.

Hold my hand.
Hold my hand and watch us fragment .



For Ben

The ungloved parts of my hands are cold.
The adventure playground clings to Tarmac;
it is dark. We can’t see the tips of our toes as we swing.
You have too many fingers for the monkey bars.

Fifteen minutes ago.
Past the middle-class postage-stamp estate which holds most of us.
Our friends chase the coloured blooms back
to the chemicals that made them.
You say it’s poetic.
I like the way the ash lingers;
the way the grass flames like a city under siege.

A child as high as our empty hands
stands, cupping each explosion with the o of his mouth.
To him, they are still just fireworks.

Who’s idea was the park?
We, old enough to know that skin
sticks to slide; perhaps we have exams tomorrow.
The LED screams of your phone screen find no listeners in this blackness.
Gaudy primary colours, chipped,
revealing rusty bars.

The horizon is a mauve bruise
behind the red metal fence.

We would annotate those fireworks.
Stack them into equations;
solve them so that they explode
with no remainders.

A gold plume ruptures the night.
Forks into paths like a bird’s foot.
It is your metaphor for how we will leave,
separate, carving lives through the clouds.

It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
But look, you say,
how they sparkle when they leave.


I like smoking at parties now

My fingers are dusty with ink
from packing sentences into paragraph packing crates
so I can leave out of the front door one day;

You are telling me you’ve found a new way to kill you.

You shared a lighter with the boy
who put me out with tepid water,
who would have kept my bones as keepsakes.
His lips, your lungs,
my wings.

I have passed from breath to breath
until I was ash caught in the mercy of the wind.
I am not smoke. I fly free from his lips and your lungs.

Smoke your cigarettes.


I appall the word exercise. Shouldn’t it be training? As in training for the forces of life as we get older and age?

I stopped doing run-in-place cardio because I realized how silly it is. I focus primarily on lifting and boxing now, and for the first time in six years I have abs showing! I used to be scared to lift any weights a few years ago because I thought I’d get bulky and unattractive, but this is how I see it: if guys, with infinitely more testosterone in their bodies than me, struggle to bulk and significantly put on muscle, then how should I expect to? It’s purely logic! That was my eureka moment!

Now I feel that my discipline is impregnable. And my ass looks even better from all the squatting and lunges.

So true!

So true!


I’m a happy camper.

Polo Red by Ralph Lauren Review!

I don’t mind that this fragrance is getting all these BAD REVIEWS. Wanna know why? Body chemistry, dearie…simple as that. Although I will agree that this scent gave me a case of deja-eau (I’ve experienced this fancy smellin’ water before somewhere), I’m enjoying the fact that on me, it transforms itself into something that doesn’t smell ANYTHING like all those generic fragrances out there.

Although I am female, I make my own rules when it comes to pleasures, so even though Polo Red was intended for males, I read about this fragrance’s ingredients and they seemed to beckon my attention. The color of the bottle pleased me as well so it seemed only natural I give it a try. Now, I wouldn’t consider this a very masculine scent but I wouldn’t call it feminine either. It reminded me a little of Jil Sander’s Feeling Man but not as complex and less sensual and also, of the old Polo Sport but not as vivid or aquatic. Which speaking of aquatic, I don’t sense any “heat” coming from this fragrance too, it seems “almost” aquatic. Hm, let me get a few more sniffs from my wrists so I can take a moment to be more clear about my review, k?

-35 min later-

Polo Red…
if there is anything I’ve enjoyed from Ralph Lauren’s fragrance lines is that he has a way of releasing really good fragrances for the athletic, outdoorsy types. I personally wouldn’t wear this for a romantic dinner, nor the office. But, I would use to keep me happily burning along at the gym or when I feel particularly more dominant than usual when out and about.

On my body chemistry, there is no coffee bean scent whatsoever and I even noticed some ubiquitous note that reminded me of dragon’s blood incense. The fresh and invigorating scent of red grapefruit combined with the warmth of amber, the clean and soothing qualities of lavender, and list of other ingredients I’m sure they kept to themselves highly pleased my senses. So yes, I shall enjoy it while it is on the shelves.

The sillage is excellent but the one major disappointment for me about this fragrance was the longevity, a pitiful 2 hours. So if I can’t get my hands on a full size vintage Jil Sander Feeling Man, I’ll shoot for this lovely scent instead.

My Experience With Christian Dior’s Poison

Was back in the 90’s when I was just a preteen misfit. My babysitter at the time had brought a drunken friend over who passed out on the couch to sleep off a hangover while I was on the way to school. I walked over to her inebriated skanky person and noticed she had left her purse open. I looked in to make sure she didn’t have drugs because the LAST thing I wanted is to leave to school wondering if there were drugs in the house where my brother (who was still a child at the time) might get curious and accidently ingest some.

I looked around her bag…
very nice zippo lighter
something which I think was a pregnancy test (could have been a spermicide applicator)
loose change
ripped paper with an unknown number on it

a most intriguing dark purple bottle.


It was fairly new, for the bottle was mostly full and I can smell its magic faintly from the sprayer. I went ahead and spritzed some in the air and was immediately wrapped in a fog of seductive complexity. It was sweet but far from “girly”, it was the scent of mystery and ambiguity…sophisticated and distinctive. I turned the bottle to view its name and realized, ironically, I had been…Poisoned. After the smoke weakened and lingered…I looked over to the passed out woman and looked back at the bottle.

It was then when I knew, I had to save this perfume from the clutches of this unworthy bimbo. So it was then, where Poison became my potion. An untypical action of mine that I felt was a necessary evil.

On my skin (then and to this day) the scent seems to repel females but attract males (or those who are Two Spirited)…which I certainly felt was an advantage. I wore it mainly for myself, because it made me feel really good and whenever I spritz it on I remember our dirty past together. It seduced me into doing something I was told not to do. But how could I resist?

It was Eve…
the apple…
and the serpent.

Christian Dior’s Fahrenheit = LOVE!

TMI alert: I think the first time I inhaled this….MASTERPIECE of a male fragrance it induced my ovulation. Sorry for being so unashamedly expressive about it but it is the plain truth. I wasn’t sure at the time what ingredients made up this bewitching fragrance but goodness me it was a bit much for my then teenager self to take! I was all blushes and giggles when I caught a whiff of this. I felt terribly naughty and hoped I’d someday find a boyfriend who I can spray this on (and would like it).

It was masculine, sexy, versatile, reminded me of those diamond in the rough sorts that can step off a Harley-Davidson and still look good in an Armani suit. An all-around man. A do-er not a talker.

I will mention that I haven’t sniffed the latest formulation of this, therefore I cannot offer opinion. But, I will say I am happy to have known this fragrance in its heyday and it holds nothing but feel good memories for me.

Words From an Empty Building

The key that they cut for me is lost.

There are cobwebs because my lungs are exhausted.

That floorboard is a bruise; someone kicked it too hard.

Once I had poetry etched into my brickwork.

Once two lovers loved so hard
that their rhythm was my heartbeat.
I thought I was their world, I started spinning,
but they left. First me, then each other.

Smash all my windows before you leave.
nothing is left to bleed out.

Your Mother

Your mother remembers how she would flinch
every time she shut your bedroom door at night
because she was closing the route she had mapped out
for you to find her.
Your mother remembers buying you Christmas Eve pyjamas
which you would outgrow a day later with your swelling anticipation.
She wanted you. Even when she got you, she did not stop wanting.
Your arms, elbow to wrist as far down as the gear stick,
A constant in the blur of motorway lights.

Your mother remembers so that you will not forget.