sufjan is always going to belong to sufjan

the Psalms are written by wiser men then you

but they are thrown about

as your own words

i cant believe this

has boiled over in the pot

the water has all gone and now the rice

is stuck to the pan

it is burnt black

and i will never be the same

curly haired girls dancing in white dresses across a clear sky

kissing quietly

and lighting matches for the sulfur smell

their is a harmony playing out

and it causes me to choke

it was the year of the dragon

she was born

and she died in the year of the ox

my relatives know how to bury

the things they cannot accept

my only revenge is my happiness

and i am waiting for the cold

like a child on christmas eve

my beaches are hotter

in my absence

and your grass will never be this green

how fickle

i kissed him like i was leaving for work
i did not turn back as the car pulled away

for two weeks i cried enough to save all the farms across the Simpson
the salt of my tears wore the grease from the grills

Patrick told me to keep my chin up
and Jo told me to never go backward

so i went up
and away

and now all i can do is write you letters
and remember the smell of you in the morning

how fickle this thing love is

mail boxes

it is
as though
everybody has died
and gone to heaven
and i am writing letters i cannot send
because the mail boxes are too full
of sympathy
and regret

i fill your head with stories that are no longer stories
that are mine to tell
yet i cannot stop but tell you
all the more

there is no truth
and a tiredness waiting in my eyes
to catch me
if i hold them shut too long
i am always waking up too late
and you will probably not get my letter
not in this time of mourning.

tomorrow will be a gorgeous day

tomorrow i will travel to a small house

a few miles away

to claim this gorgeous instrument

and on the bus

on the way home

i will play you songs

Myfanwy (poem by John Betjeman)

Myfanwy
Kind o’er the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy,
White o’er the playpen the sheen of her dress,
Fresh from the bathroom and soft in the nursery
Soap scented fingers I long to caress.

Were you a prefect and head of your dormit'ry?
Were you a hockey girl, tennis or gym?
Who was your favourite?
Who had a crush on you?
Which were the baths where they taught you to swim?

Smooth down the Avenue glitters the bicycle,
Black-stockinged legs under navy blue serge,
Home and Colonial,
Star,
International,
Balancing bicycle leant on the verge.
Trace me your wheel-tracks,
you fortunate bicycle,
Out of the shopping and into the dark,
Back down the avenue,
back to the pottingshed,

Back to the house on the fringe of the park.
Golden the light on the locks of Myfanwy,
Golden the light on the book on her knee,
Finger marked pages of Rackham's Hans Anderson,
Time for the children to come down to tea.
Oh! Fullers angel-cake,
Robertson’s marmalade,
Liberty lampshade,
come shine on us all,
My! what a spread for the friends of Myfanwy,
Some in the alcove and some in the hall.
Then what sardines in half-lighted passages!
Locking of fingers in long hide-and-seek.
You will protect me, my silken Myfanwy,
Ring leader, tom-boy, and chum to the weak.

pencil case

sometimes i wish i was the green pencil in your pencil case
you would always have to use me
to draw the grass
that would grow across your notebook

if i cannot be the green pencil
ill maybe be the blue one
equally as usable
and then i will be apart of your endless sky

but i think i would rather just be in your pencil case
because then i would be near you always

is there a home for us in the sea?

is there a home for us in the sea?

Where the tide rolls over and covers us
from these tempestuous nights.

sweet sailors fall down like raindrops overhead
and their ghosts swim alongside the dolphins
in my dreams

naked in my bed
i dream of the shoreline
the spray of the sea on my face
stumbling over the rocks.

unupdated self

beginning to think
(a scary process in my mind most of the time)
the hysteria seemingly almost always created
is something that should
not be
happening anymore
situations that seem repeated and questionable behavior
once again indulged
leave a mess
that really need not be there
beginning to think
and realise
these things are things
of an old self
an unlearned self
and i cannot
be that
anymore

not being a complacent woman

hold my hand and lead me back into the familiar
let me see all i've seen before
only now with fresh eyes
untainted by my preconceptions
let all that was remain
only allow my heart to embrace
all i might choose to dismiss
in this attempt at accepting the realities of my existence
realities i so fondly ignore
let me be not a complacent woman

a red stain

there is blood on your pillow
stained red
i stare at the mark in awe
i did not ever imagine
you could bleed
as you bleed
i am turned to stone by your pronounced fragility
and now i fear
i must forgive you

the magic of the tooth fairy

this morning i made pan cakes
for the muffin who tells me she hates me
a tear stricken face all red and puffy
sitting on the stairs
she screams like a banshee
this morning she looked like a 4 year old
and wiggled around like a fish
refusing to wake
the worry dolls under her pillow
are not helping lately
so i take my grandpa's tissue
and pull her tooth
for the second time
and watch as only the magic of the tooth fairy
can make this all better

beans

today i got your letter
and it smells like you
and i hear your voice in my head as i read your words
and i miss you
and your craziness
your stories
are stories
where you and i are the lead protagonists
and i play them out in my mind
as i lie in bed
remembering your bandy legs
and messy salt water hair
one day i will make you bacon and eggs again

washing machine dreams

this morning i woke up
and was tired still
i fell down the stairs
washing basket in hands
sleep in eyes
and i let your clothes fall down over me
like a blanket
i fell asleep once more
covered in your smell
and dreamed of the world inside the washing machine
all soap and bubbles
this morning i woke up for the second time
on the stairs
covered in your dirty clothes

i

smoke

cigarettes

while

a

man

in

a

kilt

plays

a

pipe

full

of

bags

and

i

think

i

am

home

jamie and claire fraser

you have auburn hair
for this i call you jamie
you are not from inverness
and you did not fight
bonnie prince charlie
but the golden fuzz
on your chest
is his i swear
i was reading all the while
and those books i read
made me leave
my beaches for your mountains
i flew to you
on the biggest
and loudest bird
i could find
for three days
to find this nest
and you where here
only stopping for a wee rest
so i twisted the threads that pull us all
along each day
until yours and mine intertwined
and for a short while
i call you jamie
and i am to play the part of claire
and we are in our home
that you built in the mountains
asleep in the hay

crumbs from the queens table

i didn't know what to give you

so i wrote down

what i thought you may like to hear

if it is not

what you may like to hear

i am sorry

but if it is

pleasing

to your eyes

to read these words

that would like to materialise

and wrap around you as you sleep

creating a cocoon

just keep you warm

and as i am fond of these words

yet ever so weary of their over use

and the somewhat misguiding abilities they have

please be careful with your interpretation

but please listen to these words

that will play out

in my voice

or your impression of my voice

in your head

as you read

these words

three words

i do love

the crumbs from this queens table

you are so funny

this is the funniest thing i have ever heard

i cant breathe

my lungs struggle under the pressure

and my belly aches

if i were three i would have wet my nappy

but i am not so i will just wet my pants

i feel endorphins release in me

they are sparkling through my viens

tickly my sides

and i cant believe how good this laughing is

this is the best feeling i have had in weeks

you are so funny

i want to marry you

and laugh till they put me in a little box

under the earth

you are lying

you are lying to me

i can see it
there between your teeth
like a piece of spinach
stuck

you are lying to me

i can tell
by the way you fidget
and squirm
like a bug in my presence

you are lying to me

and i hate it
i hate how these lies fall from your mouth
they pool at my feet
and i begin to slip around on your vague excuses

you are lying to me

and i know you are lying
my sweet friend
you are lying

faith in the unpredictable

there is a song we used to play

and it reminds me now of what became

of nothing

and it reminds me of what will come

if i give this life

enough time

to take flight

the faith i have in my unpredictable fate

sustains my eager heart

fall asleep

sleep evades me
so i decide to break myself
into little edible pieces
so when you wake up
you can stir me into your coffee
or spread me on your toast
or just keep me in your pocket
so when your on the bus
you can eat me
i think sometimes
it is better just to fall asleep

loose woman

loose woman
you loose your knickers too fast
and your dignity with them
you find yourself
continually searching for your pants
not remembering where they are left
or why they were ever removed
there is no reason for it
the nights where strangers
become lovers
then turn back into strangers in the morning light
and yet
you are still looking for your pants.

chalk drawings

we where chalk drawings
waiting for the rain to wash us away
we are leaves
drying in the sun
our wee skeletons becoming beautiful to look through
we are singing songs by the road
and juggling a thousand pebbles
until we find a lake to skip them on
we are sand between our toes
and the dirt under our nails
the aches and pains and tiredness
we feel
are distractions we need not notice
when we start to draw ourselves in chalk once more

the colour of the sky

are you trying to forget
the colour of the sky
when you sit in bed at night?
so when you wake up
you think you are in another place
somewhere you have never been
somewhere you are not a face recognised
the little girl in my heart
fidgets with the hem of her skirt
and screams at you to stop leaving
everything you really should never have wanted to leave behind

paint

we are trying to paint in the dark

when we cannot tell where we are on this page

we try to smell the colours

i wish i could use echolocation

to find you

in the dark

but i have not a mellon on my head

but if i did find you

i will take the match i carry everywhere

strike it across your face

and light the room in which we paint

a city alight

we will sing a lament to the stars tonight

bringing all our scars to the light

just once we will know

what it is

to be alight

and alive

dancing in flames

in january of this year
melbourne caught on fire
two people were burnt alive in there house
their daughter has skin grafts
she is alive
but orphaned
i found out a month after
what use is all this new technology
if i cannot know
some of my relatives
are dead

seeking a ghost

my mother is in love
with a man who is not my father
this man did not tell me stories
he did not make my billy cart
he did not kiss my sleeping forehead
he did not teach me to tie my laces
or dry my hair after a bath
he did not take me to the circus
or teach me to drive
he did not buy me new shoes
or mend my watch
but my mother loves him
his shoes sit by the front door
his toothbrush beside the sink my father installed
and his clothes now fill my fathers side of the wardrobe
dads smell disappears slowly
sometimes i hear his photographs screaming
and secretly sometimes
i want him to haunt our house
until his smell returns

you are a story i will tell

i think i found my heart again
in the south of france
with a silly american boy
who couldn't dance
and if i ever see him
i will tell him
there does exist
a different opinion to his
that is not wrong
people have monkeys
that they call baby
a man in london has a jet pack he uses to get to work
i have a bicycle that is going to emancipate me
and i have seen the first cloned sheep
the truth is
i am blessed
but not by your god
not even by my own
but like everyone
by the people who love me
you are a story i will tell