Drawing, 2006.

Drawing/Painting, Ink, 2006.

Green

Published in Open Wide Magazine in 2010

There are those steps,

I suppose the ones that I should follow

supposedly they make me feel better

allowing me to heal properly.

I can’t stop from picking the yellow crust,

off that scab. I pick and I pick and I bleed and I bleed.

Blood is like acid.

Because things are they the way they are

and mistakes happen

the world turns and we all walk away with a smile

if not hand in hand.

Wrapped like a Japanese chocolate box,

with sweets that don’t taste like chocolate

and do you think about it

about what I was

wrapped up like a Japanese box; black cardboard, pink fabric interior, purple skin.

Not sure if the steps are there for me

I could swan-dive out of denial

I could shape angels out of clay.

Paint with indigo and burnt sienna

and question the imprint.

I could squint and squint

but no matter how often I look

there’s no olive tree in my backyard.

Art Fusion

Hey people

A website worth checking out. Yours truly was part of this group, when yours truly lived in the UK. Filled with amazing artists: ENJOY.

www.yorkartfusion.com

Dragon Tattoo 2009

A dragon tattoo, sketched on the back of a spare piece of paper at work, in 2009. I definitely am the girl who draws dragons. Done freehand, with biro pen.

Rakoczy

This poem was published in Open Wide Magazine in 2010, and is about my dear, geographically challenged, friend Lila Rakoczy.

You fought for English rights

peppered with Texan fire,

took that road to the Civil War,

shook hands with Charles I.

You sought to see all the castles

and did see quite a few.

In the ruins you found a home.

That’s probably why I met you.

Us angry riot girls with

the same redneck blood,

but from different parts of the world.

Sharing war stories

and showing battle scars,

bleeding pine and fir sap

all over the living room carpet.

Us losers and battle-stars

struggling against the gravel

that flows through us.

The curses we inherited,

the decline of our mothers,

the destruction of our fathers,

burning the myths

and burying the rotten bones.

Us poor white trash

made of Ugric-cultural sap,

declaring we’re buses

rather than bus stops,

demanding promises,

rather than probabilities,

building belief structures,

or simply tearing them down.

She cackled at Jon Stewart

and yelled at the news,

faintly smelled of rose

and yellowed dusty pages.

She took shit from no-one

and had a way with words.

But when she rooted in Yorkshire

they took her back to Texas.

Before she left she shrugged and said:

‘It’s just another war,

for us white trash whores.’

I'm Not Seventeen But I've Cuts on my Knees (2009)

Watercolour painting, which was part of the How Does it Feel? Exhibition 2009. Still in my possession, is however still for sale.

Broken Shores

This poem was published by Open Wide Magazine in 2010

I raise my hands

standing on the sand built wharf.

You grin at me

like a horse chewing froth.

The wind slithers

and spits in my face,

the waves gently lick my feet.

The water, well… it’s cold.

Salt crystallises in old battle wounds.

They give us their meagre explanations,

and tell us why we’re no longer on board.

They’ve always judged

my starved frame,

when they were the ones feeding me rainbow meat.

I knew it was suicide,

changing your name,

with my heart buried at sea,

confined amongst bribery and lies.

And the water, well… it’s cold.

It now swells between my toes

as the sea eats the wharf away.

But I am not sorry

to see it go,

dissolving into grain,

tomorrow it’ll be

just another broken shore.

I sold your name for vanity,

I celebrate the destruction of you.

Blowing fragments of your smile

into the wind.

And that is worth watching the ship sail away.