A Tragic Destitution


She wants to fall into him,
To lose herself in the feel of his lips,
In his scent,
In the way his stubble scrapes across her skin when he tastes her.

She wants to be surrounded by him,
cocooned in his warmth,
On ever plain of their them-ness.

She wants to be taken by him,
made to feel more essential that air,
To know that she alone inspires the wanton that stoked the fire in his eyes.
the muse of his moans, his Persephone.

She wants to know him,
To be that kind of intimate it is so easy to be in the absence of love.

She wants to be wanted,
To encompass and enfold him within herself,
Want to metamorphose into this new being,
By being herself within him, while he occupies her.

She want to be owned.
Unmistakably, uninhibitedly claimed,
In word and action in a way that is…

It’s a tragic destitution to want so much.

To be so without center, insufficient, alone.

But oh what poetry to find that merging,
To have faith so richly rewarded,
To be so treasured.

She simply wants all of him.


Dear Sir,


Dear Sir,

I wish I had her voice,
Then I could emote these feeling clearly enough,
To capture both your attention and your interest.

I wish I had his flow,
That once if only once could I be worth your adoration?

I wish I had her newness,
Or is it haplessness,
Inexperience maybe?

But then I am become my insecurities,
Or are they yours?

What’s worse,
Bitchy or crazy?
Crazy or bitchy?
Jealous, Fucked up or defeated?

I wish I could see you,
When they aren’t watching.

Is there ever a moment when it isn’t your inclination to appear,
Interesting, intelligent, or superior?

Or is that all you are,
A facade of shit well handled?

Well, sir.
Dear sir.
Fuck you.

I  am naught in need of an idol to worship

Yes Sir,
Dear sir,
Keep your noose,
And your favor.

Blessed evening and Goodnight.


Collateral damage


Woman down!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Not far past 20 and pregnant again…for shame…disgrace, and shame…

hang your head low,

shuffle slow,

this is the event, the singularity in time and action that will define you…

forever less, forever belittled, forever lost is your worth…

A child, for a child is a loss of all potential,

A sister now rendered rubbish.


Woman down!!!!!!!!!!


A girl on fire…and a nation in outrage for a minute…

A perpetrator unwell and insignificant beside a child’s bravery.

Brave but broken behind closed doors is a fine irony,

Better that we forget and offer topical smiles,

a soothing balm because all should be forgiven,

and better forgotten than the effort of justice.


Woman down!!!!!!!!!!


Girl down, crash and shuffle a child has fallen at the hands of another,

but have heart he is someone’s brother,

and young sir this is not the mistake that will define you,

a hot temper is the thing of a boy, who will be a boy,

and she your victim should have had a protector.


Woman down!!!!!!!!!!!!


Tender 13,

flesh just barely ripe but ready for the selling,

the taking and the rending,

she is the price of a mothers prospering,

and a nation shrugs it’s indifference.

Another child offering to a position of power,

untouchable even in the court of public opinion because this is power,

the power to be untouchable.


Woman Down!!!!!!!!! Shhhhh

Girl Down!!!!! Shhhh

Child Down!!!! Shhhh



How much is lost?

In plain view of everyone seeing,

while we fight our W.A.R and retake our P.O.W.A,

paying homage and lip service to the battle.

We create safe places for the chatter,

while there are no safe spaces for the martyrs.

Unwilling participants because it’s all for show,

and we cannot slow the spread of this sickness,

that all should know,

we paid homage if not action.

Woman down!!!!!! Shhhhh!!!!

tell noone,

speak the sermon of silence.






Sister singer


Sister singer belt me a tune,

Pour me a glass of you emotions,

I’ll sit and sip your sorrow.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

Serve me a platter of your hardship,

I’ll taste you anger, cut it to bits,

Piece by piece I’ll consume you.

Sister Singer belt me a tune,

Pluck me a fruit from your garden,

I’ll plant my teeth in your bitter-sweet,

savor your juice as I consume you.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

Bare your soul a meal for my satisfaction,

In exchange for a glancing compliment.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

To keep me amused,

‘Til I forget you when I leave.




Trying hard not to think,

Under the far reaching branches of the tree whose name I can’t remember,

The benches and the swaying branches are silent,

Leaving space infinite for the voices,

The ones I was trying hard to avoid.


My companions came to join me.

In as much as I had tried to drown them in quiet.

They simply settled wordless around me,

and too watched the branches sway,

and the dust from passing minibuses glide through the sunlight columns,

I knew their names, and was accustomed to their company.


Fear was the first to action,

A blade protruding from a wooden handle settled in my palm.

engraved in it the word ‘relief.

“It would be easy. Nothing else has been easy.”

I turned it over in my hands,

felt it’s weight and sighed.

It would be easy.


Disgust saw my resolve slipping,

and before my eyes danced a thousand memories.

A million instances of shouldas and couldas,

Trillions of ifs and maybes.

“Was it all someone else’s doing?

Do you deserve easy?”

Do I really? Does anyone?


Sadness came in to comfort,

holding me close so that tears could flow and I could sniffle unashamed.

This was weakness,

but what does it matter?

Weakness more than anything should be a right.

A place of unfettered access when one is forced to come to terms

with ones own limits.

We are all limited, are we not?


Anger placed on my lap a scroll,

Tied with a ribbon of red on which was written “Experience“.

I had survived this long,

clawed all that was good that I had out of the clutches of doubt and shame,

hadn’t I?

Wasn’t some part of that worthy of continuation?


Unfurled the scroll showed a river flowing onward into death,

and my place marked with a question.

“Where to?”

The tributaries of past experience splashed with color,

Indigo, reds, yellows and blues,

a code of good, bad and ugly,

attached at it’s bottom a quill.


I invited them to come with,

and we struck a path in the direction not yet blotched with memories.

Them keeping pace with my slow steadying feet,

making light conversation,

as if now given name and purpose they were no longer my jailers,

but my comrades in arms.



red on floral


She watches him sleep,

his chest,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

so peaceful.

Could have been an apparition,

those raised hands and voices,

the impact of palm and face,

palm and face,

palm and face,

’til her lip split.

Wouldn’t it be easy,

warm blood soaking her cotton sheets,

red on floral,

smeared because he would come awake.

Red hand clutching for her,

Would he take her with?

To his hell?

he would try,

and try,

and again try,

Would he win?

would it matter?

She was dead,



Watching him now,

while he sleeps.

Chantilly Armour


She no longer looked beyond those verses for understanding.

Not at the trends and the signs,

the symptoms of the crimes.

It was all, for her, between Genesis and Revelations.

As such she had no new revelations,

with which to start her genesis to a new state of self.

I loved her in a way,

and pitied her in another,

but I respected her resolve.

Holding up those beliefs,

like so much Chantilly Armour.


Oxymoronic Faith.

Her own strength at it’s foundation,

owing nothing to another entity but herself,

though she staunchly refused to see it.

I listened to her chanting her prayers,

her sacrament of self delusion,

and could only think.

“Maybe that’s what I’m missing.”


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