Pictures of Perfection

Child,

Believe

You can do

Anything.

Do not look at what is around you,

Think of what could be.

What you dream of is

Tomorrow's world.

No one can see it but you. 

Thank your imagination for

Pictures 

Of 

Perfection.

Others will try to hold you back

Because they lack

Courage.

Until you die

Nothing can stop you changing the world

Except your own fear.

Never mistake 

The voice of fear

For

The voice of reason.

YOU

Are the most exceptional person who has ever lived.

Only by doubting

THAT

Will you ever fail.

Take what you are and make

The future

BEAUTIFUL.

(London, January 2007)

The Comfort of Silence

Did I say that out loud?

It's not the first time

I felt

Like crawling away

Or turning back time,

Wishing I could

Extinguish

That desire

To tell a random stranger

What I believe.

I feel him shrink and recoil

From this girl

Who has said something

That makes him feel 

Uncomfortable,

Because he felt safe

In the knowledge

That his darkest desires

Were invisible. 

He wonders,

"How can she see

The unknowable me

When I cannot put into words

My formative years

That torture me?"

She feels his pain,

And then,

Falls 

Silent.

For once.

(London. January 2007)

Pieces Of Truth

Pieces of truth,

Fragments of memories

Make up me.

Pleasure and pain,

And the experience they gain

When vying for a spot

At the top

Of my list

Of significant moments.

Is it then or now

That matters, and how

Do I know if I can trust my head?

So much to think on,

Both good and bad, that curl

Like two trails of smoke

Disappearing. 

What is precious now

Did not exist then.

What was everything then

Is nothing now.

Much later

All will change.

Count and bless the good minutes today,

Tomorrow could bring anything.

There is a place

Inside

That I return to

For comfort.

But even so,

Every time I go

The sky is a different colour.

(London, January 2007)

Two Butterflies Dancing

I saw two butterflies dancing. 

I stopped and let them circle me. 

Their wings, 

That beat so fast, 

Were the color of the sun

As it set last night. 

Vibrant, burnt orange,

A part 

Of nature's palate. 

Through branches

Of the small tree

They weaved,

Never resting;

Not caring if they lived

An hour, 

A day,

A month,

Or three, 

They laughed 

In the face

Of mortality.

Their only quest

To fill every moment

Of their existence

With

Color,

Joy

And

Energy.

I walked on, 

Leaving them to play,

My heart a little lighter,

Knowing I would often say

Something changed in me the day

I saw two butterflies dancing. 

(Silver Lake, July 2008)

The Orange

I picked an orange from a tree

And held it close to my face.

I cupped my hands

Around it

And felt its weight

Against my palms.

I stared in awe

At its perfect imperfect

Shape

And glorious 

Color.

I pressed it to my nose

And inhaled its

Sweet

Scent.

I laid it gently

On the table.

It lost its balance,

Rolled off, 

And fell to the floor.

I scooped it up again

And kissed it.

I love this orange,

And this orange loves me.

And I will never forget the day

I picked an orange from a tree.

(La Quinta, May 2008) 

Size Zero

My Barbie had curves.

No,

Not Barbie... Sindy,

I had a Sindy doll. 

But she had curves all the same.

Toned curves.

There's no cellulite

On hard, molded plastic.

How many peanuts can I eat today?

Ten calories each,

So only eight.

Something to keep the metabolism going.

Standing in the corner shop

Staring at the chocolate bar

For twenty fucking minutes!

At school

They snatched them

Out of my hands.

"It's such a shame. 

You could be so beautiful 

If you lost weight!"

I never did.

Size twelve.

I'm an elephant.

A thin person

Wrapped in

Foam.

Can't take it off.

Want to cut it off.

Take my thighs

(thunder thighs they used to call me)

And squeeze

And look

At excess flesh.

Don't need it,

What's it doing there?

Love food.

Hate myself for loving food.

Drink too much.

Too drunk 

To count 

Calories.

Two bottles of wine last night. 

A thousand calories?

Plus a hangover.

I want to kill myself

But can't think how.

Then the chips,

Hot fatty chips,

With vinegar and ketchup.

Gave up eggs,

And milk,

And meat,

And wheat,

But chips! 

Can't leave chips

Alone!

Leave me alone,

You beautiful figures

On magazine pages

And American sitcoms,

Taunting me

With your ability

To wear

Little short dresses,

Spaghetti straps,

No bra.

Delicious naked,

Lithe and smooth,

Not dumpy

Lumpy.

Look at my legs!

Who would want them?

Hide them quick.

They're hideous.

Sex is good.

But getting out of bed

Naked

Is 

Courage.

Exercise!

Exercise should shift it.

But try running

With excess fat.

I can do two minutes,

One with PMS.

Four girls in the gym

Fatter than me.

Feel better,

Until yoga,

Where they're all

Thinner.

(London, March 2007)

Ode To Silver Lake

Oh there's more drama down the street tonight.

The cops are on their way,

Sirens blaring,

The helicopters are hovering,

And the dogs are starting to bark.

I guess there's a guy with a gun

Running around,

In and out

Of back yards and bushes.

The scent of skunk

Fills the air

And I know I should

Go inside

And lock the doors

Rather than run the risk

Of getting shot,

But it's a beautiful night,

The sky is deep purple,

And the air is cool,

And it was so hot earlier,

And I feel strangely safe out here,

And I've seen it all before,

And all I can think is,

Oh, there's more drama down the street tonight.

(Los Angeles, May 2008)

Boarding School

When they left me

My nine year old heart

Burnt a hole in my chest

And part

Of my stomach

Twisted over.

How can they say they know what is best

When the pain in my eyes

Stings like nettle rash

And the invisible rope

That tightens around my throat

Makes every breath

Feel as though it could be

My last?

Unfamiliar hands

Push me towards a bed

With a dirty pink cover that smells

Of stale tea

And overcooked cabbage.

Six new faces watch

As I put on new pajamas

That are scratchy and too tight.

I cannot speak tonight

For fear I might

Cry.

I once begged to be here,

Blinded by Enid Blyton fantasies of

Midnight feasts and pillow fights.

But now, alone in the dark,

The dream is dashed

As cold fear

Creeps up my legs.

Five a.m.

Awake and wet,

Climbing out of bed,

Finding cold stone steps

And no mother.

Knocking on the locked door,

Coughing as a cloud of smoke

Curls up my nose and the woman

With the yellow fingers and long grey hair

Rubs me roughly with a stripy towel.

She rattles my bed

As she strips the soaked sheets

And my shame

Is visible 

To a dozen eyes

At dawn.

(London, April 2007)

Milk Made For Cows

No one listens anymore.

No one has the time.

They drink 

Milk

Made for Cows

And complain

When they get cancer.

It is a substance

Made

To make

Cells grow.

What's so hard to understand?

(London, October 2007)

Cocaine

I sit and look up - 

up into the night sky - 

and see the lights of a

plane - 

and wish myself on it - 

it taking me anywhere - 

anywhere but here - 

here where the cigarettes and wine

dull the

pain

of an overcrowded

mind filled with inconstant

dreams, unable to find a path - 

convinced of absolute failure.

Ah, this is why people take

cocaine!

(London, February 2007)

For Fear

The fight to retain

A heart

That is pure

Is hard. 

The temptation

To judge

Ever present. 

The desire

To obtain

Insurmountable.

We see,

But will not accept,

Our inability

To love

Everything. 

Expression

Eludes 

Us

When we need it most. 

Holding back tears

For fear

Of seeming

Weak.

Because

We yearn

For acceptance.

Squeezing emotion

Into a manageable

Nut-sized

Hole

To be packed away

For another day.

Feeling

Staggeringly

insignificant

In the 

Face of

Adversity.

Unable

To speak

Up

Or

Out

For fear

Of seeming

Different.

We nod

And laugh

And agree

And banish thoughts

And earn

And spend

And tow

The line

And do

What bores us

Stupid

For fear 

Of failing.

And we do not question

What feels 

So wrong

For fear

Of fear

Itself.

(Los Angeles, October 2007)

Fridays

I miss you most on Fridays.

Being together

When the week is done

Is so much fun. 

A glass of wine

Or two, or three,

A conversation,

Or just a cigarette

And an ice cold beer,

With you beside me.

A look says it all.

A silent agreement

Of how lucky we are

To have this love

We share for each other. 

I miss you all the time

When we're apart.

But I miss you most on Fridays

(Los Angeles, May 2008)

To Live

To inhale no air

Is not to breathe.

To utter no truth

Is not to speak.

To give no heart

Is not to love.

To feel no joy

Is not to live. 

(Los Angeles, June 1999)