You, woman,

with your many forms and faces,

have taken so much from me.

A cash flow now trickles;

a booming heart now constricts.

You, woman,

with your labyrinthinian mind,

have wrapped me in webs.

My body robbed of its bravery;

my mind shorn of its strength.

You, woman,

have your wild world still hidden;

oh baby, baby, its your feminine wiles,

that have binded me to your kind.

You, woman,

embrace who you are,

raise up your dress;

show me your soft secrets

and put me under duress.

You, woman,

with your youth, cold truths

and cruel callous laughs,

should embrace this present power;

for life is long and lingering

and of many a dark hour.



The Doorbell.

In the light of the sun

you sleep in the deep dark

abscess of your soul.

In dreams your red tears stream

down your sharp cheeks

and arrowed chin

and down into the abyss

of your black velvet clothes.

Dusk is your alarm clock

as the cool air licks at your snow skin.

Pale and clammy

you wipe the rust from your face

and rub your rejuvenated eyes.

You stretch your wiry legs,

crick your cold, narrow neck

and get ready for the evening.

A few drinks here,

a little canoodling there;

under the scythe of the moon

you hope for some necking

and pecking of the flesh.

A gannet for the gore juice,

you always go for those

who are young,

who will belong

with the beautiful and the damned.

Eternally burning

for the naked smoothness

and hollow grooves

of your sacred place.

In that pumping pulse you are home.

No more darkness

or tears in the morning,

no more hunger for intimacy

and fear of being alone.

This beat will not destroy you.

She will not destroy you.

This pulse is your doorbell;

this heart is your home.

Milk Teeth.

The Children of innocence ran by,

blossoming in their flourished glee

unaware that a stunted hunger

was hooking itself, slowly, around their knees.

It was a shrivelled tree, with tiny twigs

wallowing in its own misery.

As the children scurried around its roots

the balding tree was malting leaves.

As night descended on this park

on a pleasant hornet heath,

the children did not fear the dark

as they did not fear the shedding tree.

But what the children could not muster

was what this plant did truly need

It was not polycinthesis

but for these fresh faced youths to bleed.

One by one they said farewell,

walking through tall grass to dreams

until one small soul was left standing

as the tree hooked round his knees.

With that small hook he was a sinker

and the roots could not suppress their glee,

they drew him in, down through the ground,

crushed him and sucked him with great greed.

The next day all the town had heard

of the lost boy on the heath.

All that was left of his last moments

were bloodied trainers by the tree.

Forensics came and blocked the path

unaware of giving youths safety

but the tree did not care, it was full

from the macabre morsel of its last meal.

With no D.N.A or sign of the boy

life soon returned to normality

as it was before the boy was lost

to the hunger of the consuming tree.

And with time ticking weeks went by

and soon children went back to the heath;

they noticed with a simple wonder

the hard buds, mid-blossom, on the tree.

They had little knowledge of life’s sciences,

of the understanding of plants and trees

but had they known of the peculiarities

so close to them they would have fleed.

Instead they remained, to laugh and play

in their sun-kissed revelry.

They chased and tugged, hugged and shouted

in their joy, implicitly.

The moon took over from the sweltered sun

as night descended with a silent creep.

The children would run through the wild, tall grass

to their warms beds, to a sweet sleep.

All but two remained to stay and play.

They danced and skipped around the tree,

but in the dusk they lost their footing;

tripped by the root which hooked their knees.

In cold confusion they saw each others faces

and in unison tried to move their feet

but the wooden snake was wrapped round tight

and the ground opened its jaws, ready to eat.

Three children down in the sleepy village

Parents lived in terror for their children on the heath.

All that was left of these tragic children

was bloodied clothing left by the tree.

With all of the attention and scope in the area,

nobody noticed the flourishing tree;

it’s branches imposing, its twigs sharp as swords,

its roots spreading out, food in easier reach.

The children stopped their innocent playing,

the wild grass cut to below the knee.

Once the shadowed, whispering dusk descended

doors were locked, and no one was free.

Over time the tree lost its raw, red oak colour

and the ground surrounding it appeared to bleed.

Over time the tree shrunk and shrivelled,

stunted by its own heinous need.

One day a parent of a lost boy

came and sat down by the anaemic tree.

Months had passed with no answers,

here stood a Father: a prisoner of misery.

He walked slowly round the stunted oak

as a dark descended on the heath.

He noted the pale wood and rusty grass

and took a closer look at what he had seen.

Looking inside the blossoming bud,

he became consumed in grimy grief.

It was as cloying as the fragile flower;

He saw inside the bud were teeth.

But these were not teeth of adult size,

these were milky, pure and sweet.

A horror grasped its hold across his face

at this secret graveyard on the heath.

This graveyard was to remain a secret

as the man’s tears fell upon the rooted tree,

awakening its desire for human flesh;

it’s roots snaked around behind his knees.

In terror he grasped and groped at the red grass,

his last false saviour of failed safety.

It was no challenge to consume this man,

this Father, a prisoner of the tree.

He knew its secret and it crushed him

to know where his son had always been,

but as night fell and all was quiet

he succumbed to a permanent child-like sleep.

In his dreams he was reunited

with the son he had lost on the heath.

They danced and played forever together.

No more sadness, no more grief.