Wednesday, December 02, 2015


I wrap his body
In the finest tabloid paper and
Tie quality strings
With tight little knots

What else can I do with
My celebrated son
But send him to your better world
Filled with food, shelter and toys

I whisper a last goodbye
As I place him on postal scale
Weighing him heavy against
The price of hope

But we both know
He’ll grow cold this Christmas
Under plastic needle trees
With their fake magic dreams


Tuesday, November 24, 2015



It was my older Sister
who inspired me
To say, fuck it
I’ll not wear a bra
Today. My mother never
Could have, for I
Was afraid
Of the way hers sway

My Great Aunts
Let their mouths stretch
As they laugh
About how lewdness is their
Art. Shaking their heads
Like cudded cows
With nothing better to do
Than fart.

But my Grandma
With her wiggle on the dance floor
A kid from
A street called
Rough. She was
The one who
Stirred me up
To really strut my stuff.

Friday, November 06, 2015

Riots in Reflection

Is our custodian of calm,
So elastic and plastic and thin.
Or is it purely a technique for keeping track
When we want something looking back?
Perhaps she’s a gentle nurse,
Tucking souvenir tickets into our pockets.
Tender times spent waiting with children,
Unwilling to urge them into any rat race
Or when I pulled you from beneath a truncheon
moments before it split open your girlish face

The day you wanted something from me but I gave you only words
Wasn’t it you who said it is time we grew up? With
Time a lighthouse blaring warnings of imminent rocky ruin.
Tumbling through hourglass figures to settle on the underside of our hips.
Scorching moist elastin into a salty dry skin that cannot be rubbed young.
Time never stretching languid again
nor preening in the heat wave of unlimited opportunity.
She’s truncating, cooling and separating,
Breaking us like flotsam floating away still.
My nemesis moving fast forward
Intent on her kill.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015


I bet the queen wishes
She was someone else
Entirely, a postie or a
Poet or even
A genuine retiree

So many things
She’ll never feel
Like what it’s like to be unknown
Or beaten up
Or sent back home

I wonder if she dreams
Of saying goodbye
To that waving work
Then just going down the boozer
And acting like a total jerk

But why do I seem to need
Celebrities and the VIP’d
Them up on pedestals
Me sucking my thumb
Waiting for mum?

Thursday, June 04, 2015

All Love is Opportunity

I’m lost in this
thickening fog of Expectations
 fermenting beyond their prime
On who said what to who again
And when
As though if we can just
Uncover the blame thread
We can each hold up our own head
And cry righteous tears about our undead love
Still the only the thing we both know
Is what we can’t let go
Because once it was the only show
We wanted to watch
But now it is a stale rerun
Of knots that have been undone
Longer than either of us wanted to believe because
All love is opportunity
Even when the sheets are clean
Never to get dirty again
And all this linen we keep trying to wash
Is stained indelibly with us
But even so I fear
Our hearts will never be reopened
After all this vinegar soaking
 unless we stop provoking
All that we ever had will be tossed
Like leaves plucked off in summer
Never to let the tree recover
And if I don’t want to be lovers
It doesn’t mean
I don’t still
Love us

Wednesday, May 06, 2015


Victory has a spineless sister
Whose skin she filleted
When their childish games turned sinister

Not content with slapping face or breaking bones
They blew their mother up
In a race to live without a home

Now Victory stalks the streets
Searching for clean sheets and pillows to weep on
But everyone is dead and gone.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

tweet poem about world war two.

Pushing through earth to find, blood of mother’s sons feeding my veins. I cannot weep for I am but a flower, but I can blush.

I'm grateful for my prize book token with which I bought "the paying guests" by Sarah Waters
 Maj x