the heart laid bare

Archive

No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
outsider
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

insular

There comes a moment when you realise
That there’s a warmth in just being.
And I’m sinking to the bottom of a wine glass
Looking through the curve and the bubbles.
Like a raisin in champagne, rising and falling and rising again
Forever.
 
With my friends in another room
Engrossed in a tv show
I’m listening to music
The cat is licking his paws
And the remnants of a shared meal still litter the kitchen bench.
 
I notice things I never noticed before.
 
A warmth and attraction
That might be just the wine
And might not be the wine at all.
A feeling of belonging
To my people and they to me.
And there’s sound everywhere
And harshness and pain and a fever that burns everything it touches
But none of it reaches me
Because I’m in my own little world now
And it’s cool in here.
And it’s close
And it’s quiet.
 
I don’t want to leave here.

© mjc 04 October 2015

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.