the heart laid bare

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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

almanac


A movie-montage of torn calendar days
Flies past me on an inexplicable wind.
As I have stared grimly, determinedly ahead,
They dance and skitter and vanish behind.
 
At first the pages were sandpaper and acid.
They seared marks on me.
Each one took an age to peel from my clothing, and another to peel the pieces from my hands.
And I would scrub and scrub until my fingers bled,
And each page was harder to shake off.
 
But over time, their texture changed;
Or my hands were worn smooth from the practice of peeling each day from my shoulders.
The pages now sometimes miss my skin,
Or lightly brush by, leaving stinging papercuts instead of smouldering flesh.
The acid burn has diminished to an itch that lives upon my fingers.
And sometimes, when I'm careless,
I touch the tips of my fingers to my face
And my acid days crawl into the corners of my eyes and rain onto the ground.
 
I am no fool;
This book of days is nearly done
But I know a library of unopened diaries lies behind it,
Each one sharpening the edges of their pages.
 
I have stood in the face of this paper-filled maelstrom;
Through acid days hurling themselves blindly at my face,
Through sandpaper days curling themselves around my heart.
I have stood through papercuts and caustic lesions.
I am bruised and scarred
By this passage of time.
But I have stood.
 
And still I stand.
With shoulders hunched and shaking,
Chest heaving;
With my legs cramping and my hands clenching fists in my hair;
But with eyes wide open
I will stand.

© mjc 25 October 2016

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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.