Don’t cure too many madmen,

You may need us yet.

How would you know where Hell was

If you didn’t hear us scream?

And where your Heaven was once,

Did we not wander wild and dream?

We are canaries singing in your soul,

Singing the nightmare so you can forget,

Singing until the darkness chokes us all.

NaPoWriMo 29/4/16: Moths

All day they lie like corpses on sills, in corners

And masquerade as dust.


Night falls. I find them fluttering

Under my cats’ paws, describing perfect circles,

Their dance enticing

The very thing they fear,

Those longed-for claws.


Death cannot come too soon for them, it seems.

Rescued, they return. Consigned to darkness,

Cling to the window-glass,

Pink eyes afire with lust, the Undead, craving

That final, fatal light.



Golden Apple Earrings

“Pretty,” he said, brushing the golden apples absently.

I kissed him – but not the way I did before –

Being pierced through the heart by the one who gave them to me.

Never play word-games with Christians, they’re superstitious,

Truly believing in Serpents and Souls and Apples,

In sunlight stippling Eden’s long-ago leaves

And Jehovah’s moon asleep in the fork of the Tree.

Between my husband’s heart and mine stretches a silver chain;

I left him easily enough, but it pulls and pulls sometimes.

The links that make our chain are dainty fine:

A break in any one and the pain may end me.

“I am the serpent in your Eden,” I said

– so much throw-away imagery –

But my lover stared at me and stepped away.