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There Once Was A Woman Made of Glass (2022)


There was once a woman made of glass.

Each transparent fragment stitched together.

Crystalline, double-glazed, stained,

But mostly the standard stuff

Seen on windows and bus shelters.

Cheap glasses,

Candles, computer screens,

Cigarette dishes,

Light bulbs and snow globes

And those funny little figurines

You see at grandma’s house.


When the woman walked in the sun,

The sunlight would reflect

And shimmer off her skin.

Bouncing with the movement

Of her translucent limbs.

A faint chime of song

Sifting through in colour spectrums

That washed over her like

Waterfalls and springs.


When the sky no longer enriched

With baby blues, or abundant

With candy-floss clouds,

Was heavy with sheep’s wool.

Dirtied by soil and mud,

Raindrops would fall

And scatter across her body.

Patter, pitter, patter.

Collecting like constellations,

Trickling over her crystal-clear frame

As fragile beads strung together.


People far and wide

Would gather to see

The woman made of glass.

Wonder taking the space

Of their eyes with glutenous intent.

Children peering through her flesh

And passing a smile, or a wave,

To their friend who laughed

On the other side.


The woman would

Grin and bear it,

Her smile restrained and


Sombre with staleness.

Disdain for the familiarity

Of commodity.

Her nails digging into

The cracking surface

Of her palms.

Faint splinters appearing

Like washed-out veins

Over her hands and fingers.


Day by day, the same charade.

More and more a centrepiece

To folks near and wide.

As the months tired and

Grew weary of monotony,

The sickly whites of watchers’ eyes

Bulged with red worms and maggots.


The woman craved so much for skin

That would rot and fester

Under the earth.


But feared her crystal skin would

Last forever;

Splinters on the earth like

Common grass blades.


Or worse - hung as a chandelier

In some cavalier mansion,

With gorging white walls

By her side and

Tacky marble flooring

Under her feet.

High class poodles

(With high hats and pearls

Choking their elastic necks)

Cackling like hyenas,

Shaking her glass frame

With fatal merit.


The thought made her brittle with fear.


Three monotonous weeks later

A boy of about ten

And a weary mother,

walked by chalky cliffs

On sands as soft as sunshine.

In the dancing sunlight,

Something rounded and shiny

Glimmered in between the grains.

The boy of about ten

Approached the object

And dug his hands into the gold,

Clamping his fingers around

A small, glass head.

As he pulled it from its rest,

His curious green eyes

Met the cold, dead stare

Of the head without a body

And he smiled:

“Mother, can I take this home?”.

A faint nod gave his answer,

And the boy of about ten

Skipped in glee over a

Thousand translucent shards,

Scattered, that he did not see.


Devil's Breath (2022)


It is a sombre morning.

Frost kisses each windowpane

And leaves lipstick stains

Or ice and snow on the touches

Of blueing skin.


A mist of rain and wind

Sprays against spindles of branches

That have malted their leaves.


The ground is opaque with death.

Veins in the earth frozen over,

Splinter through ashy grains.

Stalks are brittle and decaying

And lay like bodies in a morgue.


The caw of black-hooded birds

Echo through dribs and drabs

Of the sky, sheathed in a grey shroud

And speckled with splinters of the night.

Eyes, pools of orange and yellow,

Reflect the whites of lampposts

That choke the empty pavements

With their creeping fingers.


In the deep horizon a town abodes.

Houses lined up shoulder to shoulder,

Slender and stout.

Shades of peat and pestilence,

Thickened with climbing vines

And burrowed in bushes

Adorned with thorns and spiderwebs.

Flames dance away in wooden breasts

And trickle out of scorched cavities

That protrude from slated scalps.


Beyond the thicket, a cliff

Cloaked in devil’s breath

Watched over a mountainous castle.

The intimidating skeleton

Is cast in iron and brick.

Mortar seeps out like bile

And oil spills that seek to

Swallow the sea.

The cracks along its flesh

Deeper in depth

Then the very pits of hell.


Towers pierce the heavens,

Embellished with open snarls

And gnashing teeth that guard

The fortress from forces

That seek to destroy it.

Glass eyes coated in ash and dust

Hold in secrecy

the recluse and deranged.

Shifting in shadows;

Dancing in dusk;

Basking in the bowels

Of their ecstatic lunacy.


Reminiscence of echoes past

Sound through vacant hallways,

Spit out passing life

With bitter tendency.

Hollow frames hold nothing

But the faded red of lost souls.

Eye sockets like caverns.

Insects scratch at the bone.

That ghoulish nature

A faint touch from flushed cheeks.


The castle is silent

Aside from jaded breaths

Of breeze that whistle through


Blow over velvet drapes,

Tattered; frayed; marked

With bullet holes of decomposition

Below the torn threads,

A graveyard of moths.


Upon a long table

Leers a single candle.

It drips with antiquated wax.

The faded flush of smoke

Drifts from a crumbled wick.

A feast lines the dusted cloth.

Pus protrudes from fouled meats,

baring bone. Moulded breads.

A flurry of flies’ drinks the

Putrefying sap.

Their bellies full

Of everything but life.


Slowly (2018)


If self-deprivation was a hobby,

she would be an artist

and the paint strokes

would be her tears.

Waterworks, watercolours

make the painting complete

and viewers, near and far

appreciating sombre,

as if they were approaching



(But without the cataclysms of broken

nights and melancholy laughter,

only spectators to madness).


If self-harm was a game

she would be a player

in the gambling fields of Las Vegas.

Rolling, throwing and spinning dice

with the Devil on her shoulder.

And the angel,

having lost its morals,

takes the back-seat, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Basking in the formality of exchange between

deep-set whispers cemented in her mind.

And yet, most peculiar, the shadow

who lies fondly behind her

sits up, walks and perches over.

Then, a sharp cut creates a fondness

for the girl who glances after.


But the pain is as sweet

as a cyanide-kiss.

As warm as hands around your neck;

impressions of fingertips.

As delicate as death is to a dying bird

whose neck is broken.

Sorrow no further apart

than sea is to sand.

Slowly breaking, day-by-day;

and as the sun dies

it is born again into a solemn world

with rain, and thunder, and hail

and an unbreakable darkness

with light shining only dimly,

cascading deep shadows and shapes

and reflections.

But if self-love was a person

it'd be a stranger.

Passed in the street, in the park,

on the cross-bridge between

road and water.

In a face of an old woman,

who weary and tired,

drapes her hands heavy by her side,

thick with the handles of plastic bags

filled with food; food for one, only one.

In a man, whose hoodie

shielded you from the sight of his sadness,

and blinded you to avoid him,

fearful of the stereotypes

that you made mockery of.


But the only friend you know is

in the mirror, the shattered splinters;

the icy glare; the warped reflection.

The fear in your lungs, coating your breath

with thick blood and water.

The wild-kiss of loneliness stiff in your joints,

frost in your muscles, winter in your bones

and you lay stuck on that bed, never to move,

only to drown-alone.

With only your scarred hand to hold.


And the Devil on your shoulder.


Sleeping With Noise (2018)


When sleep comes it comes with promises;

fulfilment for a mind tired,


and too alive.

Sleep tight dear heart.

Awake with morning,

rise with the sun.


all I do is sleep.

Tired mind, no rest for the weak.

But all I do is sleep.

Moments change when my head upon my pillow,

rested, falls asleep.

My mind alive with pictures, falling deeper.

Consciousness forgotten.




Wait, am I dreaming or dying?

My body filled with nightmares,



eyes open,

dark shadows,



Falling again. No rest for the wicked.

I do not wake. I am never awake.

What is living?

If I cannot escape to the moving pictures,

I am not living.

So I choose to sleep, where the worlds are only mine.

Better than life.

Filled with better people,

better feelings,

better thoughts.


But still filled with noise.


A Call for Light (2018)


The cold, harsh winter.

The piercing touch of rain

but the glimmer of the sunshine

escaping through the window pane

barely touches me.


Hardly there at all,

but there all the same:


not a mask, nor a superpower

nor a way to escape the dreaded sting of time,

staring eyes, staring right through me.


Anonymity cannot save me from the daytime,

cannot spare me in the night

where the moonlight never reaches me.


Translucency cannot keep me in the picture,

not even in the dark-wood of the frame

or the nail, struck hard, grasping the wall.

I cannot even be the dents in the plaster

where paintings, defeated in battle, give way

and fall, crash onto the floor.


Not even the glass splinters, that scattered

dare to slash, gash, cut and prick.

Invisibility does not allow my scars to remain

on those that endeavour to pick me up.


Does not allow me to make my mark,

scratch out my name onto their skin;

their hands; their hearts.


It is not my virtue, not my weight

nor my choice, but certainly my fate;

it is my mockery and my oppressor,


yet it thrives in my blood,

occupies my face, breathes my lungs,

Beats in vain for it is my name.


I beg you light

unwrap my crystalline.

Thaw my transparency.

Burn my cellophane;

bless me bright, aglow, even hazy.

Gift me luminosity, brilliance, cloudiness,

radiance-but I fear-do not turn me into shade.


Paper Bird (2017)

It's like you're broken glass

and the shards, they last.

You're going to die one day,

might as well make it fast.

Just reach for the knife,

turn off the light,

and take one breath

as you take your life.

No point in living

another day.

Might as well stay away

from the happy memories

that flood your way.

Come on, bring it on

you just don't belong.

You better end it now

before they steal your song.

Little songbird cry,

let's hear your sound.

Better sing real high

before they knock you down.

Oh too late, you're like a


holding everything

so you don't fly away.

Oh wait, you're underground.

Push the soil out.

But it's in your lungs.

Don't breathe-don't breathe.


Like a magnet to the earth

except you don't work

with the physics of existing. Oh,

you better runaway

before they steal you away.

Oh too late, your body's hurt.

Now, little songbird

make your music. But they turn it off.

Oh too late, they've already broken your record.

Smashed in, like you're paper thin

crumbled paper, in the bin

set alight, burn you up.

Open up, you're fire dust

in the ground, my little paper bird

you're soil now, can't grow back. 


Submerged (2016)


I know where you’ve been,

Know where you’ve been hiding.

Somewhere beneath the stars.

Catching your breath at last

And you know that everyone

Has been lost somewhere down the road before.

And you only seem to see the sun

Reflected above the water’s floor.

Then it’s all gone.

Sundown has come

And you’re resting your head on the hard ground

Thinking about times so far now,

Wondering why oceans lie

Their waves upon the shore, crashing down.


Heavens nowhere to be seen

And you’re walking down the road that leads

To nothing.

Come clean, you’re alone again.

Slipping beneath the stars

Only one more breath to last

Come clean, you’re lost it seems.

‘But don’t give up now’ you say;

The road to nowhere

Leads to something,

The road to somewhere

Comes from nothing

And your footsteps won’t be forgotten.


Come clean, your feet are moving.


First step, the birds are talking.

Next step, the sky is calling.

Third step, you’re nearly there now.

Fourth step, the waves are crashing down.

Last step and you’re above the clouds


Alone, beyond waters green.


Dead Funny (2016)


You killed me in so many ways.

Stood by my grave and laughed,

just laughed.

And they passed false tears down their face,

tore the white flowers from their vase while

you pretended to be sickened by this grief.

This death of such sweet innocence,

that they forgot in life,

oh how you danced around my coffin and laughed.

Just laughed.

Fed the mourners with your forged pity,

while the white bells rung in their heads;

oh the sound of death,

how sweet it must sound to you.

Sickly sweet, but how you forgot.

A ghost can haunt, and that I'll do.

So just remember, before you laugh at me.

Just laugh.

The dead can laugh too.


Closer than Strangers (2016)


In the window, the passers by

Look ahead to avert their glance,

Away the whispers become a sound,

a sound no more bearable than a heavy hand.


Through the plain and painted glass

The strangers pretend the dark is light,

And shine their lamps in the burning sun

While you tremble in the forgotten shade.


Mirrored through the transparent pane

You scream, shout, wail and cry

But the strangers, unaware begin to dance,

So you weep, louder and louder again.


But still the strangers don't hear your echoes,

Their feet still embracing the cobbled ground

So in doubt, you begin to copy their feet

Then the strangers turn and behind the window,

There your friends wave and smile.

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