Some of my poetry, which is influenced by chaos magic, magic and mysticism. This genre can be interpreted in a few different ways. For me it means it is influenced by visions, dreams, meditations and psychic experiences, which sometimes appear in the fiction just as they were in life.
A few poems from the book:
Daisies (This was my (dedication to my muse Ino)
Don’t kill the daisies by cutting the grass
Let it grow over the street
Let it grow over my house
Let it grow over my head
Don’t kill the daisies by cutting the grass
Let it grow over my life
Let it grow over the world
Let it grow over the real
Fictional Rituals
The liturgy in the story
Set me alight.
Was it completely fiction
Or a real rite?
I’ve used it so many times-
It never gets tired.
What’s real is what is exciting,
And not what’s prescribed.
Emerald
Emerald, unfold! Are you alive?
I have heard that crystals live.
Walk, on glinting polished points.
Talk, a rush of cold green smoke.
Fly across the room.
I recall a fairy girl who hid behind an emerald.
She was fire, dressed in red,
And used the emerald to shield her
From an airy presence.
I love that shade, like summer grass.
Love the surface, cut at angles.
Place it in my jewel box.
Innocence
One day I lost my innocence.
Though nothing happened to me then,
I realised it could.
An emblem of a skull and worm
Is following me everywhere.
I wish it would.
When I went down the rabbit hole
I saw the bones and buried pots.
I could have been a corpse down there,
Or from a compost heap.
I was a stranger to their realm-
A corpse would be familiar
With all the tunnelled roads of Hell
And with its rooms, that deep.
I died to life to be reborn.
All that I was turned into dust.
The worms had eaten all I knew,
And all that I was sure of.
I dared to speak the words of one
Who ‘always wanted more of.’
Spirit Birds
Looking after spirit birds is now my full-time job.
A chance to show I care for birds
Who fell out of their nest in spring,
And birds that spent their life in cages
Pecking what they’re given,
And birds spat out by hunting cats,
And birds that float on top of ponds,
Birds alive a minute ago,
And baby birds with open mouths
That starve so easily.
Sifting Words
Cinders sounds soft and brown,
Like cinnamon and cocoa.
Words are musical notes that tap:
Icing sugar, circle, sprinkle.
We are baking gingerbread men,
Softly sifting words.
Curl them round your tongue and speak-
Poem crumble, crust encircled.
Take the biscuit, spell out purpose,
Teatime number-crunching verb.