I’ll kiss you

Grey 

And take forever from your eyes

A romance like grit under my teeth,

I choose You. Your streets, dirt and

wind up my skirt.

I was a little girl when I first heard
the earth sigh.
In a shuffling party dress
I saw my mother’s eyes
Unoccupied.
Like an air drowned fish through a
fish eye lens
encircled by blue irony
of blood gushed vessels and molten kohl of now and then 
And then and now and again and again.
But there was no penny in 
a slippery fist.
Like a speechless riptide
wading in my lungs
like the business as usual comings of air
or bedlam,
It was what it was.
Then the next day normality
the primary school pretence
Knowing, but not quite
like a child does but does not, that
I must not tell.
Not of the finger stuffed mouth,
bloated bones or teeth marks. Not of 
the hours afterwards when her 
silence carried a scent which
was not her own. Of body dank perfume
and the clasping odour of bruises and sweat. 
Of festering rage and hysteria. 
Of her madness.
An oily bondaged madness,
a madness now in me. 
And sometimes I remember her when I scream. But not him at all.

- Rosa Kaftan

Once again I find myself on the precipice of starting afresh. It seems the frenzied tumble from one continent to another, a healed heart, New York City and a need for sleep have eclipsed my commitment to writing, which is a paradox unto itself considering this is a period in which I have the most to write about. To remedy is this very pert and pretty avenue. Despite having had a blog before or rather, a very theatrical online record of every torn ligament of my heart (!), these pages will be devoted entirely to the exercise of good content and better writing. Well, we shall see anyway…