Monthly Archives: February 2015

Too Woman

Even though I’ve pushed a human out of my uterus, will I still not be considered man enough for the job? Or do I have to push a pram up and down a hill everyday whilst carrying your shopping bags to prove that I can take the weight of corporate conditions and juggle the affairs of a company? Is my backbone just too strong? Is my determination too intimidating? Am I just too woman for your mans’ world?


Sunday Evening 22nd February 2015


Everyone hands me something along the path like a video game heroine picking up treats and bonus levels as she pursues the ultimate goal…something endless-a sequel every season.

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From outside myself I hold myself, kiss myself, play with myself, tell myself it’s going to be okay. ‘You’re so beautiful’. ‘If only you could see yourself laying in my arms – a new born baby, a lifeless corpse.’

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Spiritual things are still happening without a god.


Disney can kiss my black arse

Oh my god. I don’t ever want to walk around with two princesses, but if I have to, then please God, let them at least be black ones. So tired of seeing little bits of afro creeping out from underneath a long blonde wig and tiara. It is universally accepted that a princess is bright white with platinum blonde hair – the fairer the better. My princesses are never going to have to wear a puffy dress to prove they’re royalty and they’re definitely not going to have to wear a white mask to know that they’re beautiful.



Disney can kiss my black arse, and kiss my little girls’ feet.

When you get stuck in a 5* hotel in Abu Dhabi:

1) eat everything you possibly can at the gourmet buffet because life is about having no regrets.

2) rent a swimming costume that is two sizes too big for you and swim on the roof terrace because life is about having no regrets.

3) take a dump whilst calling down to reception on the bathroom phone.

4) have a lot of fun on the bidet.

5) lie naked in the queen size bed lit up by the city lights and forgive anyone that’s ever wronged you.


thinking is boring; boring is thinking

The best people don’t think about life; they just do it. At the moment I feel like I’m wasting too much of my life thinkingthinking about feelings and reasonings and questions. All the thinking in the world cannot alter what is actually happening. I want to do something. I am tired of thinking. All the thinking renders me powerless. Or I think because I feel powerless. Either way I am impotent and ineffective. I’m acted upon rather than motivating the movements of my day. At one time love felt fun; at one time it killed me; now it is all of those things but shrouded in boringness. Dying is boring; recounting my heart-make and heart-break is boring; wanting more is boring; hoping is boring; loving is boring. The trouble is that I’m too loyal to my heart and to human goodness and to the power of faith to drop this love like so many sensible people would do. In my world love conquers all. That’s why I write romantic dramas. I can’t see beyond the page to a time and space where things end badly, where lovers go their separate ways, where love isn’t enough. Whether it proves to be enough or not, in my world it cannot be any other way. So maybe I am cursed by my own way of thinking. Nevertheless I am transitioning to a place of resignation, propelled by fatigue and boredom.

Don't think about it too much too much too much

Don’t think about it too much too much too much too much

To the bitch that stole my ring in the restaurant yesterday…

To the bitch that stole my ring in the restaurant yesterday, I hope my memories don’t grow cold on your finger and give you frostbite and you have to have it amputated, nor that my burdens become too heavy to carry and snap your wrist, nor that my love turns into a rash and goes green and you feel so ugly that you never dare to go outside to a restaurant and steal a bitch’s ring again, you bitch.

No image pretty enough to represent the stolen article.

No image pretty enough to represent the stolen article.

Ebony Goddess

I found a goddess out under the sun. An ebony statue chiseled with the heat of hard times. Her skin so well worn it was brand new as the day Mother Africa was born. Her smile unfading as darkness and light rose and sunk around her. Nations were revived at her feet, each of us sprouting up between her toes. Her bells jingled and our chains fell as she walked; heaven shaking whenever she laughed. Of all of the desirous fingers, mine were the first to touch her and feel the smoothness of the river of life now running through my veins. Her truth enlightened the elements.

She walked towards me and I fell to my knees, humbled to feel the sun draw so near.


 Thank you.










1 + 1 =

101 ways I’m going to read you wrong.

101 ways I’m going to miscalculate your explanations.

101 times I’m going to call you unsolvable.

1 + 1 = 101 fails at this test before 1 + 1 = 2.


This Feeling


This feeling that’s crept into every nook and cranny, that doesn’t sleep, but loves it when I do because dreamers never sleep. This feeling that lives at the corners of my smile and in the cracks of my exterior. This feeling that mingles itself with words then sings songs and speaks on the TV screen and flows from the mouths of oblivious passersby. This feeling that cares nothing for my life, but cares only for the life it bountifully leads in the grave it’s making of me.



Today I leave you for another place. I go to fill my mind with something new. To remember the lost memory of a place from whence I was born. I go to shed my skin on the sand and to wash my soul in the sea. I will look at people. Really look at people, once again, with fresh eyes free of jealousy, judgement and contempt. I don’t expect to never cry again. I don’t expect to never be racked with fear, but I expect to find the pearl of balance that I will always hold at my centre.

And I will return.