New Silly Merpeople Poem

Does what it says on the tin. With a nod to Bowie.

We Could Be Merpeople (Just For One Day)

When our pens fail take me with you to the canal,
I will tell you where I hid the tails a fin secret
for just such an occasion when we were at an low ebb
we will make beds of discarded shopping trollies
bouncy balls will be our erratic pearls
wear crisp packet tiaras and beer can finery,
we will sing haunting songs under bridges
taking the rattle of train tracks as our bass
make flutes from bent piping
lure those who are lost to join us
with our beautiful off key music
and as the sun sets we will shake off the fading scales
clamber back to land on unsteady feet

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New Poem

So it was Fat Roland’s birthday and at some point after sambuca and wiggling a plastic fish called polly in his ear someone stole my bike lights. Wrote this in my head while cycling to work does anyone else find lines start coming to them when riding?

To the Bastard Who Stole my Bike Lights
(Sambuca Night Riding)

Thank you.
Thank you for giving me a reason to roar at the night ‘’fuck you’’
Thank you for unsealing my anger
I was roaring at those coils of smoke in my mind
Who shout awful things over and over
Today they are wisps and shrinking scorch marks
Thank you for adding anger to the beer and whisky and Sambuca
Which caused the bruised elbow and grazed foot
As I germolened it I was reminded of how once
I used to want to live in a body that hurt
Felt I needed an exterior to match the mind
Wanted people to know I hurt
Now I write instead and cats cradle these tangled thoughts

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New Poem Advice Gladly Taken

So have been working on a theme of work encompassing desire and feminism. Well it could be argued its one of my consistent ones but its been more obvious of late and here we have this piece. It’s been drafted but once so advice is gratefully received. It started s free writing in workshop so it is in prose poem form for now but I have feeling it would like line breaks perhaps.

On the difficulty of Loving Men

Today is as warm as the last making my head feel heavy and pulpy like a melon I have been wheeling its weight with my feet on the creaking frame of my new old bike, leaning at the table for a quick getaway. My writing companion is suffused with new love I can see it coming from her pores she has found a good man to love and give in return it is helping her ink stretch further. At the next bench a man is loudly saying he ‘s never abused women so why do they act like such cunts when he chats them up he spits this last word and I know a man like this would seek to pluck it from the mouths of women who own their bodies name them as they choose who lovingly roll the word cunt from their tongue to their lovers I am avoiding that whole show and learning my lust is drilling deep in dreams and making innocuous phrases instruments tuned to bawdy I am mocked by my subsconscious and this heat waking roiling in a sheet looking for the naked body I just saw sure I felt a and on my flesh the desire is brambles this heat and deluge summer has grown it large and knotted I am unsure if it would support fruit the raspberry has an orifice it’s a filthy fruit for capping tongues.

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eurgh not written for a while this came out half cut half cocked

Did several things you should not do tonight and had a few minutes of first catching my breath and then just feeling free in Alexandra park I am used to a place that gets properly dark in patches and easily forget there is a sense for me of absolute calm in the true dark. Not a real proper piece but here is how it came out just now.

I cycle through Alexandra park down the avenue of yet to be felled trees as if light and space is safety for those that fell the centenary trunks I want to gift them my blind ride my pathetic front light rendered a guttering candle and I remember the dark is my velvet friend I calm my raw breath and hear it and the clunking gears of my bike and nothing else it stops past the unemptied bins now made slumbering guys and remember dark and green is peace where I am from we lock parks as if gates and locks stop people we have grave yards with low walls all the youth know the calm of green and dark lack of light is not fear to me

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1st Arran Poem

This poem is dedicated to some amazing poets I am proud to call friends co horts and fellow adventurers Rebecca Audra Smith and Lauren Bolger.. We are staying in Lamlash bay and today inspired by conversation and ribaldry I wrote this:


We are basking sharks in the Lochranza whisky glow of our shared verse and kinship and I  feel us three women, poets, myth weavers are writing our true selves after years of word stumbles spooling lines out like kites high wire truths that cross like lightning. Together we are turning over the shells that hide our seal courage. We lift our vinyl crack voices to the sea and watch our black dogs minaturise and scurry in the surf.

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Frida Sculpted Poem From Becca’s Prompt

Been sort of off the writing wagon (doing my usual scribbling around the edges of notebooks saving scraps on my phone stuff) but here is the first proper poem for a while here is Becca’s excellent prompt from Frida Kahlo’s words:

 and my sculpted poem from it (I’ve kept the description I gave Becca of it as the first line)


mine is all non love expired love dust ex love:


frightened at seeing life opened


distant, I have wanted to explain, that I can’t return. 

I have forgotten you. the nights. The water. the parting.  your heart. 


Everything is untouched. I wish my touch.  

your eyeball is ancient shell. 


dress the same one found half-asleep on the dirty sidewalk of some street.


your skin, your eyes and your hair. 

You know all, all touch. the nerves, the dust, the cells.  


everything experienced in non-glances. 

You felt it, that’s why you let that ship take my eyes.

Anna Percy





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Poem For Becca At John Ryland’s

Becca read with the wonderful Mebdh McGuckian at the weekend and I wrote this:


I am late and sweating cider the city hall clock announces it surround sound and I realise I have never before heard it peal. I get lost in our city and pass half moon street then finally I hear your familiar tones reverberate down the steps among the bulb flowers and I am so proud and want to tell how when I reached the room there was a woman who sat as in prayer hands clasped who closed her eyes in absolute peace each time you opened a poem and how now you give your words the shape they need hanging them out perfectly spaced in the air.

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