BLOOMING ON MY OWN

I was an urn for your thoughts and feelings

That you copiously planted to assert

Your truths and dogmas, imbibe me with meaning,

Scattering seeds in my confused dirt. 

Were you bitter that you could not seep through 

The crisp soil of my body, make a home 

Inside me with all your fears and traumas 

And prosper from the richness of my loam? 

You left before the harvest, and today,

You look at me in the prime of my power. 

From my own thoughts my persona springs,  

From the turf so fresh stems a flower. 

I am content blooming on my own.

THE AERIAL ARTIST

arched,

she demands of her body the impossible, to be fully

and wholly connected with the 

ground, her little head in a cap that wipes

any differences between genders,

yearns for the cemented surface.

the natural curve of her buttocks drives 

the men and the women in the audience insane,

her legs dance on the surface of her penetrators.

she makes it look like joy, like poetry,

she makes it look so easy.

and yet if one were to follow her unprepared,

his spine would break and skull would crash on the ground.

TO BE ALIVE

walking through

byres road highburgh road west princes street beaumont gate dowanhill street great western road

the sun, a helicopter of brightness,

hurls everyone. la lumière,

daughter of daylight,

laughter that breaks its back on the 

pavements. the eyes

close and enclose within themselves

a simulacrum of this radiant world, the lustre

being a mere crust of the miracle,

the permanence permeating pupils.

affirmation: to be

                         squinting

                                 on this sunny

                                           scottish

                                                     day