Wednesday 15 November 2023

Witenestaple (draft)

Cath Kidston blitz spirit laid down 

a hand in September, Cold & Sick 

with a paperweight 

as my groin the AQA papers fold

my consent, snaps braid-pins 

with a naive tongue blunted & dumb

wrens to offer me a home or shelter.


Between Beech & Red Oak,

forgotten in the forest of Blean,

Back-breed flags gone morbid

to fetishes what hard choices 

go muddling through right now 

alone cold on a sofa watching 

Little Miss Sunshine to

fetal fondled position, 

a grown woman on my Teenage pulse

holes are bedspread

to textile Provence Rose 

Pink tines filled with shame 

& touch, a human warmth's

in the small of your back

the smell of Ilford multigrade developer 

makes the latent image visible

under the Chin of Headmaster

Rare Peppermint Green Metallic Jaguar 

life hangs sucking

from bonnets twisted searches 

its Pale Dark Stone interior

lollback the membrane,  

half bodies epilogue

afraid of childhoods 

wrecked out smothers a wooden spoon

from Tipperary to nape shaped

the solemnity of Mary. 

I am your nighttime Buser,

your furred Menstrual poke 

your house undulled 

I am your swooning Learning lips wet

to your toes 

your past-loves blotted out,

I am all these things to Suck & sole

my young blood pricks this tarnished place

saved from bed-wet dawns & leather truncheons,

saved from loves death its earliest companion, 

saved from Mothers breathe. 

To be cleaned in lugworms, 

whelks quantity of roses & leaves

& bows what else chokes cairns 

of white posts, Pederasty 

& English Sans serif 

smug on mugs & tea towels 

you accumulate in Polka-Dot tins 

 wear your hair in a victory roll

& sew a cushion cover over

rare Heath Fritillary butterflies 

on Thanet Way Shingle, 

the songs of Nightingales 

phoning Childline on Sunday,

in a thicket of sores


to come forward in affluent villages.