Society’s supermarkets selling you lies,
Sweet and savory because the truth is tasteless.
Words prepacked in plastic boxes,
Their best-before-dates washed out because they've already expired yesterday.
Keep smiles frozen so they’ll never run out of stock.
And rotten teeth and brittle bones have never been so popular before.
Coat-hanger-shaped torsos on the meat counter,
And skinny spider legs on sale.
High-heeled and suntanned and bleached and naked
Spineless with bony spines and hollow eyes
I can see them every day running through the hall
Only to grab that one last piece of beauty.

~ 

i stand before this kneeling bench,
no sanctuary of our making;
its walls here open thrown,
on stained glass windows found
strewn upon the sand,
its tide-washed, polished glass,
my feet find holy ground;
my sandals left at driftwood door.
incense burns upon the wind,
its salty spray is mingled,
with my own upon
these joy-stained cheeks.
the worshippers that went before
have built a temple out of wood,
hewn, untouched by human hand,
a steeple to the sky is lifted,
and within its shelter,
remnants of a ring of fire,
smoke once lifted to the
heavens by believers true;
this church i see through salted eyes,
this scape awash in teeming life,
here i drink this living wine;
its ebb, its rush, its living in
each moment without need,
to connect each dot, or even speak.

i long to live at razor's edge,
where sands and tides collide;
the rocky shoals where dungeness,
find sustenance and shelter;
the coves where seabirds feed their young,
above the sandstone cliffs;
the bar beneath a setting sun,
in flames awash in waves;
find comfort ‘neath
the storm-shaped pine,
feel longing in the stinging air.
these cheeks that weep,
though want of tears,
not in sorrow mind you,
but in joy of freedom,
the lure of siren alter call;
of a close horizon on a misty morn,
the haunting breath of orca,
just beyond my sight;
the bark of ocean’s lion,
the roar of distant waves;
with these my prayers i send,
as i offer this my praise;
this church of no man’s making,
here i come for cleansing,
to breathe the life that i am given!

~

*post script.

by nature we are spiritual creatures;
spiritual... not religious.  reading your
sea-scaped prose inspires me; planning
changes in my own life even more so!!
it is said that we return to what we know
best... the ocean calls...

Maybe it's not so bad
If they just break up now
It's been ages and she is unhappy.
Yet somehow I feel like
Her problem isn't her relationship.
She is creating this within herself
God knows I've been there
That the first *** after a long relationship
Really does your body good
But after a few you just need to admit
That it isn't taking you anywhere...

But then she said it...

sometimes you just need to **** each other up until you learn to respect each other and then try again

Yeah. Maybe that's been the point all along.

I hate love poems

But I want to write you one

I hate love poems 

But you are the muse behind mine.

I hate love knots

But with these gifts I hope you forget me not.

I hate love notes

But here's one. 

I hate love letters

But this one is about you.

I hate love bites

But please cover my body with yours.

I hate love handles

But I hope mine help you find  your balance

I hate love songs

But they make sense when I'm with you.

I hate love stories 

but you are my favourite.

I hate love at first sight stories

But you prove me wrong.

I hate love

But I love you.

See my confusion.

Welcome to the century of diet pills and hospital bills;
Of diet coke and menthol smoke;
Of thigh gaps and what?

Of girls throwing a mask of bones over themselves;
Disguising themselves,
Hiding every inch of skin from prying eyes and lighthearted lies of 'you dont need to lose any weight;
but doesn't your sister look real good staring at her plate,
And your moms diet seems to have gone really good;
Tell me, does she even eat any food?'

So when I started shrinking I didn't know who to blame.
But right now in the body society rejects I can't find an inch of me that is not ashamed .

Of how my ideas of perfection have been poisoned from the minute I was born.

Growing up I've watched my sister evaporate,
Picking up habits at the dinner table
My eyes fixate;
On every mouthful she lets past her hungry lips.
Counting every glass of water, counting every sip.

Tell me why,
Why girls of our generation think worth is calculated in pounds and inches
Or why empty stomachs and shaking palms are somehow congratulated.
Why our collar bones turn into competitions nobody ever wins.

Welcome to the century of starving girls
Of pretty, starving girls.
Of pretty, dying girls.

All strung
out
       on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
      that injected
the next defense
      to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
            of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
      the truth behind
the doors of
           beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
             vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
       in an ocean of sighs

Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
                       drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
    sick doctor
who shares
          this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing

In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
   who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
         the stars,
receiving their
            shadows
           of light
      like a blessing
   upon my
   nettle-stung
    tongue
and
       rise