An intimacy within personal knowledge exists between us.
It isn’t in regard to exposure, or physical action that elicits quite a rewarding sound up against your neck.
No. A red hot rush of blood, a dirtied blade. A proclamation of title.

We exchange looks,
Knowing exactly where the words form. Two epidermis incisions, alike in nature and purpose.
I feel the stirring in my lower abdomen when we part,
Tracing a finger over the open slice,
Which spelt out your name.

The ****** I was slipped on my tongue
When you directed your grasp underneath my skirt,
I accepted with vigour,
Tracing a finger over the open slice,
Which spelt out your name.

ONE (I) - 28/7/24.

We are walkers of a tightrope.
As a result of passing message, we begin in the country park.
Branches crunch, unaware. We approach the edge of the lake, and look over.
A fluffy duckling, perfect and yellow and dreadfully helpless; it calls out to us from its spillway siphon.
A towering barrier divides this victim of nature from the water in which it belongs to.
The passage of time created this tragedy.
Legs much too short to jump high enough for Salvation, legs much too feeble to push forwards against a current that challenges with a harsh shove backwards.
You and I stare,
Knowing that this decision of life is not ours to make.

TWO (II) - 28/7/25

You and I are both the duckling now.
We stand atop a concrete Purgatory — there is only slight faith of getting back up, but the darkness that heads downwards seems a more logical route.
Two onlookers pass by, and they acknowledge our flaws.
The weakened nature of our bodies, and our lack of determination. Four eyes that only glance downwards, accepting.
They peer, knowing that reaching a hand out to grasp
Our desperately hungry souls
Would result in their own deaths.

Everyone is a duckling, ensnared within a spillway siphon.

In the turn of October’s Grace, He spins His web too far out.
Anchor points, auxiliary spirals, primary radil.
The wind catches, the silken tomb shaking, trembling; His dearest creation frays and weeps for His assistance. To no avail, as this breeze is a nasty one.
Goodbye, His countless attempts at security. His claw, His tarsus reaches out to the Ether for something promising.


Flawless kills and chelicerae snap in repeat. A Death’s Head Hawkmoth isn’t a welcoming victim. In the stands of His disrupted home, a wing tangles tight.
This intruder ***** with vigour, and He does not bite. His inability to take flight is one that He recognises with questions towards His potency.

This intruder is an anomaly; he cuts Her free.