Bleached-moan-bone knuckle-tree flowers
skulk over skull-stony roots, granite-cold with permanence
amid misty swathes of cotton-grass, the tenderness
of grave-diggers humming water-hollowed rock and sleepless moss
Under the crab-apple she lays, she lies, a laze-stricken Lazarus in deathly completeness
forever, now, wholly fractured among us piss-ant poets
wholly critiqued and human. Holy

Hairy Girls & Silk Blouses (please, a little humour)

 I’ve known people

to blatantly balk at my underarm hair.

In fact, they’d feel

quite queasy,

find it

out-and-out odious

to have gleaned a glimpse

I wonder how we had come to be like this

so out of love with nature

so niggled by naturalness

so loathing of Lucinda’s long-haired legs

so baffled by Belinda’s burgeoning bristle

after that, I realised I too was

unaccountably uncomfortable

when my arms were lightly lifted

like swans necks
Then of course, I’d be overcome

by the urge to have

underarms like newborn cuckoos

those brazenly bald little baby birds

as little-big boys bow down to a fully waxed female

all skimpy and oiled, as slick as a seal

I think I must reassess my appeal
Oh, but that’ll never do!

The time it takes to strip the skin

to highlight the hair, to neaten the nails

the time it takes to buff the body

to dodge

the derrières



is time less spent

in intelligence
so you see, rebellion’s set in

the razors been relegated

to the shadows of the shelf

to the corner of the cabinet

to the bottom of the bathroom bin

the unaffected new me, the wild woman of wonga has 

taken over the bikini line

and the whole length of the legs

I struggle, now, with skirts

any shorter than 

ankle length

well, girly clothes do no justice to natural Woman

as hairy girls and silk blouses do not mix, so I’m
selling up and shipping out

to a place where I can beat my drum and

bellydance bare-assed beneath

voluminous veils of un-vanity

where I can pee standing

if I so choose

yes, as well I might

urinate in the upright

and in broad daylight


if I so choose.

And, to answer a question

I’ll quaintly quantify that

I’ve no beef

with men who don’t shave


Who wantonly wangle out of

waxing the wayward on winky and

deleteriously depilating their downy derrieres


maybe instead I’ll raise them a salute

while welcoming all to my haven

for the happily hirsute


We lay bleeding, scratching the soil for reasons amongst the kindling. I’ll be first to fan the fire at our feet, simply tofeel

life is precious. Disregarded.

Flowers to blind men.

We are lost, unthinking, turning round inside ourselves seeking a quiet corner where there is none to rest our heads motion gnawing emotion, the rat of suppression ripping flesh from the pyre of bones that

once knew joy

look into all those guarded eyes, if you still see with your soul past flaccid bodies bent on their daily grind, cool actors that we become. Life, the carousel of consuming, not real, fed to us line by line, line by line yet somewhere beneath the practiced faces

we tend our joy, we tend our pain, alone together as hermits in caves

and just like you, I am lifted



I too want to join the fold but cannot be the stranger we have become

Characters in conflict

Yvette Cazalet

Conflict. It’s around us every single day in one form or another. Maybe it doesn’t seem that way, but scratch away at the shiniest of lives and beneath the veneer there’s sure to be conflict. Can’t do without it. It’s the stuff of life. Of interesting lives lived.

Of course, people don’t necessarily like or invite conflict. Would you? No? Me neither. In fact I’d say I’m severely allergic to it – probably based on too much early exposure… A theme touched on in my current manuscript. But it’s conflict that changes us. Moves us forward. Forces our hand at big decisions. It’s what we respond to in Story. And it can take on many guises, for example:

In Patrick Suskind’s novella, ‘The Pigeon’ – (and if you haven’t read it, you really should. But if you need more convincing, check out this in-depth review In short…

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Daily Writing Prompt

thats what I am and all that’s infinitely remembered, all those times I’ve left things undone like full-stops with tails, like pages of text in pencil half rubbed away by the action of trying to find the line to cross, the stream to leap when its just the ocean reflected in all those critisisms and blindnesses to the little things I have in fact not left alone and incomplete

Daily Prompt: Disagree

via Daily Prompt: Disagree

Stick ’em up, c’mon now let’s do the dance and let our clothes be creased and damp ’cause what does it mean to be civil and wasn’t it ok when all the boys’d gather round in a knot of caterwauling to cheer on the elbows and knees dead centre, the ones with swinging punches and bravado tucked aplenty under a flat cap, on skewiff

No? You don’t think a good old punch up speaks truthful, but let me beg to differ if that suits you better for how civilised we can be inside our animal skins.