fixed me with formaldehyde

embalmed me

incremental death by poison


skewered brain, removed my heart

entrapped me

in jars and boxes, buried me

down low

fixed me with formaldehyde

till sterile

an empty vessel dressed

in finest wood

placed canopics

where I couldn’t find them

and bled me dry to live

in zombiehood


void of form and feeling


losing bits along the way

morselled as a minion to the mighty

undertakers raped my soul each day

dismembered me and muted

with their needles

threaded lips till tongue-tied

did their best

weighed me

watched me

found me

waxen, wanting

dismissed me then

and put my corpse to rest


I rose again

and gathered all the boxes

found the jars

replaced my bits inside

unstitched my lips

and shouted

from the heavens

not fucking dead yet

mouth is open wide

formaldehyde yourself

embalm your essence

fix your flag to fortune if you must

I’ll tear your towers down

like lego pieces

rebuild it with a world

that’s fixed by just

fragments of the pieces of the portions

of the bits you tore away

and tried to hide

I’m watching you, you foxes

while you scavenge

my corpse is here to be

your nightmare bride


Kitchen Quarrels

Based on a recent post, Warned, and some comments, I got to thinking about tempers and this was the result. Maybe you’ll recognise what sort of temperamental cook you are! Mixed metaphors abound. They seemed apt. 🙂

Bring it quickly to the boil

Or simmer,

Let it stew,

Stir it back and forth a bit,

That’s what some dudes do.

Fling it to the flames

And watch,

Set the fire alight,

Burn it crispy, barbecued,

So it tastes like shite.

Go for broke

And have it raw,

Fleshy, crispy, hard,

Different strokes for different folks,

How do you get mad?

Catch the tiger by the tail,

Be the tiger,


Hunter, hunted, for the pot,

Curried hot or mild.

Cauldron bubbling,

Bits thrown in,

Offal, flesh and skin,

Salad garnish on the side,

Chianti with a grin.

By the book

Or palate,

Old recipes in mind,

How you cook and anger,

Correlation find.

Salted, spicy,


Bland then add your taste,

Trimmed of fat or fulsome,

Slimmed or to the waist.

Ketchup slathered,

Chips with all,

Basic, to the bone,

Stripped right down or fancied up,

Ordered in by phone.

Pantry full

Or empty,

Varied or well-versed,

Ventilated, smoky,

Are you temper cursed?

Brandy lit with flourish,

Flash in pan

Then douse,

Roasted rare or well-fired,

Lion or the mouse.


This kitchen,

Or should that be a zoo,

Wild or tamed, all on the range,

Commis chefs, head cooks.

Dynamics of your cuisine,


And have a think,

Master of your menu

Or chained to hob and sink.

I’m head cook

And always taste

Viper-tongued to test,

Rare, flash in pan, though sometimes boiled,

I’ve found they eat that best. 😉



Are poems that come with a tune a song? Another post-yoga ‘song’. The first few lines came after last week’s yoga session, the rest after tonight’s. That might explain the mixed metaphors. That and children’s stories. And clowns. I hate clowns. But I have a soft spot for the Pied-Piper and Harlequin just muscled his way in. Yoga’s fault. Strange positions lead to strange thoughts it seems. 🙂

He once led the heart of she, trailed her through eternity

With words that never tumbled from his lips,

The tune he played said more than they,

No black and white upon the page

But notes so sweet that led her eager steps.

Pipes he played were soft and low, soothing to her very soul

As on she followed, she his Columbine,

Round and round to sweetest sound, he played, she danced,

The world spun round, mixed

Coat of many colours, both looked fine.

Mountains grew, they opened wide,

Like those children, stepped inside,

Disappeared from trace without a fight,

The tune plays on though song now gone,

Harlequin, pied-piper, played just right.

His the song that’s never sung,

Silent, voiceless, faceless one,

Words unneeded while his tune plays on,

Tune he calls from distant, far, beat of drums, an air guitar,

Enchantment in the notes all played so strong,

Whistled now or hummed in time, madrigals unsung at passing fair,

Rivers wide or mountainside, lovers’ notes are lost inside,

Pied- piper, Harlequin, played haunting air.

He once led the heart of she, trailed her through eternity,

Lost his voice before his tune was sung,

She hums in time, he’s lost inside, all forgotten but for pride

And pipes that play out all sad lovers’ songs.