A life lived in a body conscious light gauge sweater & trackpants

A brief and booty filled guide
To one girl's journey through sex

Day number: whatever

Wound up like a clock underwater
This clock keeps ticking
Which is an elemental characteristic of time
This is Hickery Dickory Dock

Side step
Back paddle
Take a breath and be glad it isn't my last
But what if I forget how to breathe underwater?


Maybe I really am some kind of witch

Note to self
In the third person
Distance makes the heart grow more objective

Start again. In the third person

Her name was Missy
And she lived in Missyland
Which was downstairs
While the rest of the world lived upstairs.

She was made of scar tissue
And dopespeak was her language 
When she couldn’t be bothered being 

Queen of all she didn't survey
All she surveyed with dead mackerel eyes
Was a whole lot of pain
Which caused her to brew thunderstorms in the morning 
Before clocking on to her job of
Wasting opportunities
As an introspective artist
With a sexual wave machine deep at the core of her psyche
Shaking all her seas

Even then she knew
Some things need to be recovered
And confronted

Devils need to be unleashed

Tomorrows are for films
Yesterdays are the scripts

There is a word for
Blotting it all out
With a permanent eraser



More quiet


You are shit

Shit I say

Super shit actually

Said her demons

Correctamundo she would say
If she heard a harsh description of herself

She was insulated from 
Freshly toasted criticisms 
Even then 

Because she was
One of the most prickly-arsed people 
In this world

That saved her

It also meant
She wouldn’t lie down


But never capitulating
To what people thought 

She just wouldn’t die emotionally

No matter how hard they tried

How ungrateful can some people be?