The Meat Thieves

June 17, 2020

‘Drivers wanted. Thieves and alcoholics need not
apply.’ Job ad in a butcher’s window.

And yet we’re good with meat.
Our agile fingers know how to pick
a crusted lock. Corn-fed chickens wait
quartered in the cold safe
in a fur of breath. Under our coats
we hide small finds — an ear, a stiffened wing,
a wishbone; rabbit’s kidneys slide their satin eyes
into our pockets where the fluff congeals.
We can tiptoe through blood
and leave no footprints: friends will testify
we were far from this square of sawdust,
far from ourselves.

When we first saw meat
swing from your hook our hands started to shake
as we reached for the bottle. Now we stroke apart
the cutlets on their spine of bone. The marbled fat
is cool, the suet clean as candles;
mince curls like hair
from the greased machine. And each discarded heart
is a maze of hidden chambers, every valve
gasps open. In a gold wave

the sawdust swells underfoot:
all we can take is ours

and the getaway car waiting,
packed tight from roof to floor
with perishable goods. We’ll part the air
in a screech of burnt rubber. While you turn
in your sheet we’ll stitch up your town
with a zigzag of tail-lights,
hooting and whooping at a job well done.

Susan Wicks


March 14, 2020

She put a grain of sand
under my eyelid,
not a pea
under my mattress

and still, I do not sleep.

Each morning comes,
the performed joy of waking
for his honour, the unemotional tears
second, unbidden, borne of irritation
or exhaustion, I know not

I yawn at the day
at how carefully they scrub my skin
how precisely they watch my hand
with the knife at the dinner table.

I never pretended to be a princess,
I just was a discomforted woman
– and that was enough for them to avoid
the cost of a corset.

Now I dream of bedding you,
how you will lick my face clean
again, give me new eyes
like a new name.

Our kingdom will be a hundred mattresses high
all of them waiting to be stained salty,
too uncomfortable to look
upon, and you will know

the grating that can keep you
from sleep.

Lynne Sargent

look away

November 12, 2019

As a young girl I used to undress in front of my Aunt’s doll collection in the hope that embarrassment would make them look away. But they never did.

Oh, so many dreadful, greedy eyes they had –


November 17, 2018

deep like blackness
black like catastrophe
catastrophic like silence
silent like howling.

Faraj Bayraqdar
Mirrors of Absence

Delightfully Sticky Chaos

August 3, 2017

3rd August

Mood today: ash-grey.

I seek for something beyond the shadow of a translucent tear. Obscurity, perhaps? Or extinction forever? Why don’t you chose?

We should be silent if silence makes us happy. Our love should not be spoken of because words are lies. Speech is a betrayal of self. It should be enough just to look at each other and hold each other’s gaze –

Your eyes seen in a dream like this one, seem huge to me. Haunted by night and its many ambiguities. In these eyes, your secret eyes, only the unreal exists. They contemplate invisible beauties and not me –

We must love. Must feel. We are here to be engulfed, to taste danger, risk hurt. And when we’re betrayed, abandoned, wounded or left broken, then we should sit and listen to the apples falling from the tree in the night. Count them if you will. Those apples falling in heaps around you, their sweetness rotting into the ground – that is the true meaning of life!

Yes, yes, it’s true. I’m a collector of beautiful moments. Remember walking naked into the sea at midnight? All those wonderful stars overhead and the sound of the waves breaking over the beach. And our laughter, the four of us, when the policeman flashed his torchlight at us from the pier. Magical that moment.


Diary 13th December

Last night, strange dreams – almost fever dreams. Unsettling; unpleasant. The night before that, I dreamt I was in a dense forest. The place was unknown to me, and yet I seemed to know which path to follow but without any idea of my final destination. Despite this I remained still, quiet, calm. Now, I sit at my desk and watch the fog gathering across the lane in the darkness: an opaque obscurity about the hedgerows. It is cold outside. It all seems strangely threatening to me.

And my loves, sleek and smooth, a pair of subtly scented shadows under the bedclothes in the next room, sleep through the velvet night, in gentle oblivion. Which is as it should be.

Ah, come, whisper me some more dreams, will you? Dreams of mistletoe kisses and sensual mouths; wild cascades of gleaming hair, and the closeness of made-to-sin-bodies.


Storm birds die in the depths of her eyes!

Oh, when she is angry, she is intimidating! But still so very beautiful…


Unlucky thirteen?

We made love the first time on the thirteenth. I passed my driving test on the thirteenth. I left school, unofficially, on the thirteenth…The luckiest number, ever, IMO!

I didn’t know that…!

August 28, 2015



April 18, 2015


I lose myself in the labyrinth of her eyes; it’s an involuntary reaction. She flutters her eyelashes and I’m lost, in a trance, which will only be disturbed when she kisses me. She knows she has this power, this power in her eyes, and she used it to control me, and I can’t help but let her because I’m lost…

Don’t need to talk…

February 9, 2015


“We need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language.”

Emily Dickinson
letter to Susan Huntington Gilbert

The beauty of a woman….

January 25, 2015


“The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman is seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides. True beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It’s the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows and the beauty of a woman only grows with passing years.”

Audrey Hepburn