Poems

FEEL FREE TO PROBE MY WORK BELOW …

LISTEN TO   CONTRABAND  – PRODUCED BY THE BRILLIANT GAVIN MURRAY.

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SOMETIMES (I am a woman) – A musical adventure with Mario Lo Castro, the Art work are drawings of mine I created during a workshop lead by Dylan Stone. Video production by the the wizard Joao Trindade.

PHANTOM – A collaboration with the Tigerlily Pistols and myself (AKA Ms. DeMonika Kink):

video directed by Orio featuring Orio and Angel Ito.  Song recorded summer 2009 @ the OvalHouse, Brixton.  A six minute improvisation caught in the act.

guitar: Orio, vox: Ms DeMonika Kink and Angel Ito

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Daughters

Dead starlings, bizarre.
Mrs Knight’s seven eye
witnesses heard the impact.
The ground’s instinct is to
swallow terrifying blood.

Dead starlings, beaks intact,
litter like lost footage of that
Hitchcock film. Omens dis-
played on a Sunday lawn.
The Royal Society for Fowl

admit there are odd things
in the universe. Dozens awaiting
results. All the Starlings are
waiting. Hardwired. Hundreds
nurse the frightened corpses. 53

year old expert- baffled. Even In
Somerset they are beyond sleep.
Starlings once danced, now the
dead are adamant, they want
coordinated protection. They all

had flown, landed, curled in her
front garden (3.6 m long). Starlings
arrived out of the sky. Who would
have whispered onto the slipstream:
Collide. Fall.

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Unca

On days that seemed as imperfect as they were

sunny, we knew him by the sound of his limp.

He was momma’s favourite babe born nine months

before her. It is rumoured that he so fought to stay

within grandma, the midwife, dedicated and determined,

damned his legs to pry him out. We could hear his

intoxicated jazz shuffle coming up the hill, a tall

looming sun dial, ticking on fates window. He was

bleached oats soaked in whiskey for colour, his hair

unwoven threads of a kin’s tapestry, always beating on

our panes tentatively like a stranger. Strange, Momma

never seemed home for his visits and I ten – tatively, would

open, he would come in and sit. I, too afraid of this apparition

of manhood to speak, chose to stare hoping that some how

I could infuse in him a spirit worth breathing, like the onions

he ate as apples, like his fingers which coiled around half-empty

bottles. Why is it that men always had half empty bottles. He marinated

slowly with his head lowered sitting silent dripping, melting and

decaying. It’s funny how kitchens become parlours for the dying

when life is all we have left to devour.

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Long Live the Queen

They came, those that love like us. They came to marvel at all you had left behind – the glitter in your palms, the glam in your get-up and go. They came in ones and twos with undry eyes, dahling boys biting their lips to stop from kissing you adieu one more time. In a tailored coffin that never grew into a perfect fit, you unwittingly became the burden of men, too familiar with your scent. We walked behind clutching your box of fables, reaching for delivery – salvation you promised. They do not want us where you are going. So we measure every men by their weight in hydrated lime and in the inches of March rainfall ; we capture thrown baited glances, lures into a mangled embrace. I’m sweet for the sway of winds without sorrow past our church door by and by lord. I seized your fading swirl as it slid up and under graveyard fissures around your fringed six-foot peat gown. We sang It’s alright to step ahead with arms around each others’ cinched waists, awed at the tiny spaces between each dripping ghost for a thousand more of us. In comfort they came, those that love.

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