Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Paracusia: Symptom of Sick Seas

Who’s there?

Dusk, a pocketful
of dust – the old rhyme
of time re-re-repeats itself
once more. I watch
the corners of the sky
fold into night, peeling
black as I sit
slack across the broken jaw
of the day. My mind’s
wearing thin, fraying
at the edges, catching
in its tendrils –


O my people, I
hear your cries – I
spit your lies
and scratch your truths
into ether. Your
unheard words weather
the storms of sick
seas to reach
my ears. You play
on fears; my hopes, my
tears – your whispers
whittle at flayed
nerves. Is this
what I deserve –
the torment of
seething sighs and fleeting
tones bleating
beneath the bones?

am blessed
with the unrest
of an empty
chest. At seven,
I sang in circles of salt
and sold my soul
to the sea.

It was out of that blue
that you grew - you
knew what you could do
to a girl with a hole
in her heart, marked
as prey, with all
the right symptoms: the
crystal fractures, the split-
ends, the fresh-cut kether
of broken teeth or hair. You
tore my peace
to pieces, ate my
prayers like

O my people:
my breathless voices, my
hollow hauntings,
spilt blood
of none:
I am un-


Now our burnout eyes
will watch embers rise
and /split/ the husk
of the
sun –

* * *

Paracusia - otherwise known as auditory hallucinations // hearing voices.

Although it used to be believed that only the mentally ill heard voices (it is a common symptom of schizophrenia), recent research has shown that as many as one in twenty-five people regularly hears voices.

Mine just like to have fun with language...

Once again, blogger hates my formatting, so please go and view the poem in its proper format here. It's not that different, but it makes a difference to me!

((Inspired by T.S. Eliot ))

Monday, 29 March 2010


It's my birthday - YAY!!!

So I spent my last day of childhood making faerie wings; a fitting use of my time, methinks. I'm having an Emilie Autumn-esque faerie-themed midnight tea party later this week. I can't understand why more teenagers don't celebrate their birthdays in this way...
I'm probably just way ahead of the trend, or something. As usual.

And I'm sure every eighteen year old should receive Disney dvds for their birthday too. I swear Robin Hood is one of the most underrated Disney films ever!

Oh, and more features! Hooray!

Sunday, 21 March 2010

Beneath the Bell Jar

Today I found a message in a bottle,
its words smooth, rounded pebbles
beneath the tongue, verbal apostles
torn from our tangled tree-
root syntax by the sea.
It read:

{We have found sounds that bridge oceans,
we have borne mornings out of sunsets,
we have grown bones of icarus wings,
yet we cannot see
beyond the glass: for
we know why the caged bird dreams of
charred ribs and sawdust -
(we just try not to think
about it).

Caught up
in the jarring poetics of smart machines, paper
bags and iron ore, we ignore
the dreamdust, the cinereal. If we woke
and tried to stretch our knotted limbs, our cries
would catch on gnarled branches, sepia skies
and spiders’ webs, and we’d realise
that all the world’s a cage,
and our sagely words
are nothing more than flightless birds.}

Here, the message fades –
the letters coil
into spilt oil
and singed soot
has blackened the foot
of the page. I look out to sea
and see silver limbs skim
the surface, before
they sink and begin to claw
at the ocean floor.
The gilded veins of metal monsters snake
across the water, reflected
by our burntout sun.

And I am held by my own
chained pebble poetry under that sore
sky, for I can hear beyond
the clamour of my bloodbeat to
the space between the shoulder-blades that speaks
volumes without sound.
It says:

{Our mouths move,
but our only song is silence. Even our breath
is bound by blackened bones and
clipped wings.
We are broken things.}

- and over everything is
a glass bell.

* * *

There are two sides to every story. Sometimes were are so caught up in staring at the bars of our gilded cages, we don't see what's on the otherside. It's the old battle of material / visceral vs. the spiritual, I guess, just set on a post-structuralist stage.

This took literally ages to write. It emerged out of many, many ideas (all my poems start off as a collection of random phrases / images I like the sound of), half of which are not actually in this poem. In fact, this is the secondary idea for the poem I originally started to write, which is now at the stage of fragmented thoughts. It was a bit too cluttered before, and nonsensical, so I hope that the message is now clearer.

Monday, 15 March 2010

Digging Deep

Though muffled by the clouds
of sound crackling
over my head, I feel it:
a sort of light, seeping
through the soil. Hazed
rays like roots,
roots of light b r e a k i n g
through, entwining
my toes with

My breath makes mists
of momentary suspension,
caught in the net of air.

And every moment is like waking
to skies of fly-
specked grey and
opening – (breaking
from my dreams
that are badreams
of circles
around my chest,
snapping sinews and
scattering ash –

I always
turn out to be

My bones permeate sight
unflinchingly. Matchstick limbs
akimbo, saluting my

I reach back
into darkness, endlessly -
my mind racing, trailing,
the star-eaten sky
for secrets, traces
of the truth that peel
as time transcends itself.

It rains,
but the water’s rotten, full
of moth-eaten holes, hazy
with the sound of

There is a weight fixed
between my heartbones –
the wait is silence.
How is the air so thick,
so full,
of emptiness?
Time is incomplete,
I am un-

I’m digging deep,
but all words
and meaning
are slipping

only the light
is listening:

* * *

Consider this a sister piece to Flipside - Beneath the Sky, a much older poem of mine. Inspired by Toni Morrison's 'Beloved' (epic book, insane film - go read/watch it now!) and the song 'Digging Deep' by Jakalope.

By the way, Blogger will not let me use the correct formatting for this. To see the poem written as it should be (well, almost), please see it on my dA page.

Sunday, 7 March 2010


If flesh is grass,
then we are glass –
grown curved into the crux
of love, washed smooth
by the spine of time. We are
where our image met -
my face, yours,
f r a g m e n t e d by pores
of light and the shells
that collected in our eyepits, our
outstretched palms. Born
of the sea, and whitewashed ceilings
that bore over you, punctured
with eyes like
stars: we have
a bond that stretches beyond
even death -

when the water will seal
over your mouth, and my breath
will make mosaics
against the sky.

* * *

Ever since I heard this song by the Screaming Females, I wanted to write something called 'Mothership'.And I finally managed it!
This was started in creative-writing club. In pairs, we were given a picture and were told to write something inspired by it. Phoeb and I were given a picture of a weird pottery and shell mosaic-thing, and this is what it inspired. Surreal musings on motherhood. Hmm...

Friday, 5 March 2010

This Week’s Highlights in Misogyny News

Thank you so much to this hilarious episode of 'The White Hot Top Five' for inspiring this post.

This week there seems to have een a worrying influx of sexism stories in the media. Here are just a few of the most ridiculous ones.

So, the Winter Olympics are over for this year. Vancouver put on a great show, and the sport was exciting – I watched just about everything from ski cross to figure skating to ice hockey to the half pipe. But one sport I didn't get to see this Olympics was the women's ski jumping. And why'’s that? Well, even though men's ski jumping has been an Olympic sport since the winter Olympics began in 1924, women's ski jumping is still not an Olympic sport. And it's not that women don’t have an interest in it: it is a woman (Lindsay Van), in fact, who holds the world record for the event. Ski jumping events in which women can compete are held all over the world – there was one at the same venue used in the Olympics just a few weeks before the event – but for some (unknown – Olympic officials have offered no logic for this) reason, it is not an Olympic sport.
Not that it's all that great for the women who can compete in sports. As I was saying in a conversation with J, sexism is rife in sports, with the women’s events often seen as a less important 'version' of the main, men's event. As a report in Sports Illustrated says:

"Sexism isn't confined to any sport or country. It's a universal language, spoken not so much with words as with action, or the lack of it. Female hockey players from many of the European countries competing in the Olympics, for instance, have seen their national federations' lopsided spending on the men's programs as a loud and clear message that they are considered mere afterthoughts. In Russia, where hockey is the national pastime, the women couldn't begin practicing until three weeks before the Games because of budget constraints."

Something’s got to change. To see more on this story, check out this article over at

OK, so if you can’t watch the sport without being confronted with blatant sexism, what can you watch? How about a film? Robert Pattinson has been all over the media this week promoting his new film ‘Remember Me’. But what got the most attention was an interview with him in ‘Details’ magazine, in which he said:

"I really hate vaginas. I’m allergic to vagina."

And this interview was accompanied by him surrounded by pictures of pornified naked women. Seriously.
But seriously, Pattinson just proves a major misogynistic phenomenon that feminists from Germaine Greer to Jessica Valenti have been going on about since (it seems) time began: that men hate women’s biology. In Full Frontal Feminism, Valenti points out that the worst thing you can call someone is a woman: cunt, bitch, pussy, slut, etc. A man is not naturally any of these things – the word has to be altered to fit: thus 'whore' becomes 'manwhore' – masculine adjusted lexis from a supposedly feminine norm.
So Pattinson, you are not 'allergic' to vagina, as you so charmingly put it. You are just an extremely misogynistic man. If you actually hated vaginas, you wouldn’t be straight. But then, gay / asexual guys don’t make sex-gods that 87% of women want to marry. Ugh.

So there's nothing to watch that’s not saturated with sexism. Why not listen to some music? But - le gasp! - it’s a trap! Music’s just as fucked up as the rest of pop culture. And a prime example of this is my favouritest person ever, Ke$ha. Words fail to describe what I feel about this latest pop music mistake. Could there be a worse role model for women in the music industry? I think not.
Witness Exhibit A:

"I have very empowering lyrics for women."

HAHAHAHA... this is some kind of joke, right? Oh no, wait, there’s more? Do carry on...

"I kind of take how guys talk to women all over this industry and throw it back at them."

OK, so you take your inspiration from charming lyrics like 'you were supposed to love me, now bleed bitch bleed', 'I'ma own that pussy' and 'make sure it's not your bloody week, you slut'. And that’s empowering to whom, exactly?

"I'm literally just talking to a man the way any rapper talks about women in
every rap song on the radio."

Oh I see. That makes total sense!
Wtf, Ke$ha, did no one ever tell you that two wrongs don’t make a right? Sexist comments like that, whoever they are addressed to, are not empowering to anyone. They’re just sick and demeaning. Not to mention that your use of this 'tactic' fails anyway because it’s completely misguided.
Let’s take a look at Exhibit B, shall we? These are some of the lyrics to your latest single, 'Blah Blah Blah':

'Boy come on give me rock stuff
Come put a little love in my glove box'

You know, I’m all for women gaining sexual empowerment. And people like Lady Gaga are actually making a point in their lyrically sexual songs (I’m thinking 'Bad Romance' where some pimp-ring guy gets fried by Gaga’s flamethrower bra). But lyrics like that don’t work if you’re singing them whilst posing provocatively, flicking your hair and smiling seductively at this random guy that hanging creepily over you – the same guy who you claim to be a complete douchebag. You see, Ke$ha, you’ve got this strong and sexual woman thing all wrong. It’s OK to be sexually forward towards a guy you actually like, but that doesn’t mean you should throw yourself at any random creep that wants to sleep with you. Instead of empowering women, your lyrics actually portray women who choose to promote and condone demeaning, misogynistic attitudes. Way to go!

Phew, what a week!
And that's just the latest addition to centuries of sexism.

Tuesday, 2 March 2010

Good News & Updates

Just some random news and updates.

You know that poem I wrote recently for another workshop, Monologue(s)? Well, for the second time in a row, I've been featured by the host in their summary of the workshop. The workshop was quite tough, but I received a lot of constructive feedback, for which I am very grateful.

And I've been featured again over at dA. This time in the lovely Lune Bleu's featured artists of the month. This is such a wonderful surprise, and I am honoured to make the list.

As far as general life and prospective updates are going, I'm pretty busy at the moment. Got far too many things planned for the next few weeks - on top of the disastrous mess that is my history coursework - so updates are likely to be few and far between. That said, there is another poem in the works - I just need to find the words and time to finish it off.

Oh, and Happy Women's History Month!

* * *

edit: Holyhell, I just got given a DLD (a feature by Daily Literature Deviations) and was made their Pick of the Day! I can't even describe how much win this entails! Squee! ♥