Sine wryly smiled at her reflection, touching the amulet around her neck, which pulsed a dull purple glow. Her silver dress she had krafted with former kolleagues surplus suits keeping her waist girded and her chest heaved, where her chained necklace rested in its glory. It had been several months since the krew had landed here and now her wedding had to happen in this hostile wasteland of a planet. Many had died from the krash, others driven to madness by the klimate. Sine however, was kontent- not needing the komforts of humans or other races. The wedding was the Kaptains insistence, to bring hope and kourage to the krew. Sine and her lover Klint obliged. She starred in the mirror at her bridal attire, adjusting her silver hair appropriately and toying with the patterned bead entwined in it. The bead was a gift from Klint, a symbol of his K’ork tribe of which she’d bekome part of in marriage. “You look dazzling”, the Kaptain slipped into the room like a kat, leaving Sine to wonder
Clint threw himself headfirst into the taxi. Slamming the door shut with intense breath-catching, he sat, spread in the middle of the back seat, wiping fresh sweat off his nose. A small stream of blood accompanied the sweat, but Clint took no notice. “Drive! Drive!” he screamed at the taxi driver, and the car shuddered into motion. Clint looked out the back window, searching frantic for followers. Fast breath slowed and he finally sank into his seat, assured they were not being pursued. Clint winced in retrospective pain. Again Clint glanced in the back window as the city blurred into the highway. “Fuck” he claimed, agitated. “Fuckty Fuck Fuck!”, grasping his gun in angst. “Ya know, there’s prolly a bottle of de old whisky in the glove box, help yo’self” The driver in front suddenly spoke up. “I had de rum for me afternoon beverage bout, before you joined me voyage.” Clint’s adrenalin drew to a stop. The heavy breathing, the frustration left in a moment of confusion. For the first
I am not a school gate wait mum, I am not a crafty create mum, A mum with no mum friends mum; A mum who's not okay. I'm a mum who likes Prosecco mum A mum who likes to listen mum A mum with great ideas mum But not one of you, hey? But I'm at the gates today mum. "Who the hell is she" mum Never make events mum Because they're in the day. I'm the working full time mum mum Use breakfast and after school mum "She's probably not a fun mum" I'm guessing what they say You catch my desperate smile mum but walk to your social group mums Leaving behind a lost mum to look the other way. Our kids may be friends mum, but not outside of school mum We're busy planning as mums The next event of PTA I overhear the gym mums I overhear the gin mums The kids who swim together mums Scheduling their next soirée In my heart I want to be one mum Invited to the group of mum But I'll continue to be the lonely mum That's just how it will stay.
Between the branches of chestnut tree I see chains deep crossing bark. One cuts the mouth and one the ears. I ask why restraints exist In my heart I know The chain cuts my mouth And up my ears. How dare I walk With the land to spread roots Fresh leaves of creativity grow To celebrate new ideas. How dare I spread My ambition beyond the sun and who I am and who walks beside me They who forged the chain Took my words Took my voice Took the chance to listen. Amongst the branches the chains chokes; I am no longer heard.
I'm up against, as if I am against symmetrical walls on every side, desire and fear of an exit. How do I escape? Sometimes I am leaning. The thing is, I'm reliant on what I know. I don't like it. I try to find the way out; I hesitate. I cry. I submit. Everyone conforms against the cold brick, humming corporate tunes. Whistle whilst you cry. Kneel to tune; You do not matter. I submit. I tread between these walls, exhausted by the ritual. I no longer notice fires around the hoops. Arms drop to defeat, the embers lower. I submit. Sometimes I orchestrate the stars. I stare hope in her eyes. I let her wings lift me up, force my gaze to egress. Closer and closer until ambitions lead and I fly liberated. Patience wanes like a new moon, unsure what lies ahead as shadows cloud the sky again. I'm up against again. Head down, against the wall. Even the ceiling is glass.
What creature mocks our sweaty struggles?
we groan, we moan- pathetic muggles!
What monster sits there with a smile
as stomachs swim with gas and bile?
Boobs and bellies hit the floor
swear words follow, we implore;
in drips of sweat we may just drown
down then up, then again back down.
What is it that makes our bodies cry
as pain vibrates along our thigh?
What movement would we trade for runs,
for planks, for jacks, for lifting tonnes?
Three rounds gone, we beg no more-
yet somehow moved onto round four.
Despite the pounding in our head
we soldier on, we push ahead.
The bell chimes we are at ease
for one mere minute- no burpe
as I squat those thighs
pulsate with incredible desire to
say no. Not now, not ever- why
would you.
the weight it pulls through my spine
with discomfort along
my bottom.
in my mind a strong woman
battles a weak woman; a weak woman
with vile words
that feel true.
one hundred repetitions, thirty-five kilograms
between my shoulders- only the bar holds stable.
Once this was a farmhouse
with chalk paint furniture,
mismatched chairs.
Three dogs slept by the fire
Their master read nearby
only the pops of air
disrupt the peace
Now rotten boughs are laced
with Christmas lights.
Cobwebs linger
between each dead bulb
before time stood still.
High above the roof
slates are French
kissed by fresh frost that
did not care how gentle this place was.
Below a fire as extinguished as the bulbs
suffocates in dust
and ash
and soot.