You knocked a bowl of sugar on my kitchen floor.

One gesture and I am transported

To a world of candyfloss twilights

When your lips rummaged for my navel

Delectably – unable to find it.

It’s all about the journey, is in not?

The spectre of a granulated whisper

Gliding over skin,

Glistening with the dew of you brow.

You never asked for anything that wasn’t yours already.


To you I am little more

Than a quotation of departed loves.

My pout less luscious than of a girlfriend past,

My cleavage less flashy.

The extension of your fingertips

In the alcove of my underbelly

Becomes a rebuttal of a relationship terminated

For my sake.


An accident – this is what you think of me.

I preferred it when you believed me a suspension of

Your Newtonian

Mechanical everyday.


Let them eat cake.

It alludes

To the witty temptation of fate.

The Scottish play to which you shout Macbeth!

Yours were the affection of Goneril and Regan,

The plummeting Titanic;

Yours too – incredibly – the ironic pitfall of a Roman Empire reborn.

Not mimetic. Accidental.

Obsessed with the marvellous —

Surrendered to the common.

A delicious basket case.



I am nostalgic for your forgetfulness and impatience

And yet my thoughts languish, self-flagellating

On the smallest of affectionate gestures

That made you mine.


You knocked a bowl of sugar on my kitchen floor.

Loose threads. Cobwebs.

Ropes, cranes, wheels, springs…

And I am counterweighted

Into your arms,

Rearranged into a Fibonacci sequence.

Intemperate. Spectacular.

As all temptresses ought to be

In their unacknowledged political radicalism.