I want a connection like no other. I want inspiration. I want to disappear from the mundane and delve into the mystique of beauty. I want to gaze at the stars on moonlit nights, to walk through the woods and see the wind blow through your hair. Tell me what it feels like? I want to experience it through your eyes. I want to be touched by the magic of delicate flowers and knarled old trees and know that you see it too without you saying a word. I want to talk about the crippling depths of reality, and the painful mysteries of our existence. I want the sharing of books and poetry. I pass the words on as if they are mine to give, knowing you will understand and experience the depth of feeling that I have found in them. I want to walk by the sea, and feel that the waves are powerless beside the strength that you possess in challenging my reality.

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Clothes Talk

I’m a blue flannel jacket. She only wears me when she’s trying to fit in with all the butch chicks down the gay village. I rarely escape from her closet except when she’s going down the village or to pride. And even then this year she swapped me for a pride T-shirt. I only get a trip out of the closet when she leaves hers. I don’t even look gay. She bought me from a main stream store womenswear department. I’m fitted, for goodness sake. It just so happens we’re in fashion at the moment. ‘Lesbian chic’. There they go, raining on our parade again. I jest. I don’t mind who owns me as long as they look after me and I feel loved. She’s on a loser with me. I don’t attract the ladies. but it doesn’t attract the ladies. They don’t even look at her. I’m a jacket. Her breasts are at my eye line. My eyes might as well be her nipples. I know when someone is looking me in the eye.

Most of the time it’s that snazzy red gypsy skirt that gets the outing. It never gets hung out to dry on a coat hanger like me. It’s much too good. She keeps it close to her in her sanctuary and it gets trips out all the time. Still I shouldn’t complain. It’s better than being stuck at the bottom of the bargain bucket at the charity shop. That’s what happens when she doesn’t want you anymore. I’ve heard her say it. Then she comes and grabs someone and you never see it again. It happened to the purple skinny jeans. They knew it was coming though. They worried for ages when she kept getting kebabs from the takeaway and when their button fell off it was curtains. ‘She didn’t even bother to sew it back on’ they cried indignantly. Still, being selected less often means you avoid that nasty washing machine. It makes me sick, whirling round like that. Plus I’m claustrophobic. I hate it when she shoves me to the back of the wardrobe. It’s dark in there! But the gypsy skirt doesn’t get that treatment. Oh no, when she needs washing she gets delicately soaked in warm water and lovingly rubbed with a soapy flannel. OK, yes, I am jealous. I admit it OK, but she’s not even new! She insists on female pronouns. I have tried to educate her but if she insists in being a product of the consumerist society she was made in, that insists on putting people in boxes, then let her! She can’t even complain she spent time crammed in a box in some dingy warehouse like the rest of us. She…. (She often boasts)…was handmade.

Her friend the corset is almost as bad. She’s sexy and she knows it. She likes to boast and look down disparagingly on the t-shirts from her hanger as she believes she is a far superior top. “Those drab and lifeless t-shirts can’t possibly compete. That’s why they reduce themselves to tacky slogans in a bid to get noticed. Let them have their five minutes of fame. They date quickly. None of them are here for long. They are easily replaced, whereas I…. I am timeless in my style and class. Thankfully I’m not hung with that cheap tat. She knows better… She takes me out to attract the ladies and showcase her cleavage (which, I must say, I do supremely well).”

My best friend is a black T-shirt. T is for team player. They (my friend prefers gender neutral pronouns) works well with anything from jeans, skirts and sometimes even dresses. They can be girly, they can be tomboy. They are a chameleon. They are casual and comfortable in theirself. Life is great for them. They go to work, out to meet her friends with her and sometimes to a club on a Saturday night. That’s because they are versatile. Often she pairs us together and we are happy. They get to bask in the summer sun. Life must be terrible if you are a jumper and you only get to go out when it’s cold, miserable and dark. And usually they get deprived of the one important day of the year because they get cheated on with a cheap Christmas jumper with nasty pompoms on that their owner bought for a tenner.

It’s a hard life as an item of clothing. You don’t know how long you’ll live, where you’ll end up and people judge you all the time, including your owners. I’ve heard her do it myself. She’ll try someone on, look at herself  in the mirror, strike a few poses (all completely ridiculous), complain “I don’t know why I put it on, it looks terrible” to no one in particular, sigh heavily, take it off and then sling it over the back of a chair like rubbish. They do it to each other’s clothes too. You hear it when you’re on trips out. A woman will come up to your woman and say “I like your dress, it’s nice” and sometimes they mean it. Not always though. Sometimes you hear them whispering to each other about how horrible you are so your owner won’t hear them. “Have you seen that dress she’s got on” they croon in voices of disgust; “I can’t believe she left the house in it. It makes her look like a giant meringue”.

The clothes pegs in the shops do nothing for your confidence. There you hang wondering if you’re going to be picked. There are lots of versions of you that all look the same. Only you’re segregated into sizes and that narrows it down. Beyond that it’s a lottery of whether or not you get picked. That is, unless you’ve developed a crease or someone’s chucked you on the floor and you’ve ended up all dusty. Then you’ve no chance. Different shoppers do different things. Some just pick whoever’s hung at the front of the rail. Some people think the front one has been mauled too much and go for one of us that is hung further back. You never know who you might end up belonging to. You might be loved and worn over and over again. You might be lovingly looked after and washed on a 30 degree cycle, separated from dark colours in the best washing up powder. Or you might be worn once, screwed up, thrown into a corner of an untidy room until you smell and then given to the dustbin collectors. But we don’t like to talk about that. Sometimes we are bought and never worn at all, and there you hang, reeking of mothballs at the back of a dingy wardrobe with the indignity of having the label still on (It may as well say unwanted and unloved. All the other clothes know it) and longing for sunlight and fresh air.
Our fate all depends on the buyer’s motives and identity. We are a language knitted in fabric, a threaded code that is weaved through society, expressed on the body. We are important.

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I Fell In Love With You

I fell in love with you
I will not be ashamed.
The scorch of the sun marks the hours
We’ve had more than our share of April showers.
We got to know each other,
With the how are yous and
What have you been up tos

Then the veneer fell off
Revealing the real us
Then we got to know each other
Dancing on fireworks
Sparkles transforming to sparks
Our web of complexities
Spinning us deeper.

We are enmeshed,
A twine of toxicity.
Wanting to run but-
Tied together
In search of answers
We get more questions.

You’d think I’d have learned by now
I’ve been here before.
But here I go again.
Marking the same territory
The well worn path of heartbreak
Making deepening grooves in my soul
A familiar insanity.



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Why do I make promises you can’t keep?

But you made me no promises. It was me that made the promises, naive enough to think you could make them come true.

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I walk down the avenue at the back of our house. When I was a young child the bows of the trees would heave with pink blossom and the pavement was carpeted with silky petals. I’d dance through fairyland throwing handfuls of pink blossom and it would coat my hair like a fairy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The blossom doesn’t fall anymore. The trees are dead.

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Love is violent.

An assault on someone else’s being.

I’m taking you along for the fight.

I have to capture you first.

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A Dedication

It blossomed like a bud that bloomed in the dew.

When presented with petals you gave their perfume.

They glow far away from the cold winter’s gloom,

Stemmed from the stalk of a plant there are few.


An unknown plant, be it snowdrop or bluebell?

Its form overshadowed by dark spiky shrub

A shame that it may be reduced to a shrub.

It’s unable to flower, so we cannot tell.


But it was replanted into some fresh soil,

Responded to the warmth that it needed

Know to respect every plant that is seeded.

Restore its leaves from their former turmoil.

The sensuous satin of free flowing flower

Now restored to its predestined glory,

Burns red and gold and tells its own story.

Mysteriousness exerts a strong power.


Undulating in wind and changing in hue

From spring to summer, from blushes to blushes

Intertwining stem reaches gracefully high,

Keeps stretching on, and never to die

Above the still water, obscured by the rushes

Into the sky of pervading dark blue.


This specimen isn’t a usual flower,

Producing a scent, ethereal perfume

Because it knew the Rhododendron’s plume,

Whose leaves are present at every dark hour.


Its vibrant shades of purple, red, white

Compliment the display of passiflora,

Creating a brighter atmosphere for her,

A frenzy of heat generates light.


At the height of season, one will bear fruit,

The other remains with tentacle leaves,

Which are viewed as a farmer views his sheaves

Or a renowned musician views his flute.


In the end the gardener comes to tend.

All change and some plants must be plotted elsewhere,

Though they’ll harmonize through the bees of the air

All in the garden their bloom will transcend.


You opened the bud that bloomed in the dew

Now Eden’s core, revealed by the snake

Reflected as clear in the silvery lake.

All the scent of the petals I give to you,

The blood tears that showed up the sky’s naive blue,

I gather, preserve and devote them to you.

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