A Writer's Wonderland [PDF] - University of Portsmouth

That will hold her down to the paving evermore.
Pawed digits fumble tumbling copper with gramercy –
As the idea of gorging the dragon is once more resolute.
Moons drop again and again, and any realisation of nights passed
Would be from her tender waist.
The curtains close on Cecil Grove while she holes up into holes, barely whole.
Gentlewomen and Lords, all shy past with a questionable authority.
Here she lies in the house which never saw the rising sun,
And while deprecation falls from the sky, how could she possibly ever run?
In her home of Cecil Grove.
Base pink, to gaunt black to peroxide grey – until the lights turn off she’s here to stay.
Realising Receipts
Terracotta tips, slip past orang-utan lights of industry.
What an encapsulating frame they behold,
In stupors of steam and lethargic hormone.
Petulant leaves hang from the bodice of what they say they want,
But baritone mess from the ground deems nothing.
Dig, and dig, and dig they do.
Pulling up our roots for currency of others,
And the comfort, of disillusioned mothers.
Ten pounds for a morphine shot and the resonating words, are “fuck off”.
Two hundred or nothing and you’ll still lose your soul,
Where’s the worth in that?
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