sunhoney

I want to pluck eyelashes from your face; I want to cover your sandpaper skin in lotion; I want to fold your dimples into place; I want to help you  colour your every emotion; I want to smooth your crinkled nose when you sneeze; I want be the salt in your every tear; I want whispers through hair - a secret breeze; I want to trace my finger over contours of ear; I want to be the song stuck within – you’re heady; A rhythm surging through your limbs until Your feet can no longer bear to hold themselves steady; I’ll electrify your body to a thrill. I swear, I want to be less selfish, sweet: But I want you more than I want t

I lift my feet as you pass the pipe beneath and draw the little flakes of skin and strands of hair out of our living room rug. You traverse the room preceded by a proboscis   and succeeded by a rumbling receptacle of rubbish. You look like a superhero to me. I’m washing the cups and cups and dishes and pots, somewhat grudgingly, though also in a bubble of dish-washing delight. Once started, I’m on a roll, and I scrub the surfaces of our tomato and tea and starch-stained steel kitchen sink. You plant a lasting love note on my neck . The bathroom sink holds no chance; I show no mercy when I’m erasing signs

She spins silks from scents; the weaver of words, the seamstress of stories coloured ribbons in her hair, circling softly, spirals sigh with secret senses she sings with whispers of woodsmoke, of benzoin and myrrh, jewels of frankincense her lyrics are made from the colours of a dusk sky; her music, with newspaper ink and cinnamon bark— and when she paints, her palette is formed of pink pepper, violet ionone, amber and hedione; her canvas will be just a touch of vapour, a spritz of breath upon warm skin…     Could you know? looking into the depths of your alcoholic euphoria, that crystalline glass, golden mirage, facets r

Part I: Mombasa It smells like sun, sun, sun and rotting fruit, Like heat and green, life growing from the root – White cotton dress: red belt, red ribbons, red shoes. Skin toasted brown, brown eyes, warm views. At the height of class 7: a Giraffe, taller than all – Badminton champion, team captain of netball. I grew here like a language, like a sunrise. But then I heard Papa say that maybe it was time. Watches in his repair shop stopped in place, The grandfather clock in the corner ceased to chime. Emigration was drawn by the hand on each face. Mummy’s family had relocated, leaving Uganda behind – In Tanzania and

Creativity buds within you before you are born, some say – like the shape of your eyes, the birthmark on your cheek. Others, that it’ll grow as you stretch yourself skywards: a sprout blessed by sunlight, sprinkled with freckles. I’m not sure which I believe: both, or neither – or something in between; Could it rise from a cosmic encounter, or from a directional dream? The thrum and hum of the drum pulsates – does that beat that make you dance for your days? Do you feel the inks slowly seep inside? the stroke of the brush, the chafe of the chalk, as well as the pencil’s graze? The curves and the b

I’d rather not know about the finning of sharks, Or the desolation and ruin refugees are leaving behind; I want to be able to understand more about quarks, And know how a man can travel through London, blind. I don’t fully comprehend the concept of austerity, which Measures a government should or shouldn't contemplate; And it fascinates me that bats hear to the height of pitch At 200 000 Hz, whilst whales can detect even lower than 8. I hate to hear of gun violence, unnecessary and tragic; Of cerebral cells being slaughtered by viral infection; Yet I am captivated by the indescribable magic And intricacy of evolution, survival,

Scattered           limbs            upon the bank of the river turned murky by dirt and            lifelessness Plastic litter                                                       scuttles like crabs across the underside of the bridge’s belly Discarded wrappers and soggy cigarette stubs           wander along, battered by the light drizzle A beady-eyed, greedy-eyed seagull chases after them. Even he seems                       like cast-off junk, itinerant in inappropriate land-lock.

 “Watch out!” He sailed through the air and landed at the side of the road, in a crumpled pile. Scrambling to sit back in the grass, Evan’s mouth hung agape like a fish. He was, somehow, almost intact.  The truck continued rumbling past, and the sounds echoed in his head, circling round his confounded mind. He struggled to process what had just occurred: one moment he stood bang in the middle of the road, death looming – but the next… The next, he was where he sat now. He looked up; someone was crouched down in front of him, gesticulating, talking to him. Tamara. What was she saying? “...okay? Hello? Say s

Single white lash flutters with the dark others upon a semi-closed lid He pauses to consider, a small twitch of the mouth creeping up his dry worn-leather face A smile lights up as he says, “A nice smell, this one.” and selects a number on the scale Unshaved patch where this morning’s razor missed but he can be excused His brow furrows as he focuses on the terry towel held in plastic-gloved hands. Head shakes a little now and then, unstably due to age and perhaps uncertainty Old blind man sits in a metre-squared booth and smells for sensory analysis

She dove in deep, daring the ocean to swallow her up as it had done before. Different ocean, different time. The water surrounding her was a crystal clear turquoise, almost the same shade as her favourite pendant, given to her by her sister. The corals were bright and populated with stunning, lively fish that darted about in dizzying directions. Directions. She didn’t care which way was up or down, North or South, here. She didn’t mind feeling directionless. The water then had been inky, thick like tar and inescapable. It was uninviting but dragged her deep, like a magnet to her heavy, iron limbs. All she’d wanted, then,

Warmth of amber on my skin: I’m dreaming, once again. Orange blossoms in a swirl, Then rose and jasmine soon unfurl – Silk and velvet, shimmered and pearled, What a fragrance – what a world Of poetry, art and scent, That somehow I have dreamt.