Heartbreaking/stunning piece of writing by my insanely talented sister Candice


The day I came out … all my girlfriends took one step apart

it can’t bethey collectively agreed

she’s too pretty, she’s too feminine, she’s not a dyke she’s one of us

didn’t she enjoy sex with that boy in the garden? you know that party the one where

they turned the lights on and saw them straddled in tall grass?

What happened? Did you get raped? Was it because you grew up without a mom?

What happened? Did you get bewitched? Is she a sorceress? A genie? A devil?

Soon after the invites to go out on the girls-nights


the newly minted lesbian sat alone with her shadows and her eye make up

growing stale in their plastic boxes

virile boys wondered why they hadn’t kept her straight

cleavage girls wondered if she had looked at them in the shower the wrong way

why didn’t you try…

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Instant Crush


my half-closed eyes
our shadows
moving on the wall
unsubtle silhouettes
sketched in haste
in bold and frenetic motion
stark in its execution
we’re writing infinite stories
on each other’s bodies
raw scribbled lines
words without rhymes
rough caresses
laced with
occasional tenderness
we moan shudder and gasp
as if taking our last breath
on those insatiable nights
filled with perpetual fights
to stave off the darkness
and postpone death

*First posted in 2015*


They tell me
I know nothing about adversity
I’ve never suffered
Never faced prejudice
Thus denying
My tears
My scars
My entire history
Invalidating my feelings
Erasing my identity
While they are so keen
To assert theirs
When will they
Has a monopoly
On pain

*For all the arrogant, self-obsessed fuckers out there who assume far too much when they don’t have a fucking clue. Just because someone doesn’t constantly act like a victim doesn’t mean they haven’t had it hard too – some of us don’t enjoy navel-gazing, wallowing in self-pity and don’t have any desire to play the victim card every day of our fucking lives. But, hey, maybe it’s because we have a full deck to choose from instead of one lonely single one? Just a thought*


Dancing, lost to the music, nothing else exists but my body and the beat

Vaguely aware that somewhere
in the crowd, in the small pocket of shadows
you are watching
my hips roll,
the curve of my arse,
my fervid arms scenting the sky with Guerlain’s Shalimar,
my chest rising and falling though I’m not breathing

Here on my ship,
the bit parts, hangers-on,
walk the plank – you and I are the leads in bleached denim sprung back from the 80’s

3 songs and I’ll go take your hand because

I can’t resist

I’m greedy,
craving summery things,
ice cream
smeared on my lips, dripping on my skin, running down my fingers –

je lèche tout – innocence and prescience blended in one oblique look

Sugar shot from a gun triggered in the sun,
No wasting such sweet taste 

est-il trop tôt for gelato laced with innuendo?

senses overload,

tonight, ti voglio

I know

that you also feel

the need, like at seventeen, to explode
and never see tomorrow

*To mark my Saturday session on the beach with my French gang and our dancing to this perfect tune which inspired me in so many ways I ended up totally ripping it off*



She flees
Light and Fast
Carried by the wind
She shall not be defiled
The thought – to be caught
An horror, oh so vile
But Apollo is close
Behind her he breathes
His despised body she can feel
In despair, she pleads
Blinded by her tears
O father, save me if you please!
There is time to think
Her words have fallen on deaf ears
But, no, her father’s name
Has not been called in vain
As Apollo stretches, reaches
His hand on her hip
Her limbs grow heavy
Her flowing hair in mid-air
Twists and changes
From tresses to foliage
Bark crawls up legs and breasts
Arms lifted up to the sky turn to branches
Now anchored, rooted
And saved, is Daphne
A beautiful Laurel Tree
Forever pure
Forever green
Her metamorphose is complete

*I recently wrote about Bernini and it made me fall in love all over again with his work. His Apollo and Daphne is stunning – it is a painting made of marble, it is drama, it is an epic story. I always go and see Bernini’s Neptune and Triton when I visit the V&A Museum in London, it is the only large scale Bernini work to be found outside of Italy – I’ve seen it so many times and yet it never fails to take my breath away. This is the Baroque I adore, this is art as I understand it: full of emotions, full of life and passion*

Neptune and Triton


Come and inspire me, come and pull my strings, save me from silent glaring mannequins

I’m in need of a waterfall crashing down steep hills in cascades of feelings

You, I will let you

Whiskey with ice is a crime committed by swines and pitch-black hearts

Break the glass, select the largest shard – stab convention keeping us apart

You, I will let you do

Breathe heavy and deep, drown my faded pink, exhale burgundy reds with your lips on my neck

I walk, you follow, I talk, you swallow, inevitable thoughts of your tongue down my throat

You, I will let you do anything

We glide down parallel lines, I’m here and you’re there, you want me, throw the dice, live & dare

Take your time, please come fast, we’ve fallen, crossed over, it’s so late – too late in the day to be scared

You, I will let you do anything to

It’s not you, it’s me—it’s not me, it’s you—we’re so much of the same – balanced on opposite sides of the scales

On my skin, on my heart, it’s not a stain, it’s your name—you’re calling mine, in the dark—it is right, it is sane

You, I will let you do anything to me

*Is anybody else exhausted due to General Election? What a week it’s been. Special thanks to my friend Adam for closing it in style with me late last night, or rather early this morning*

Too crude for me

Those men with poor imagination and wild ambitions – they fancy themselves as lions but are really defective copies at best and ugly hyenas at worst.

They big themselves up, inflate their own egos until it’s as sad and bloated as a retired whore.

They don’t do this alone though: the one-eyed man rules over a blind submissive army which coos and strokes and giggles while the rest of us look on and wonder, divided between disgust and laughter.

Writing shitty poetry is not a crime, and neither is being emotionally stunted, but having an innate lack of respect for women despite claiming loud and clear to the contrary is.

Who do you think you are? An enticing mix of dark and art, right?

Oh, how I laugh!

Your dark is small and sad and pitiful.

You are so very weak, dreaming of a queen and picking up debris – which is just what you deserve.

You told me to suck your cock, proud as a peacock you were! Proud to be abusive, justifying the implied threat of rape with the sorriest of excuses –
I had criticised, I had been fierce, so why not shove your cock in my face?

Abuse is never acceptable and despite your sob stories and pathetic excuses, it’s never justifiable.

There is nothing worse than the man who declares his victim responsible for his own appalling behaviour.

If only you could realise your dominating dreams from another age are the worse sort of bait.

You were never worthy of me, and a fool not to perceive I always had the power to crush you under my exquisite heel.

Escape, start again somewhere new – but let me tell you: you can’t escape yourself, no matter how hard you try.

You are nothing. You will never be anything. I held my tongue for so very long out of a kindness you did not merit, but now it can be said: I have never liked Modigliani – as an artist, much too crude for me. And how true that turned out to be.


Shame you were busy
I went to a masquerade
Plied my trade
As a medieval whore
Behind the doors
Of a gloomy castle
Received a rose
From a lovable rascal
Lived, breathed, loved
Not a minute was lost
I only wish your lunchtime
Had been as exciting as mine
You were keeping the books
While I dived straight into one
No need to ask
Which one of us missed out