Other Writing

Well, that's what dad began calling me on the day I was born. I think he had read somewhere that Red Indians called their kids after the first thing they saw after the birth, and for dad, it was some unidentifiable, bacteria-infused liquid that was dripping onto the kitchen floor from a corner of a bin bag.

I wasn't christened Binjuice, of course; Mum would never allow that. I was Virginia, which became Ginny, which became Binny. No shortage of laughs in our house.

I didn't mind Binny so much....

It’s not as I remember it, but I know that it’s here. The trees in the distance are more towering still, and there are bushes where once there were none, but this is the place.

I had taken the old and dusty box from the shelf and opened it carefully, for there was where my most precious memories resided. I removed the contents one at a time, placing the shoes on the floor and the dress on a hanger. The hat, I was pleased to find, was in good order and required little attention.

My memory opened...

What is reality?

Is it the time of our life or an undernourished apocalyptic event devoid of the consciousness we feel defines our existence?

Is it the juxtaposition of the soul and physical self, existing on a plane far removed and yet exerting its influence in an overtly subtle way?

I have a mind that can soar to great heights and consider many things away from my physical self, unencumbered by mortal restrictions and physical laws. A mind that can create and discard in equal measure in a...

Once there was a smiling girl

Whose dizzy life passed in a whirl

Her sinless days were spent in joy

No time for love with man or boy.

In a whore-filled den devoid of hope,

With Weed and White and Crack and Dope,

She pushed a needle in a vein.

No one spoke her name again.

Those smug-faced crowds who filter by

The streetwise ghosts with deadened eye,

Are blessed, for they will never know

The haunts where youth and innocence go.

For the unblessed, born and nurtured amongst the broken chariots of a satanic Armageddon.

For a ragged people, torn from broken buildings, their splintered lives picking fibres of hope from the remnants of a lessened humanity.

For the smug-faced angels of death in red leather armchairs who glance dispassionately upon the grieving wives and mothers whose tears and wracking sobs distress the distressed and wash away the crumbling façade of peace and reconciliation.

For the children swept as one...

She went to the forest and stood with the trees,

The place where the wind danced with the leaves.

She called on the Birch, the Pine, and the Vine.

She screamed her desire, her faith and her ire.

She’s too strong, too weak,

Too bold, too meek,

Too loud, too cowed,

Too fat, too thin,

Her mind’s in a spin; she doesn’t fit in.

She stood in the clearing, reluctant to leave,

But the forest stayed silent; it just let her breathe.