for my whale brothers and sisters…


this planet is small,
too small.
sometimes, it seems, there is
nowhere to hide when
what’s inside presides,
when the storm
shreds the sails
leaving no safe harbour.
there will be
no trees to breathe
no rivers to cry –
and the oceans will be salt
flat graveyards
for my whale brothers
and sisters to die (in).

this planet is home.
it is my home, it is your home.
she is ancient and beauty full –
once carefree and colour full.
cut her, she bleeds;
and yet she continues
to breathe and pirouette
around the Sun – the chosen, and only,
and on and on
and on and on, she yields,
selflessly, with
wisdom and generosity, just like
my birth mother.
But still we press
upon her –
prey, greedily, upon her.
we cut her to the quick
don’t you see?
it’s our very own existence that
is making her sick.
’tis not cognitive dissonance
– we are but blind
and bumptious.
our selfish genes –
cocksure, precocious;
they do not see
nor do they care.
they continue to
and assault her.

in the name of opium, religion
sanctimony or devotion, tell me
which God(head) has the
biggest and most powerful
wake up, people!
we do not have options:
we have nowhere else to go.
this is not a movie.
this is real.
wake the fuck up, Dorothy!
we’re not in Kansas anymore.
and you’re right:
“there IS no place like home…”
this IS our home.

we have nowhere else to go,
when this home is spoiled
and wrecked.
so sad a picture!
what a legacy we leave
in the damage we weave, into
the fabric of us.
when WILL we
realise the extent… when
it’s our OWN extinction event?
it is already too late.
do we care of our fate?
we should… like i say,
it’s not like we have options.
we can not just up and leave;
no other place to resettle
this will be the ultimate
of our mettle.

this planet is blue.
i can see why



can’t you?

(c) Kat McDonald 2016



today, i am that snowflake



this day; today.
a day, made of clay.
cold and wet.
i step outside,
from one storm to another.
i was born in a storm.
i ought to be strong
[stronger than this]

the wind roars and scalds
my face with its chill.
sleet falls
like a rain of gunfire.
glass pavements impede my gait.
battered and blown,
i walk slowly.
a funereal pace.
i breathe in the petrichor,
a smell i would
ordinarily relish
but today
it smells like shit.

i feel like i
am made of clay.
my cold, damp fumbling fingers
seem useless.
i should cut them off.
my feet,
heavy and
tired, tread
and there is silt
in my spit. i swallow
down the abrasive
residue. i taste
of earth.
but onwards, i trudge.
my bones ache
from fear of falling.
but i keep falling;
and flailing.

Janus heralds a time
of new beginnings
and transitions;
of gates and doors
and passages.
and time.

his perfect
[comedic] timing: it is to be expected,
i guess, with
his cruel squall
and winter wall.
i search for a way
through but it stands
too tall.

i cannot climb over.
my feet are heavy and
i am stuck to the ice.
i am clumsy.
[this is not funny] i am inept,
despite my eloquence.
if only i could
find a way through.
but i soldier on.

he sent this blizzard.
to suffocate and
i hear his laughter, mocking.
i scream at the sky:

“Janus! stop this fucking war!”

all that i want
is peace, and peace of mind.
but my mind
i cannot find?
i would retrace my steps but
my footprints are covered
i am lost
in this storm.
this [inner]

i think of home.
homesick, i dream of
a place of warm.
a place where stains and
traces of embraces
still hang, fragrant,
in the air.
a place where that
smile can colour
and set fire
to a room.
home, like a womb.
where sleep comes easy
and dreams
ignite and fuel the hopes
and tropes that
shape the self.


i succumb to the [white]
frill and freeze
as the snow falls thick
and [pillow] soft.
paralyzed by my
own worry, i fall to my knees
amid the flurry.

“i give in…!” i cry,
buckling beneath
his uranic hand as he pushes me deeper into the sand
and clay.
he dismembers me,
he crushes me into the ground.

in this clarity.


in this ephemeral realisation
i look inside.
and find the origin of my symmetry, but
what purpose?
am i one?

my eyes weep crystal tears.
i fall. again and again.
i am that snowflake.
i fall, like all
my good intentions.
i only wanted
to make the world
a prettier place.
but being unique
is not enough.
i am weak.
and insignificant.
i feel
like that snowflake.
like the other
snow white soldiers,
in their hundreds of thousands.
in this storm, this war,
they fall
to their death,
unto sodden ground.

[Christ, i just want to be held]

with patience,
in every breath,
i step off this icy ledge
with arms outstretched;
there is nobody here, to see me weep
there is nobody here, to catch me
on hand or cheek.
not one soul
to care,
or fall upon.
and so my fall
remains unbroken; spat.
i will deliquesce
into the clay,
beneath your feet.

[blink] and thy will be done.

words & image (c) Kat McDonald 2016

Dare we dream?

words like daggers that pierce the heart…
words like salt that wound the eye when read…

another exemplary piece of writing from the heart of my heart, one where the disappointment of a failed chance at independence for his country has left us (both) feeling bereft, broken and sick to the core… thank you Robert Davidson for writing – and sharing – these words.

Dare we dream?.


a new fever has me in its clutches… i can feel her long, bony, icy fingers twist my spine and contort my brain… i need paracetamol… i need a glass of water… i need to sleep…

but sleep won’t come easy…

paracetamol… a glass of water… bed.

i climb into bed… i am shaking… my hands are tingling… am i hungry..? am i over-tired..? i feel exhausted… i feel sick… nausea rushes at me like a jealous mistress… my head feels twice the size it should be… my forehead is hot… my feet are cold… i am shaking… i swallow the pills and wash them down with a long drink of water.

i climb into bed… the pillow feels cool beneath my heavy skull… i close my eyes and then it starts… i must ride this out until it breaks…

micro flashing neon lights spark inside my minds eye, igniting visions… visions… murky, but i look deeper… deeper into the grain and chaos… i see a face… a man’s face… it is Stalin… he is standing outside an old house… a house on a wild beach… a house with a red door… suddenly, he vomits all over himself… then dissolves into a puddle on the ground… i look out to sea… but the sea is not a sea… it is a vast expanse of rippling silken fabric, billowing in the breeze… i look up to the sky… a pterodactyl swoops in low over the water towards me… i duck for cover and close my eyes tight, anticipating being snatched up by the giant predatory bird… nothing… the wind has picked up the pace and snatches my breath… i gasp and open my eyes… i find myself atop one of the steel eagles that grace the lofty Chrysler Building in NYC… i am terrified… the wind is strong… my hair whips my face… i am too scared to look down… but i do… and now my palms are wet, sweating… i cannot hold on, i lose my grip… but wait! i am typing… i am sat at a desk, in the middle of a forest, and i am typing… typing incoherent words on a sheet of stiff, white paper… The typewriter is old and battered and clunky… a pale blue Olivetti electric typewriter… my curious eyes follow the flex… it is plugged into a giant snail… the sound of my fingers tapping the keys rattles my brain… the words make no sense… the words make me shiver… i open a cupboard… an old farmhouse style larder- just like the one my Aunt Mary had at Fullerton Farm… i open the door and find hundreds of tins of Baked Beans… i close the door… but the door is a mirror now… i stare at my own reflection… i smile to her, but she does not smile back… she is naked… pale, gaunt… two headless horses appear behind me… one black as night, The other white as snow… the white one speaks to me in a language i cannot comprehend… but we start to dance… the floor beneath me turns to silver sand… the sun is beating down on me… i pull the quilt around me and nestle into the comfort and familiarity of my bed, despite the madness of these visions… visions i have no control over… i cannot make them stop… they come, in a flood… my mind is a fairground… i look at my hands… six fingers on each hand… i cut off the tips of my fingers with a large pair of shears… they are bleeding… i put on a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves and go outside into the night… there are two moons in the sky… both are full and resplendent… the night is cool… i am alone… i look to my left and the buildings start to crumble and fall… an apple falls from the sky and rolls towards me, stopping at my feet… It speaks to me… beckoning me to take bite… i pick up the lilac apple and bite into its soft, juicy flesh… it tastes salty… so i throw it away… it explodes on impact… in the distance, i hear a child’s voice… it is my lover’a son… he appears out of nowhere, wearing a flappy bird t-shirt and red jeans… he is barefoot, as i am… he takes my hand and tells me to follow him… i do… suddenly, i find myself, alone, inside a computer… i look at my hands… i am made of pixels… i peer through the screen and see a morbidly obese man, sitting on his sofa with a boxful of donuts… he is playing a computer game… he is controlling me and my movements… he is controlling the CGI world i now find myself locked in… i like it here, but i cannot stay… i call out for my lover’a son… but he is gone… he has left me a note… it reads “gone fishing, be home Tuesday!”… i smell coffee… i look down and find myself in a bathtub full of warm, steaming coffee… it stains my skin… my lover appears… he dries my wet skin with a cloud, gently patting it dry… he lovingly combs my wet hair and strokes my face… we kiss… and float out the wind into space… we swim through the stratosphere and look back at Earth… it looks radiant and blue… i take a bite… it tastes like battery acid… the shock cuts my tongue and i spit out blood and a chunk of France… “it never used to taste like this…” says my lover, his eyes filled with tears… he spits a mouthful of India out into the blue stratospheric air… he fades into the night… “soon…” he says, blowing kisses as he dissolves into the ether… i find myself in a deep, Belfast sink… the cold tap is turned on and the sink is filling up with tiny sea horses and goldfish… they sparkle and shimmer and swim around me… but i need to urinate… i open my eyes, climb out of bed and make my way to the bathroom across the hall… my legs are shaking… i feel weak… perhaps sleep will come soon… i hope for a dreamless sleep… but instead, i find myself in a field full of rabbits… hundreds and thousands of rabbits… rabbits of all different colours… the pink ones are my favourites… odd… i hate the colour pink… but they are the friendliest… i reach up to the sky and reel in the sun… i hold it in my hands… it burns, but only momentarily… my cold hands chill its fire and it turns from burning amber to brittle blue… the sun shatters in my hands… i am left holding fragments of turquoise glass… i throw the shards up into the air… they tinkle and twinkle against the sky, like dying light… The tranquility of their peaceful chimes turns into an ugly chaos as the fragments of harmless light turn into bullets… they rain down all around me… everything has turned to dust… children lie dead around me… women scream… another bomb goes off… the ground shakes, like the thunder of the apocalypse… there is no colour… everything is grey… the course of death… i hear the wail of an electric guitar… someone, somewhere is playing a guitar… it wails, like a wounded animal… i cover my ears and crouch down, holding myself… crying… i open my eyes and see a young deer, chewing a leafy twig, at the foot of my sweating bed…

the pillow is damp… i turn it over and, with trembling hands, i gulp down a glass of cold, clean water… i close my eyes… please let me sleep… a dreamless sleep… please… these rapid fire flashbacks of former trips inside my minds eye and visions of my subconscious’ innermost thoughts and fears, as surreal as they are, are raping my brain… i am exhausted… i want calm… i want to feel well again… i look at the time… three hours have passed… i have been away for three hours…

i take two more pills, and water… and close my eyes…

but wait! my feet are covered in sand…

(c) Kat McDonald 2014

as Baudelaire suggests


amid the turmoil
of a broken world,
i seek beauty
in the mundane.
it offers comfort
and solace,
like the sea
that strokes my doorstep
and wipes clean the grime
of this murky world.
an eight day old baby,
from her young mama’s womb;
my own mama’s hands,
her story etched on her paling palms;
a simple man,
laughing at the rain;
a hungry fox,
in an empty car park;
a snail,
to my sideview mirror
as i drive on the motorway;
the words ‘i love you’
from the lips and fingertips
of the one.
all this beauty-
i drink it in,
as Baudelaire suggests.
i drink it in
to forget
the dark clouds
of the festering storms
that enshroud this world.
my sorrows
are learning to swim.
what is hope
if not this..?

(c) Kat McDonald 2014

PS- the snail was still stuck to my mirror when i got home… a lesson learned.

The Great Insanity

stark imagery and home-thumping truths. brilliant lyrics. wonderful band.
go mad. go check out The Greatest Insanity, ever!

Pure Phantasy

Third, forth, fifth hand preconceptions over actual experience
Chinese toys for wealthy children
Pinkies and spared no expense
Truly oblivious, you are going through the motions of your parents’ examples
Gadgets and safe distractions and pig headed self satisfactions
Repressed adolescents playing the games
For their own gains, for their own sakes
Taking affirmation, learning from your friends’ mistakes
Don’t rain on my parade – Don’t rain on my parade
Or i’ll stamp onto your face
I’ll stamp onto your head
I’m looking for any excuse to vent
Just give me a push, oh give me a push
I’ve been drinking all night
All week uptight
I’m ready for sex or ready to fight

Don’t rain on my parade

Ticking clocks that hinder choices to the demise of our circumstance
Ignorance and stifled voices
And Trident guised as self defense
Truly expendable, you are led by fear mongering and corporate…

View original post 96 more words



i could not forget you…

i sat, outside Starbucks’ coffeehouse, with a latte venti in my left hand and a Camel Turkish Royal in my trembling right. dissolving beneath the South Carolina sunshine, i inhaled deep. i tried hard to put the events of the day into some semblance of order, pitting myself against the tears of frustration and rage that prickled the back of my eyes.

it was barely ten a.m. but the sun was already bold, brash and resplendent; beaming down with unearthly ferocity.

a sudden, small and new shadow contravened my thought, catching me off-guard. i looked up to see a little girl with big blue eyes as wide as the summer sky standing before me, staring.

“sometimes when you are travelling with other people you can still feel alone…” she told me, as if reading my mind.

“don’t be sad – you don’t have to feel so alone… i am Evangeline” she said softly, moving closer, studying me.

she told me she was seven years old and that she was taller than most of the boys in her class. her hair was long, shining and the colour of sandcastles. she had violet blue eyes – the bluest i had ever seen. her mouth, like a tiny rosebud, looked sticky; stained cerise from the cherry popsicle she held, melting, in her hand. she stood before me; her eyes held me, still. a tiny rivulet of thick cherry syrup slowly trickled down over her soft dimpled fingers, dripping onto the pavement between our feet. we both looked down at the tiny little pools of pink.

“my name is Kat” i told her, smiling.

“where’s your Mom?” i asked, anxiously scanning the car park, squinting in the glare of the sun; peering inside the coffeehouse – straining to refocus and readjust from the blinding light to the cool shadowy interior.

“my Mom knows i like to make new friends” were the words she entrusted me with.

i grew more anxious and feared for her safety. perhaps sensing this, she spun around and flung open a freckled arm, nonchalantly pointing to a big red pick-up truck parked nearby. behind the wheel of this muscular vehicle sat a plump round-faced Mom; wearing a Slipknot t-shirt. her long thick dark bangs fell heavy upon her tanned shoulders, like a shroud or veil. glancing out towards us, she threw her hand – a gesture – a wave – and smiled; yet never breaking contact with the mobile phone she had squashed between her soft chin and shoulder. i let go a sigh of relief. i relaxed inside. this must be her mother.

that perfect little girl could have been an easy, trusting target for evil human beings. i shuddered. went cold

[oh, Evangeline… Evangeline]

i smiled as she stood on one leg, precariously balanced, and told me:

“we’re a long way from March”.

both mesmerised and stunned at her astuteness – a wisdom that betrayed her age of innocence – i agreed with her.

“my Daddy is coming home from Iraq in March – for my birthday. i will be eight!”

[f u c k !!! f u c k !!! f u c k !!! – oh child… what do i say…?]

i searched, fumbling desperately like a blind man lost in a forest, for the right words to say. shocked, moved, i tried to hide the tears and turned to extinguish my cigarette.

“all i want for my birthday is for my Mommy to be happy again and stop crying at bedtime. all i want is for Daddy to come home to us. Mommy misses Daddy – that’s why she wears his T-shirt. but it’s way way too big for her.”

[f u c k !!! f u c k !!! f u c k !!! – what the fuck do i say…?]

i smiled to her and squeezed her little sticky hand to reassure her. i could not speak. i could barely breathe.

“oh he’ll be home soon – i am sure – he wouldn’t want to miss his favourite girl’s birthday…” i said inwards – to myself. sub-consciously re-assuring myself.

[what do you say to child in times like these…?]

“you see? you don’t have to be all sad and alone here – we’re friends now” she said as she suddenly flung her arms around my neck and squeezed me tight. as she kissed my cheek, her breath smelled of sweet cherry pop. her eyes wide, innocent and yet so knowing and unwittingly astute.

“you won’t forget me – will you?” she whispered in my ear – still holding me tight.

“no sweetheart… i won’t forget you” i said… “how could i..?”

and how could i?

how could i possibly forget?

i was humbled. this put everything into perspective, reminding me of an ancient proverb:

“i grumbled for i had no shoes – until i met a man who had no feet”

a chance encounter with a stranger. a child. a wide-eyed little girl. eyes wide and deeply perceptive.

i will not forget her.

and i will not forget her words – those words which, at first, would seem random to those around me made sense.

perfect sense.

[oh Evangeline… Evangeline…]

how could i forget you…?

words (c) Kat McDonald, and Evangeline

*written while on USA Tour with Little Buddha, July 2009