Thank You for the Music

The Two Ks

once upon a time there were two little girls and, for a long time, they were inseparable.  they spent all their free time together. they were the best of friends.

two little girls whose names both began with the letter ‘K’.  two little girls with April birthdays, one a year older, K1, and four inches taller than the other, K2.  two little girls in love with all things that 8 year old girls fell in love with then: roller skates, lip gloss, dolphins, puppies and ABBA.

two little girls who loved to sing.  and sing they did.  every day.

they called themselves “The 2 Ks” and, every weekend, they staged ‘concerts’.

K1 would save up her pocket money to buy every album ABBA ever released, or she would bribe her parents into buying them for her, by promising to tidy her room more frequently.  soon the girls did, indeed, have every album ABBA ever released, and their repertoire was growing.  they soon knew all the words to all the songs, by heart.

K1, being the taller of the two girls, with the fairer hair and stronger voice was, obviously, Agnetha.  K2, being smaller with dark hair and a deeper, rich, velvety voice was, naturally, Frida.

the two little girls would rehearse almost every day or night when they had free-run of K1’s living room and her brother’s stereo, with speakers that were as tall as them.  the TV would be turned off,  the door closed and nobody was allowed to enter the living room until the girls had finished their rehearsals for their next concert.  and every Friday or Saturday night, there would be a concert.  each concert would last three to four hours, or until K2’s mother decided it was bedtime.

planning these ‘concerts’ began every Monday afternoon, after school, when the set list was prepared and decisions were made regarding who would sing what song.  rehearsals took place all week with painstakingly choreographed dance routines. harmonies, and counter-melodies were worked out and memorised.  by the end of the week they were ready for the next forthcoming show.  costumes would be tailored to suit the theme of each segment: leotards with chiffon scarves carefully attached so that they moved like flames as the girls danced; silk pyjamas with grown-up strappy sandals; gypsy skirts with boob tubes, no boobs and boho beads; Bermuda shorts and shirts with bow ties. 

tickets and signage were other important aspects of the shows that the girls meticulously prepared: signs such as “No talking or smoking during performance”  were hand-drawn.  K2 was particularly artistic.  she would spend hours designing and colouring in posters, with a full spectrum of felt tip pens at her disposal.  she would often embellish the posters with glitter or fresh flowers glued to them before pinning them up in obvious places: the hallway door, and the living room door – the entrance to their ‘auditorium’. tickets were issued the night before.

One of K1’s older brothers, S, was in a band and he would often set up an amp and microphones for the girls, to which more chiffon scarves were attentively attached.  the volume dial was, after being set by S, strictly out of bounds. they were told not to touch it but the girls often cranked it up regardless – especially if they thought that their audience wasn’t giving them the attention they felt they deserved!

the concerts were all the more special for the two little girls with microphones. however, if K1’s brother had a gig of his own, then singing into their hair brushes would have to suffice.  this happened on many an occasion.

every weekend K1’s house would be full of music and joy.  the two little girls would sing their hearts out.  a mixture of singing together and solo performances, while the other ‘K’ went backstage to slick on more lip gloss, brush her hair and sip some water, or to pet the dog.

to the two little girls, the concerts were real.  in the wilds of their minds, they were performing in a stadium, in front of a crowd of thousands of screaming fans – not just singing along to records to an audience made up of their long-suffering mums, their neighbours, the neighbours’ kids and the dog, in a mid-terrace Council house living room.

these two little girls had feral, unfettered imaginations. for the duration of these shows, they really believed they were ABBA.  An ABBA without Benny and Bjorn, however.  their Bennys and Bjorns would remain invisible.  they did, however, at one time ‘audition’ a boy to join them.  the boy had huge ears and lived next door to K2. he was a firm friend to both girls but he turned out to be completely tone deaf despite the size of his ears (wholly incapable of singing any key played on K1’s piano, despite their best efforts to teach him) so they abandoned that idea, post haste.  he would remain their friend, however, and was often bullied into being their compère for the evening, or invited to ‘mime’ the vocal parts of Benny or Bjorn, should that be required. for the most part, Benny and Bjorn would remain being merely the girls’ left hands, as the girls would practise their kissing on the back of their hands during the intermission.  the tone deaf boy with big ears never got any kisses, but he lived in hope.

backstage, it was chaos.  a trail of discarded chiffon scarves,  thick tinsel boas, the odd ballet pump or long black velvet evening glove would leave a trail upstairs to the “dressing room”.  once again, K2’s artistic skills were put to good use where a big Broadway style dressing room door sign, complete with glam gold Hollywood stars, would adorn the bedroom door.  more scarves; fancy patterned tights, with one leg inside-out; kitten-heeled sandals; a pink hairdryer and curling tongs would be scattered on the floor of K1’s bedroom floor.

little pots of iridescent green and gold eyeshadow and loose translucent powder spilled over the dresser;  lipstick kisses smeared many a mirror;  skirts, sunglasses and furry hats were strewn across the bed; hairbrushes, that just happened to land spiky side up, on the floor would be hidden hazards to small bare feet rushing “backstage” to change costume.

and there were a lot of costume changes.  every half hour, and that meant a lot of hairspray.  it is no wonder smoking was not permitted.

but these two little girls could really sing.  they sang with everything they had, belting out hit after hit.   they sang with such emotion and raw power that their parents’ friends suggested they enter talent competitions, or apply to be on some televised talent show, join a theatre group or even write to Jim’ll Fix It.

but like all little girls, they grew up.  by and by, the ABBA obsession ended as, eventually, did their friendship.

K1 went on to make her first real public performance as a vocalist singing with her brother’s band at the tender age of nine and a half.  she sang ‘Daddy’s Working Boots’, a real heartbreaker of a song written by Dolly Parton, one time at a local Country & Western club.   K2 joined the local church choir.

the reason i know all of this is because i was one of those little girls.


The Two Ks_collage


(c) Kat McDonald 2020

dedicated to Karen O.  wherever you may be now…. big love, my dear friend, and thank you for the music.




i know what dreams are. but what comes of that?


do you dream?  of course you do.  everybody does.   i’m not talking about having dreams, per se, like MLK.  i’m not talking about visions, ideals, or aspirations.  we all have those too, to a greater or lesser degree.  perhaps we have dreams of winning the lottery; dreams of becoming famous; dreams of a better fucking world…  yeah, we all have those.

i’m talking about the dreams we have when we are sleeping. you know… the strange mind movies in which we find ourselves cast in a leading role; the weird worlds we frequently find ourselves immersed in, in the hypnagogic state; the queer and fractured alternative realities we all too often wake up from.  as ocean-eyed teenage pop phenomenon, Billie Eilish, once asked of us ‘when we all fall asleep, where do we go?’

i have often wondered that myself, Billie.

three nights ago, i had the strangest dream.  a dream that felt so real and, most importantly, one i was able to recall in vivid detail.

having studied psychology, i know what dreams are.  but what comes of that?  why this?  shall i share it with you?  feel free to comment.

it starts with the sound of a voice.  a male voice.  speaking in English.  it sounds like a broadcast.  as i become aware of my surroundings, i realise it’s coming from the car radio and i also become aware that i am behind the wheel of a large beat-up old Army Jeep.  it has no roof and it is left-hand drive.  i seem to be driving across war torn terrain.  i think  i am heading towards a city,  or what remains of a city, rather.  one i know not to be from my native Scotland but what appears to be (from the road signs) somewhere in eastern Europe.  my gut instinct tells me i am somewhere in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

the man’s voice breaks on the radio, and he sounds distraught and terrified.  it’s a live broadcast.  an update.  he is telling the people of the world that planet Earth, our home, is going to stop turning at 1600hrs.  i glance at the time on the car’s dashboard.  it is 15.49.  i have 10 minutes left of life as i know it.

i come to a derelict building with vines and trees growing up and through the rubbling masonry.  i stop the Jeep and get out.  the sun is shining with a new found ferocity.  my bare face and arms are burning in the heat.  i look up at the white sky, searching for any other sign of life and feel my eyes burn.  it feels like they are blistering in the sun’s wave.  there are no birds in the sky today.  i venture inside – hoping to secure shelter here.  the building is merely a shell, no roof, no window panes and a ivy-clad stairway leading to nowhere.  the walls are broken and blasted.  huge chunks missing, like monster bite marks, from the building where mortar bombs and scud missiles sought to destroy its one time beauty and prestige.  i walk through a gnarled door way and see what’s left of one room.  a space that offered some kind of haven.  some kind of protection from whatever the rest of me was soon to be faced with.  the room was rather odd. there were, literally, hundreds of violin bows hanging from what remained of the ceiling, swaying in the breeze.  no music.

suddenly the earth began to shake and scream.  scream.  a sound coming from God only knows where, stunned me, and violently threw me to the ground.   i covered my ears.  it was deafening.  otherworldly.  it sounded like the Earth herself screaming in pain, in the throes of her agonising death.  and then it stopped.  everything went black.  just as if someone had pulled the plug on life.

shaken and terrified, i slowly stood up and peered through the dark towards where i had abandoned the Jeep and saw, to my surprise that only this half of my surrounding area was now in darkness.

this must be it, i thought.  the world has stopped turning.

the world had stopped turning. and the screaming din had stopped.  there was now an uncanny silence.  a silence i had not heard before.  but strangely, over to the west, and what looked like a 30 minute drive away, there was sunlight.  daylight.

i got in the car and drove towards the light.


words/concept/dream (c) Kat McDonald 2019

should i embellish upon this, continue the story?  as a book?



the self-hypnotist


“…. you are slowly going into a state of deep relaxation. Slowly and surely, your entire body and mind are relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. you are going deeper and deeper and deeper, into a state of deep relaxation. each and every muscle of your body is now relaxing. everything is so peaceful and quiet. now, counting backwards from 10, you will descend a small staircase….  10…. 9…. 8………………..5……………….. …………. ………………..”

the voice of the self-hypnotist tails off into the night. a new night. a new year.  the voice, now distant, fades into obscurity. into oblivion.

i lie in the dim of my chamber with the weight of the night, and gravity of the new year, pressing upon me. my mind is swirling in the crush and chaos, like Betelgeuse, on the verge of explosion.  i can feel the night creep in and saturate the familiarity of my furnishings and turning them into oddities and unrecognisable shapes.  all is quiet. the flickering street light, right outside my window, casts shadows across the walls and ceiling; just as my mind casts aspersions as to what this new year, 2017, will bring.  this new year is barely four hours old and already i am judging her and making assumptions.

[why do we do that?]

it is these early hours of a new year that bring a manic panic and wild sense of urgency.

[calm… focus on that voice, Kathryn…]

 through my open window, i see that the stars are still in their correct places – no need for adjustment; the sea continues to roll in and out just as it did in the old year. another night of constant tides, and glad tidings. the still and almost silent night is punctuated by the odd yelp or peal of laughter from drunks as they stagger home like the walking wounded… or the waking dead.  the last of the NYE party people.  all i can hear now is the gentle hum of distant traffic, the drone of the self-hypnotist’s voice and the yelp of an urban fox.  the blackness of the sky, like a shark’s eye, is murky in my blindness.  the walls of this chamber are illuminated by that lonely failing street lamp outside, casting sparks like a beacon of hope for the lost, the lonely and the fucked up.

Alf, my cat lies, sprawled by my side, on his back with his furry flank exposed in complete trust.  on occasion, he stretches out his paw and pads gently at my hand. no claws. just a tender acknowledgement of our mutual affection.  i lean in and kiss his stomach. he does not flinch nor fight.  he just sighs, softly.  in this light, he looks as though he may be smiling.

i lay back beneath the blanket of night and close my eyes.


there is no colour in the desert. no colour and no sun.  only a clock, where the sun once hung, high in a sky that once was blue.  now everything is monochrome.

with hands on hips, parched lips and bare feet, i look around me. the air is strange.  where am i?  am i still on Earth? the soft, warm breeze whips up a fine salty dust and carries it across the desert valley floor.  the sky is vast and humbling.  large white clouds billow and gather pace.  the breeze sucks them together.  i watch, in awe, as they amass and form a canopy up and beyond me.  why there is no colour is beyond me.  the sky is black.  the clouds continue to change shape and quicken, as if to summon uncertainty.  this reality is in time-lapse.  everything is moving fast, it is only i who remains still.  the clock’s long arms and broken hands spin around and around and around, faster, faster, faster… day becomes night becomes day.  clouds continue to feed my imagination with the flight of dragon-like formations.  what does this mean?   and i am thirsty.  i am so thirsty.

dawn breaks and the clock disappears.  a new sun begins to rise, feverish, in a purple sky.  in time-lapse, shadows lengthen and spread across the desert floor.  i feel the sun warm my skin and realise i am more than thirsty.

for water?

or knowledge?

with this new sun, comes a new dimension.  i look to my right and there is an office. an office with a door but no walls; an office with a desk and chair, a chaise-longue and standard lamp, but no ceiling. on the desk there is an aspidistra, a tall glass of water and a notepad and pencil.  they are placed in position, with near poetic precision, by a wiry and bent old man in a dark grey polyester suit.  his hair is wild; long and grey and his beard is unfurled before him, like a long and winding road.  sensing my presence, he turns to me and fixes himself, pulling down his sleeves, straightening his tie and hurriedly brushing off one or two loose hairs and specks of dandruff from his sloping shoulders.

standing upright,  i see that he is a tall and thin man with a large bony nose and sunken cheekbones.  his round steel-framed spectacles hang off the end of his nose. the lenses are thick yellow and make his eyes look cartoon-like and massively oversized for his gaunt face.  he beckons to me, and gestures to me to recline on the brown chaise-longue.  and so, i do…

the man takes the glass of water and drinks it all down.  my lips are parched and i feel dry.  thirsty.  for water, and for knowledge?  but what of that?

he tells me to look up at the hole in the sky. i relax in the chaise-longue, nestling into its comfort and warmth, and look up at the sky.  he is correct. there is a hole in the sky.  a small puncture wound. i focus on its torn edges as if it were ragged wallpaper and begin to imagine what i would see if i were to continue peeling it away.  what would i expose?  what would i find behind this beautiful illusion.

the man stands over me. he smells like paper.  he then, silently, anoints my forehead with oil, fragrant like turquoise.  i feel myself levitate. his fingers connect with my soul and i feel a stream of information ‘download’ from his fingertips through my pineal gland and down into my solar plexus.

i feel tethered to his knowledge and yet, strangely, free.  suddenly, i am no longer thirsty and i find myself crying at the beauty and simplicity of it all.

he tells me all about the birth of the universe. he explains the many paradoxes and paradigms that have both puzzled and defined us.  he tells me all the secrets: he shows me star maps, new colours, code… he tells me the truth about ‘God’.  he explains the matrices of our existence, and our co-existences in the universes of our past, present and future lives.  he explains why. he explains how.

he instructs me not to tell anyone about what he has shared with me.  there are many forces in existence, he tells me.

he tells me there is much to learn.

he tells me that the human race will not be on this earth in 500 years.

the old man then, taking my hands, leads me into a mirrored-glass pyramid.  inside, he claps his hands, like a flamenco dancer, and a holographic screen appears. immediately, it scrolls through hundreds of names of other human beings, from all over the world.  it is a barrage of information. hundreds of faces flash before my eyes.  instantly i look for familiar faces… my own face, my lover’s face, my mother, my friends…

the old man stands in front of me, commanding my full attention and tells me that in exchange for my newfound knowledge i must make an offering.

as the names of these humans scroll across thin air in front of me, he tells me that i must select 5 human beings to die.

take your time, he says.  choose wisely

the urgency in his voice, stokes my morbid curiosity and i ask him why.

why?  i say, as i scroll through the names and faces of many, many humans. ordinary humans, with ordinary lives.

you will not know any of these people, he says, but choose carefully as these people are all, to some degree, intrinsic to your very own existence.  what fate you decide for them will shape who you are today, tomorrow and who you were yesterday… choose wisely, or you may cease to exist.


the human mind is an unfathomable entity but i guess the lesson here, in this dream, is: while it is great to have a thirst for knowledge, know this: with great knowledge comes great responsibility.


(c) Kat McDonald 2017

i awoke from this lucid dream wishing i could recall the secrets i was told.  it was all too real, but perhaps i am not ready…  perhaps we humans are not ready to know the absolute truth…





Hollywould, if she could


cheap tinsel and smog – is all that you are. a cityful of fake folk and folklore; of deplorable schism and schizophrenic notion. Ah… Hollywould… if she could.
she’s a whoredom. she is like a box of adders; a modern-day Medusa; a mother with viper womb and crooked fangs.
Hollywould – the painted piranha; a fickledom where unforgiven forgotten pariah see only what they wanna.
like a cursed spell. look out, boys! she will poison your well being, and cheapen your aspirations.
she will deliver another suckerpunch, a blow below the belt, crushing the dreams of stardom of each new city-dweller.
watch your step.
wow… she’s something else!
a knock-out with glass jaw but she will always be the first to throw.
she’s a fault line but no great shakes. beneath the mask it’s, clearly, all fake. like the mountains she makes; and struggles, self-baked, of tremendous tremor.

“are those freckles real or are they melanin implants?”

[oh jesus…]

’tis becoming a seismic bore: predictable, needling or
just needy, like that waitress on a 16 hour shift.
Hollywould, if she could, for a cuntful of tips.
oh see how she is gifted – with envy-green eyes and marshmallow lips. Oh how those breasts, augmented, uplift.
and how that mouth can swear and prey.
that mouth…
Oh that pretty mouth and its infamy. it spews, spills and thrills; what’s it to be? spit or swallow?
guzzle ’til full, or remain forever hollow.
she’s the lying breath of the dying, or maybe she is just like our dying star, or a vagrant on the casting couch.
she will play you, work you – she’s no slouch.
is she fashionably contradictory or just prettily vacant?
and so it goes on – irrefutably blatant.
from upbeat to down beat – to a dead heat in heartbeat
and hysteria. with no pretty flowers downtown to adorn her
– only painted thorns, all shorn and forlorn there.
a plastic rose in a plastic surgeon’s clinic, its artificiality, leeching – its cheap scent and gaud leaves them nauseous and retching.
while the artist outside, on the kerb, is sketching.
Oh Hollywould – is a hall of mirror and delusion.
in a violent reality of wild superficiality, she thrives on and jives with collision and war.
warring, wearing and wearing thin, wearing down.
oh Hollywould – a dumb little clown; a piss-stinking parody of a circus town.
attention-seeking, she swings to and fro; a trapeze, a trap… she’ll cum and she’ll go.
fickle, sickle, scythe, and sick.
calculating and heartless, with a swinging brick.
Oh Hollywould, if she could, of that i am sure – cast her aspersions, as she walks out the door, with precision
like a whaler’s harpoon, direct and damaging in her oblivious lampoon.
Queen of the Damned, or  just damned Drama Queen.
“do as i say
or i’ll scream and i’ll scream…!”
and she will, ’till you’re down upon wounded knee;
she will have you jump through hoops of blowjobs and fire, ’til you please
or appease or get stuck in her mire.
one thing for sure…

… this is no town for a child.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

associative disassociation dissociation disorder

3d concept illustration of a candy bag

a 3d misconception of life

sunshine and Aretha Franklin. must be Friday. a sanctuary. a day.

reject. eject.

i wonder about the long-haired hitch-hiker at the side of the road, resting his thumbs upon the biggest blue backpack i have ever seen. he wants to be free of this small Scottish seaside town. what makes him happy?

yellow jackets terrorise the kids. ganging up, in swarms of thirty-three to three. they want their sugar lips and stickiness.

Siamese twins stand, holding hands, on an island in the slum and slump themselves down. dual-despondence. real or illusion?

a grey-haired old lady serves hot soup from the street corner. her dirty fingernails in filthy and frayed finger-less mitts do not repulse the starving and the cold.

meanwhile, a young-girl pirouettes on blades in an ice arena nearby. the spray of cold ice rains down upon the young-boy watching in awe of her breasts and the arc of her back. wake up.

Rod Stewart tells Maggie to wake up. i have indigestion.

a young Asian boy on a red bike stops to rescue a red kite, caught in a tree. to set it free. ’tis all he wants.

the sign says ‘get in lane, Lois’. i do my best, but my patience is thread-bare. this is not real.

i can taste paper. eh?

smoker, or vaper? popcorn lung anyone? ‘you can’t do that here, mate’ says the driver. ‘how no?’ replies the man.

‘how no?’ – what the fuck does that even mean?

and a-round-a-bout we go.

green trees spark a thirst for green tea.
free parking. and yes… it’s true…
somewhere, a dog is barking…

white sky. why? windscreen and wounded fly.

for sale. my reflection, pale. the image should fetch $7. you wait and see.

Chinese banquet or dance with a prophet? don’t decide now. you get a free 14-day trial. no credit card details required.

and it is pretty here. in this hand-stitched field of daisies. this is the prettiest blanket.

discovery and shadows, blind. “taxi to Golf City?” no thank you.

a great white shark for the amusement park. her hunger and crescent-shaped tail prevail. she will cut you in two as soon as look at you.

weightless or weight loss. trim the fat.

scrambled brain from Scrabble game. i see Little Miss Muffet has a new friend.

tuning fork or fork in the road. left or right? flat or sharp?

colourful flumes dip and curl from a great height into the cold grey sea, the same sea that many have written about before me.

weak bridge. is it really weak or is it just tired, like me. my week is tiring.

ballet dancers spin in the brickyard and children paint green hearts on the gable end. a smile can disable, disarm. still, the satellite receivers twitch and turn.

i see a rose tattoo on an ample breast. “enough kindness to feed the world” she says.

a mini market pops up in the Land of Churches, whose spires aspire to greater things as the Garden of Eden swings, despite the rust and much mistrust. do you want or need what i am selling? either way, don’t sell your soul or sell out.

scaffold and cemetery flank my path. hope on one side and faith on the other.

i follow the white arrows through the Parish and take the ladder to the sky.

i watch the blue whale in the biggest blue polyester shell suit take to running and the myocardial risk of running a-ground. from bulging seams it seems like this one takes too kindly to the generous offer of mini-marts and TV ads of fizzy sodas at 99c a can. aspartame-based sugar-coated toxin. you in? you want one? maybe a pack of six?

sugar beats, sugar treats, sugar kiss, sugar kill.
and sugar will. wait and see.

there is a new Academy for new minds. am i too optimistic? can we farm a change?

the falcons hide. nowhere to be seen, despite the signs.

slabbing… this way (the arrow points to the left). is there a right way? i guess there is. what of this?

pressing on, i zip through the fields of Beautiful Fife.

i am now east of the wemyss. a town where the wheelie-bins talk. they talk about a revolution and their revolt for our failed devolution, our desperate attempt at evolution. they gather on the pavements, in their cabals and cliques. they are gossiping, chattering and clap-trapping. they are full of shit.

a man struggles with an umbrella by the side of the road but the traffic is under control. the X-men are not in service but the roses are… they climb and clamor, pretty and pink and narcissistic.

a shed with a sea view, as mythical creatures guard the entrance. mysterious.

the sky is a queer dark shade of white, i spot wild garlic growing in the hedge and my mind turns to Erik Weihenmayer; the blind man who climbed Mt Everest.
do i feel inspired or like an abject failure. i am so tired i could barely climb the thirty-nine steps that John speaks of.

what can i say? my week leaves me weak. but it is Friday. a green light.

a green light shines in the hanging garden of this Town of Gallows. a space where people scurry, with furrowed brows they flurry; their dreams pruned and pinned upon the Great British Pound and price of this Lotto life. scratch their cards to scratch their itch. enough rope to hang themselves.

i look across the sea to Rossyln.

i see the bridges. a third now across the Forth. build or burn?

it’s your turn. my mind wonders. my mind wanders.

“tuck in” says the fat monk, or Jolly Friar. jolly fryer. take your cupcakes and deep-fried pies, your nutritional myths and sugar-coated lies. stick them in the lard. drip feed the dripping. your diabetes crippling? not yet. but it will. quick! take a diet pill.

take a look. in the mirror.

breeze blocks of opportunity? cheap but offer no impunity.

i disappear beneath the bridge
and sunbathe upon the rail tracks.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

– ramblings borne of the delirium & frustrations of trying to make the world a better place.

reversal of a dream


play it loud, they demanded.
who are these people…
… the decapitated people in my dreams?
played people can be dangerous people if,
like Tarot cards; they fall
into the wrong
then the fool is hanged.
in giant wastelands
i stand,
beneath a sky so vast
i cannot see its seams,
nor breaking point.
my journey begins
with a book in my hand
and a hawk on my shoulder
and thoughts older
than fire.
a skyful
of paper kites, their tails
kicking out-
flickery flickering ticks of
too many swingers and swings, and
not enough roundabouts
to turn around
and sing.
i dance barefoot
on crushed pearl.
who is that girl
in the broken glass mirror,
amid a cloud of white
a naked angel
stands, watching,
smoking a cigarette,
his mouth taped shut;
his pubic hair, a tangled forest.
i guess he’s just like the rest of us,
painting a picture.
his hands are dirty
like her mind.
hailstones fall
from between her legs
as the storm shakes
and breaks the Earth
in two.
feeling broken into,
the Holy Man urges,
in hushed low tones,
“leave me alone..!”.
so i lay on the ground,
amid the screams of
car alarms and
waves, and i can
feel the Earth
though i am upside down
looking down upon my
i see self, thrashing,
and the wind blow
through my hair.
my dead brother says
“the road is
… where it takes you is up to you”
and so, i look beyond the sky.
and such a beautiful sky it is today too!
’tis the bluest i’ve seen it.
’tis no wonder we are fools
for unicorns, rarely found
in my backyard.
a yellow taxi takes me to
the farside
of the city.
it is not a city
for angels…
it is a movie set
at the bottom of a pool.
this is where i see things clearer
but now,
i will write you 7 letters: M, S, Q, R, V, X, J.
i have a yellow lamp
for a blue room, for a blue-eyed girl
i want to love
(and love i do) like
noone has ever loved
“the soul remembers the beauty it
used to know in heaven”, said the blue whale
and i
believe him.
he too has been lost in
this city of lost dreams
and pearls; of
pills and girls and
casting couches; of
wormholes, magazines
and vouchers.
you sleep too long
and deep, my friend.
beneath these skies
beneath the ripples.
you left your
left palm upon my right nipple,
like the fire
of a thousand stars or suns.
the smoking angel turns to me and runs
away with my heart and mind
“we are not leading the lives
we were meant for…”
he screams, hysterically.
what of Fate, and free will?
the Romanian holds my hand and
draws blood from my heart line.
the cut is deep.
the blood, it seeps red
for… we never knew which way to go
even although i held a string of shells
around my
neck, but i will write
your name in the sand with
a feather.
you lay on your back and gaze up
at the neon and skyscrapers.
two old men, twins,
play chess
in the middle of The Avenue of The Americas.
the tidal wave
racing… fast towards us.
please, stick needles in my eyes to
wake me from
this strange
from the old brown couch
my eyes chase light up
through the skylight.
i think of my dead brother
i never knew him,
well… not in this world.
i punch a hole
in the wall.
these empty offices leave
their windows open.
the wind in the windows
scatters the stack
of papers,
that was my book.
[fuck it.]
“take another swig of whisky, Kat.”
the angel says, returning like a tide
he plays upon a broken harp.
it is a sorrowful song,
an elegy for the blind
and bare.
as i climb the staircase,
outside and upside
the lights in your eyes
switch on.
champagne is a dirty trick.
it leaves you with two whores in your bed
and a headache.
i dive into the
pool beside
the man in the blue suit.
he’s been in this dream before.
his mouth is full of nonsense
that spills so i
take off my dress and
step in beneath the fountain.
white haired girls should
only ever wear white
or gold.
my hair is black and
covers my eyes,
like a veil
for a widow.
a mystery of mourning.
“good morning” you say
and wake my sleep.
i take your hand and we tango.
a glossy black stallion strikes
his hoof in sparks
like the fire
in our eyes
“we are alive.” i breathe.
having never been
to Sarajevo, i figured
there are too many places i
have yet to be, but
for now it is nice to dance
with you on the lawn,
at dawn and watch
the sun and moon share
the sky’s velvet for
a little while.
but thinking is best done
where thoughts are dissolved
the soul, absolved.
you sing in the morning and i
love how your voice has
the power to blow
from my mind and pathways.
you cut the gangenous from my life
and limb
you, the amputator,
me, the somnambulator.
and walking head first
into a brick wall.
the ‘you + me’
is the best remedy,
when i am afraid.
you push away the fear.
you take me to a vast
expanse of  beach
it seems life’s rich bitch
cannot survive here on nothing.
it is just the two of us
and this infinite space
to play
and breathe
and be
and love.
“you are the love of my life, have i told you this?”
i have sunbathed on runways and railtracks
and i have tried to swim
in the pool of hot wax.
looking for answers
but with you, my fear
of the dark has gone.
footsteps echo in the marble hall
as the Romanian stumbles
breaking her
you break her fall.
“fuck me” she begs,
pulling at you with
moth-eaten hands
and bitten nails.
blond and bland
i tie her tongue
with rubber bands-
i don’t want to hear what she has to say.
she pulls your face
between her legs
and begs
“phmmuckk mi”
“mock you?” you mock
“fuck you?”
i smash her head
unto the floor
it cracks like a fallen vase
upon the tiles
and the bile, it gathers
up in my throat.
the skull cracks
the sound smacks; and her blood
thick and slick and sticky
like the wet on your face.
how could she disgrace me,
or try ‘second place’ me.
so i spit on her.
i piss on her.
i piss in her mouth
that notorious mouth that once
was a carnival; her crooked teeth
like the broken pearl
beneath my feet.
i slip off my shoes…
i step into the blood
and leave footprints down her twisted spine
and i pirouette upon her.
you applaud, on bended knee, and
beckon me
to follow you through the yellow door.
behind this door, lies a garden where
we used to lie and sip
wine of plum and leather;
where bees tickle
the skin of shin,
soft, “can we go back there?” i ask
“can we come together and never peel apart?”
“can we sit together and whisper
to each other poems, like the lovers we were always meant to be?”
this hawk has a broken wing
and needs to fly.
it may heal in time.
white curtains blow and billow
i rock backwards and forwards, like the tide.
moving but going nowhere.
we need bicycles for Sylt.
but right now, all i have is a dripping tap.
my mind, a speeding car;
a bullet;
a whip;
Fake Canadian Dave says:
“nobody cares about reality anymore”
and i don’t disbelieve him.
beneath the blue light
and above the running water, we run
a man with no arms sits
at a grand piano.
it is a dark music that he plays
as he sways, from side to side,
like a pendulum or
as the trees advance,
towards us
doing their strange little dance
– this is all so absurd…

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

image: (c) Kat McDonald Photography

sand-paper & seraphim



her name is Pain

[for fuck’s sake!]

she, by any other name, would still remain
as ugly.
and she IS ugly.
desperately ugly.
she is a creep.
she is unwelcome.
despite my best effort to keep her
of my world, she
seems to find a way to creep
in and fuck
with me: meddle
with my mind, screw
up my plans, piss
on my parade
in her
she is relentless.
she makes her presence
when i am at my happiest, my
most comfortable, my
most vulnerable, my
or when i have
i am convinced
that she does
to seek attention, or
and again,
when i am alone
thoughts, and
almost every night it seems,
back; back
into my consciousness.
sly, septic seraphim,
she is
she turns,
and returns;
laughing at me,
mocking me,
like a barfly whore with her lips
around my lover’s cock…
and bent out of shape.
her mouth like a ravenous beast.
Hell-bent on having.

smiling. sweet.
she finds
a way to be
there, in my mind
and in my bones…
conniving cunt.

it’s exhausting.

and she can be emotional-
like a scorned
LOVER or a jealous ex-girlfriend,
all tragic and bitter, to play
the “i’m gonna fuck with you”
she returns when i least expect it.
and return
she does,
like a tragic memory,
she haunts me and
taunts me
and calls me delusional;
or she’ll hit me
a new bereavement;
tearing me apart
and oh how she wants those bones.
those bones.
i see her: grinding her pelvis
trying to seduce.
sucking on fingers,
touching, twirling hair,
saying all the right things
and laughing, as appropriate.

she wants those bones.
those bones. my bones.
the ones i love
and cherish.
the ones i cling to.
the ones only i


but with one hit, i can silence her.


and so
i cave.
and nestle
the furry blanket
of self-medication.
i take three pills and allow
my cerebral cortex
to drive.
drive me insane.

i can hear the sea.

a candle flickers,
in the corner of my room,
and shadows spill
and twirl
and dance their
odd languid
little dance around the room,
to the music of the

a sea of thoughts.
a sea of words.
a sea of worths.

automatic writing.
i hold pen to pad
let my incoherent musings
spill and twirl
out onto the paper.

the pen makes a scratchy sound.
am i writing on sand paper?

what visions will come, if any?

i need to see so
i close my eyes.

in my mind’s eye, i wipe
the window, in hope
of a clearer view
but… PAIN, again,
she laughs in my face.
her mouth, wide
enough to accommodate my fist.
she is a painted harlot, a whore.
brain, give me something pretty
to distract.
i search the dark and dimming
light for pattern;
sand-SHAPES; for
fucks’ sakes and

i sigh.
i weigh the sky.
i feel it bear down on me.
such a crushing weight.
like a kick to the stomach
from a crazy mare.
a nightmare.

i can still hear the sea.

so i listen to her. her voice is soft
and low.
she sounds exhausted.
what if…?

what if she were to just… stop??



what if all the tides
of all the world’s oceans were to
against the push and the pull?
what would become of
in the throes of
such mutiny?


once upon a time
there lived a MOMENT.
a beautiful moment of clarity.
she was called Epiphany.
one day,
she took a tumble
and stumbled
the meaning of life.
she saw it all.
so clear;
so simple.
Rumour has it, she stood
at the very edge of the Universe
and that she actually skated
on the fabric
of the space-time
she never speaks of it, but
she was
overwhelmed with
and bathed in golden light.

she was shown all existence.

she saw, in particles
and quanta,
the past, the present and the future
of all
she was taught how
all pieced together
and, with the nascent
spongiform curiosity of
a newborn,
she watched everything unfold,
fold and unfold.
a story was told.
she saw her own birth.
she witnessed her own death.
in the blink
of an eye.

she was
she saw
distant memories,
dissonant and
beyond reach.
she felt the pang
of past grieving.
she watched the birth
of the Universe, our Universe;
and other

she held an
embryonic Earth
in her hands
and saw how everything
– all pasts, presents and futures –
are connected; and
and floundering.

[just there… like a glass of water for a thirsty ocean – just beyond reach.]



human life.

where did we go wrong?

we assume. we skull-fuck each other with our egos, our super-egos and our pushed asides.
we are foolhardy and arrogant.
and myopic.
predictably acidic,
we are lame
and dull.
our vanity; unquantifiable.
“do you see me?”
“are you watching?”
“attention without intention”
we flirt.
cause and effect.
who gives a fuck about the butterflies
and their repercussive wings?
we are dirt.


oh it will out. it always does.

where is home? who will take me there?

i don’t believe in angels.

we are but a speck of dirt on something big… bigger than all of us…

something bigger than any one of us
can comprehend with our little brains.

we are ridiculous.

it would seem
we have a lust
for the meaningless,
meaning thus –
we could have more,

we humans are stupid
despite our brilliance.

as pioneers, inventors, artists and thinkers
yes! they can all CREATE
but! they are
masters of destruction.

humans kill.
it’s what they do.
it’s what they do best.
humans kill all that is beautiful.

why do we do that?

i spoke with Epiphany about this.
we talked all night;
until Dawn
told me
that humans will never
fully evolve or
reach their full potential because
they will be
EXTINCT long before
this is realised.

she showed me a DIFFERENT
Universe; a Universe
where maximum human potential
been realised.

she showed me a Universe
so beautiful;
so completely unbroken
that it broke my


with tingling hands, i enter the dream.
is it a dream?
i feel awake.
more awakened than i will ever be.

i turn onto my side, squeeze my eyes shut, and nestle into the Amur tiger that sleeps by my side. i breathe in his scent and open my eyes. with telepathic fingers, i can see his chest fall and rise with sleep. i trace his striped flank. i stroke his face. [those jaws…] he could CRUSH my head, like a fucking watermelon. such powerful jaws. yet he chooses not to. here he lies, by my side, with a paw as large as a guitar, heavy on my hipbone. he is my animus, my guardian.

my protector.


and where is
MOON tonight?

SKY lied.
Sky told me of TWO MOONS
and now there are none?

Sky looked back at me
all dark
and empty;
and desolate.

what has become of her
and her
Moon must be out there
what will become of her
or her sisters?
her role-models and
ladies in waiting?
her unborn daughters?

Mother Moon,
she must be out there
cut adrift.
like a lost balloon,
abandoned by
a spoilt sulk of a child.


maybe Moon is
the spoilt sulk of a child?
skulking off somewhere,
hiding, and hiding her humility
in the folds of Sky’s skirts;
lost amid the
pleats of that inky
black velvet;
because Oceans no longer
want to play with her.


i remember what Dawn showed me.

i remember space.
the vastness of space.
the immeasurable amount
of space.

i remember the reality of seeing
for the first time.
a pin-prick.
eyes smarting,
or are they tears of joy.
what have i just been witness to?
a birth?
the birth?
the birth of the Universe.

the beginning of the end?
i remember holding a newborn Earth
in my fumbling clay hands;
the realisation;
the dawning of
the fragility

single-mindedly, singlehandedly;
we will, ultimately,
be the demise
of us.

our futures will lay
in fragments
and frayed filaments of fiction
and fable as
our furrows unfold.
fate, feverish fashions
furtively unfurl.

we have become slaves
to our selves;
Superficiality and whatever
that whore brings to the party;
she is but a Christmas jingle.
she doesn’t rock.

she is a sexually-transmitted disease.

humans are pathogens.
humans are germs.
humans are disgusting.
dirty specks of dust and
mould to blight
the fabric of our own existence
and existentialisms.

no seraphim to guide us.

there are no angels.  there is no home.

we sully it
dirty it
maim it
kill it
pervert it.
cut it.
cull it.
shoot it.
torture it.
buy it.
improve it.
rape it.
choke on it.
try to defy it.
try to deny it.
shake it.
break it.
make it.
force it.
coerce it.
disable it.


lick it.
suck it.
fuck it.
kiss it.
kiss it better?
too late.

we bend it, like a lie. colour it white.
pretend it.
pretend it never happened it.
distend it.

lie about it. in the dark. can you live with it? can you live without it?

cry about it.
illuminate it.
ruminate it.

double it.
decouple it.

sell it.
condone it.
provoke it.
promote it.

make it a cult
or cultivate it.

mock it.
dock it.
doctor it.

a Doctorate.
rate it.
abate it.
corroborate it.

in syllabus

salubrious symbols
and drums.
thumbs up.

finger it.
powder it.

blow it up.
or just blow it.

snort it.
inject it.
ingest it.

and that’s just it.

it’s fake.
fake it.

guilt-free, fat free, duty free

when all is said and done, and the pleasure of pain breaks, and all is lost- no dogs or angels to take you home. this body was home.  but home is gone.  ask yourself:

how was it for you?
do you feel enriched?

was it good?
was it the fuck of the Century?


just open your fucking eyes.

looking back, in that blink of an eye, was it worth it?

words & images: (c) Kat McDonald Photography 2015

alive, alive-o


i live, with my lover, in a sea-shell upon a distant shore.

we can hear the sea sing all day as it slams onto the shore and breaks – casting echoes like magic spells around the bay. we feel its song resonate and reverberate around and through the pink and unholy curves of our shell’s cathedral vaults and brittle ceiling.

‘Kathryn… come here, my love…’

i feel its pearlesque floor silky smooth beneath my feet as i walk, barefoot, towards my love. the ozone air wafts through its iridescent corridors and toys with my hair and soft fabric of my pale indigo dress. my lover stands with his arm outstretched to me. he stands there, bare of foot and chest. his hair is noticeably longer than it was yesterday and the tips are indigo. his beard is indigo and long enough for me to curl up and fall asleep in, like i have done countless times. he looks good. his denims are indigo and hug his slender frame. i take his hand and he wraps me up in his arms. we hold each other close, swaying to music only he and i can hear. the dance floor is pearly pink and shining. the twinkle of sand particles catch the morning sunlight and scatter patterns of light around inside. our very own private disco in the diamond dust. we defy gravity, spiraling into its hollow core. the canon of our laughter swells and fills the chambers of this hollow shell that we call home and it is the most beautiful noise. he presses me against the wall. urgent. the walls of the shell feel as warm and smooth as the skin on my lover’s back. i love mornings like this.

we walk to the frayed edge where land meets the sea. the sea bears many gifts and fruits of the ocean… today we have an abundance of giant green olives – many of them conveniently pitted and halved. i watch as one of the many giant olives drift ashore. we climb inside and sail out to sea, headed for the distant horizon – to Neighborland’s Grand Market.

Neighborland: a former landfill site, made of reclaimed rice-cakes, stray socks and discarded McDonald’s happy meal toys is home to a population of almost 5000. every Sunday people come from near and far; by air, by land or sea; on foot or gryphon, to peruse the market stalls and haggle with stall holders. there is much bartering or swapping – a goat for poem; a kiss for a bottle of wine; a loaf of bread for a new pair of boots.

we moor our olive at the Lesser Western Pier and head straight for the Neighborland Bar where we order some cocktails. the Barman looks like my brother from Earth, Stewart Munro McDonald. he even has the same sense of humour. i ask the Barman his name. he tells me his name is Arty. the Bar is quiet. there are only the two of us and an albino troll seated near the entrance to the mens’ toilets. he looks a little worse for wear and is muttering to himself. Arty picks up his guitar and begins to play some Faron Young.

“God, my brother would LOVE this place…” i say to my love. we finish our drinks and leave. we have some poems to trade today.

it’s a busy place, patrolled by giant wasps, there is very little crime in Neighborland.

the Market is a colourful, lively hive of activity. we stop at the Hookah pipe corner and swop a poem for some bloodberry elixir.   this is headier than cinnamon, more sour than black cherry and more potent than a vintage port. this will be a sweet delight for us when we return home to the cool comfort of our shell.

music… we hear music…  a strange and haunting sound and decide to follow it… we meander through the crowds of drunks and queers, the jokers and clowns, through the limbo dancers and jazzers, down by the whores selling fake gold and prawns, through the spice trail to a little blue tent at the farthest corner of the Market place. the sound is louder now.  it sounds like nothing we have heard… we enter the tent.

inside the cool darkness of the tent, we let our eyes adjust to the dim shimmer of phosphorescent glowworms, weaving all across the floor. we take off our red shoes and walk, carefully, across the floor to speak with the stall owner. he is a rotund man with a large mop of black curly hair. He is seated, cross-legged, on the floor playing a vintage Electrolux vacuum cleaner. he seems lost in his ‘music’. we take a seat next to him and hold hands as we listen to him play.  sensing our presence, he stops playing, opens his eyes, and says “if you have come to sell me those red shoes, i am not interested…” we laugh. he introduces himself as “Keef”. i offer him nine poems for the Hoover. reluctantly, after much deliberation, he accepts – on the promise that we take good care of it and make music with it. he offers us something to eat “a snake-flavoured cookie, perhaps…. or a juicy glow-worm…?” he says, giddy like a child with a secret…. “and i have some botanical tea.  it’s the best in town…?”

the tea was a strange brew – of bamboo, garlic and fermented panda poo, served with  a splash of (organic) tiger milk.  Keef holds up a large ewer, full of the bubbling and foul-smelling ‘tea’, and laughs maniacally as we leave the tent.

as we walk away, i hear him, shuffling around inside his tent, slurping down his strange brew and his booming voice reading one of my poems aloud – only it is punctuated with giggles as he picks up glow-worms and eats them “alive alive-o…”

we leave the Market with no more poems in our hearts to sell.

back at the Lesser Western Pier, we clambour back on board our giant green olive and i row back across the sea, to our shell home, while my lover sings Faron Young songs…

words / dream recollection (c) Kat McDonald 2015

– they do say that we should make note of our dreams as soon as we can upon wakening…  as soon as one foot hits the floor, all dreams are lost…

hands up who remembers their own birth?



micro flashes of neon spark behind the eyelids. i close my eyes tight… tighter. the colours blink and blind. they dance. they sparkle, streak and fluoresce. it’s a beautiful sight, despite seeing blind.

from my bed, i can see deep space – seemingly endless darkness. darkness and dancing lights. these are not fairy lights to furnish my festive mood, these are galaxies that shimmer. these are nebulae. with my eyes closed, i feel i have my back to the sun and i am staring out into deepest darkest space. i can see 13 billion light years into the distance, into the past. i can see the birth of the universe itself. it feels so close. tethered to my bed, if i could snip the birthing cord, i would float off into deep space. i would lose myself there, for sure. but lose myself in my thought.

and what of our own mythologies? these constructs of self-imposed mystery in which we clad ourselves. the fables of self-perception and the myriad of different selves we create by thought, and the thoughts of others. do these other selves exist in alternative universes? of course they do. the self i see is very real. you will, in your perception of me, create another Kathryn. how many Kathryns exist and co-exist and collapse and collide into one another? are they real? what does your Kathryn look like? she will differ from mine, but she will be real and have her own back-story and mythology. what colour are her eyes?

and what of the tiger lillies and sugar-coated almonds of memory? so many memories exist. so many memories yet to be born.

hands up who remembers their own birth?

i once had wings. i once could breathe underwater. but that was many many years ago.

we humans are dangerous. we love, we maim – with words and actions. we destroy. we share, and we covet. we are greedy and self-serving. we could face our own extinction and not care. what do the animals think of us, and the zoos… the volitional cages we exist in? materialism. we are driven by materialism. and these frames… time frames, mainframes, wire frames and picture frames. pictures, we all see differently. the colour blue – my blue will differ from yours. we could learn so much from animals. yet we wittingly protract our souls. we must nurture our creativity and not lose that childlike innocence. cognitive dissonance. we are blinkered. we do not care about anything outside of our periphery. but we should care.

the pills are really taking effect now. am i dreaming? lucid dream. these dark thoughts steer the subconscious to terrifying places. the mind now a post-apocalyptic holocaust.

the lights have gone out. no indoor fireworks. no cute furry bunnies or pugs. no giant strawberries in this field. my mind is no longer the fun fair, or childhood tree-house.

it is a barren and arid place… i stand barefoot upon the baked and cracked earth. a voice calls my name. i recognise the voice. i walk towards the source and find an old lady, in a rocking chair, sitting with her back to me. she has my mother’s hair, and voice. she calls my name: “Kathryn…”

i stand in front of her. she is my mother, yet she has morphed into a giant ant.

[Morphine+Burroughs has proven to be a horrible combination]

she fixes her eyes upon me. her feelers grope and fumble. on six limbs, she grapples towards me, touching me. i recoil at the sight of her. what has my mother become?

i take a step back, she advances. it’s a strange dance.

she spits at me. the hot fetid acid burns into my side. it hurts. it hurts like Hell. i scream. but my voice is silent. i scream. i howl and yowl, like a wounded animal, as the acid bubbles and dissolves my body. the stench is indescribable. the pain unbearable. the light is fading.

i writhe and twist in agony, retching and spewing as i watch my own body dissolve in a pool of blood and bubbling flesh. my strength is dissipating. i can barely move. the neurotoxins have paralysed my being.


she motions to her army.

soon, i am being feasted upon by one hundred ants. giant ants. i feel their spit burn into me. the pain. the seething pain. their armoured bodies are overwhelming. the sound of the scuttling is terrifying. they are powerful and i have no strength to fight. i am eaten alive. i feel their pincers, bite. sharp. they pick at my bones. the sound of their gnashing and grinding. the sound of my own flesh being peeled from my bones like the sound of tearing bedsheets. i cry out. my voice cannot be heard above the crunching of bone and the fizz of melting flesh.

no more lights. only darkness.

only darkness exists now.

only darkness.

(c) Kat McDonald 2015

why are there two moons in the sky tonight?

so… i lie in the dark and wait for the pills to take effect.

pain, in itself, in its purest form, can twist the mind into delerium.  it can turn the mind into a fun fair – a weird and wonderful place.  it’s all about mind over matter, control…

but what happens next?

what happens next is expected when opiates numb and distort one’s reality.

i lie in the dark. the window is open. the mild chill of a calm December night trickles in; a welcome winter breeze, heralded by the gentle tickling of the wind chime… a sound like my lover’s whispers, soft as his lullabies.

my eyes feel heavy, like poppies, laden with sleep.  codeine is fanciful, in her red velvet dress, in her coquettish play.  she likes to play mind games.  she is not good for me, but i cannot breathe without her tonight.

i feel myself begin to dissolve into the bed beneath me. my bed, an ocean bed. i look up behind closed lids and see the room is filled with water. i can hear the sea. the soft light from my dying cellphone illuminates the water. the water is salty. i can taste it. i reach out, with tingling hands. the fabric of my ocean bed feels like velvet fur. the water is soft and enveloping. entangled in seaweed, i stretch out.

the whole body is tingling. i can feel every atom of my construct. my being. every particle. every photon. i am light. i can feel myself break apart and dissipate into the walls. i could walk through walls. am i upright?  i can feel every particle vibrate, quiver. i shiver. sharks circle above me. i feel myself break apart – i could float up through the ceiling or disappear down through this bed, through the foundations of this building and return to the earth.

i follow the light, i become light. every photon dispersed, scattered. am i horizontal? i no longer know. i look down at my feet. i am upside down. which way is up?

a rainbow in my hand. the colour yellow smells acrid and tastes bitter. like dandelions. but butterscotch is sweeter.  yellow is not my favourite colour, green is. green has a hollow taste and sounds like distant church bells. i follow that sound.

but wait.  what is this colour i see now?  i have not seen this colour before…

the sea breeze beguiles, it feels like my lovers hand across my cage of ribs. gentle. i urge the pale pink sea breeze to keep touching me.  “don’t stop…” i moan.  i taste the breeze on my lips.

i must find Adam, i need a new rib.  i search for him.  he is hiding beneath Codeine’s velvet skirts… Adam. a cross-dressing dwarf with a beard longer than his limbs and the hemline of his emerald green sequined frock. he extends a hand, and we dance. we spin around and around to the sound of church bells.  distant church bells.  when the pealing stops,  he gives me a rib.  i kiss him lightly on the forehead and walk away, weaving my way through a field of giant strawberries.

i reach out to touch a strawberry, it begins to glow and throb – like a beating heart.  the smell seduces the senses. i take a bite… sweet as honey.  where did they come from?  they are all around me, as far as the eye can see… a sea of giant strawberries, ripe, red and rare.

are they really this big?  or is it i that is small?  i take another bite… the juice runs down my chin. sticky and thick, like honey.  i touch another one… it begins to glow, pulse and hum… a sound i have not heard before but it is music to my ears.  i touch another, it too glows and hums, in harmony… i weave through the field, making sweet music.

at the edge of the field, the land falls away into an infinite chasm. i look down and see eleven beautiful white-tailed eagles circling below. their piercing cries fill my mouth with the taste of wood and sets my ears on fire.  their cries sets off a ringing in my ears… like a wind chime.

i step off the edge…




the most beautiful eagle, with piercing eyes, soars beside me – it is then i realise i can fly. we soar together. i have never been this high before.

i hear my own joyous laughter as i fly with the eagles, my arms outstretched.  my fingers are my primaries.

he speaks to me:

“cashee cam a waa naa poonta”

his eyes are intense and i let him carry me home, where i lay curled up like an embryo upon his downy bed. i nestle in while he fans me with his big, beautiful beating wings.  the soft thrumming sound lulls me to sleep.

why are there two moons in the sky tonight?


i am back in my room, on my ocean bed, amid seahorses. they shimmer as they flit by me. i make my way to the surface and break the meniscus.

i am in a field of corn.  a beautiful field of dancing golden corn. the taste of butterscotch is strong, sickly sweet.  the sky is violet. the crows talk to me. they are as large as houses.  they tell me i hold the key to a map.  i draw the map on the back of my hand.

i follow the contours of the map… and i find myself in the palm of my own hand.  the dwarf is there.  with a chimpanzee.  the chimp takes my left hand and traces the lines on my palm. he grins at me, chatters to me and wraps his arms around me, holding me close.

the dwarf turns to me and asks if i saw the two moons?  he takes out a silver hip flask from under his dress.  he unscrews the top and takes a swig, offering it to me.  i cannot refuse.  it would be rude to.

it smells musky and has a queer taste – like watermelon and rubber. i drink it all down, while the dwarf plays his jew’s harp.

the chimp wraps me up in pale pink tissue paper… around and around… sounds become muffled from inside this strange cocoon.

i lie and look at the moons. i can hear them rattling as if they are made of tin.  battered tin, peppered with bullet holes.

but why would someone want to shoot the moon?

why are there two moons in the sky tonight?

i ask the dwarf about the interloper moon.  he says it is only the chosen few that can see her and tells me to sleep as he scatters me with poppies…



(c) Kat McDonald 2015

another codeine dream…