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.

 ❤️

 

 

dear mum

mum

dear mum

i mean this in the nicest possible way but i am glad that you’re dead.

i am glad that you’re not around any more. and here’s why…

i am glad you are not here, struggling and alone, in this new and worrying ‘reality’ or ‘regime’ we now find ourselves locked firmly down under.

i am glad you’re not here as this new way of living would terrify you.  it would defy you, deny you of your independence and the canny, simple and loving life you once enjoyed.  and you could never do the whole social distancing thing.   you loved us all too much.

i am glad you are not here, in the beautiful rural family-run care home that you, sadly, had to spend your last weeks in.   i am glad because at your age you would have, most likely, fallen prey to this COVID-19 virus that is sweeping the Earth.  this, with the added confusion and isolating delirium of Alzheimer’s and advanced vascular dementia, i am glad you’re already dead as this would have been even more terrifying for you. in isolation.  and i would not have been able to have held you close, as you slipped away.

you would have been a real nightmare, mum.  a real worry.

either we would not have been able to ‘contain’ you, in your little house.  you were stubborn; or you would have been worried to the point of hysteria, reading daily newspapers and watching the BBC.   choking on the fear.  calling us countless times a day to ensure we are all safe… and still breathing.

… and can you believe that bumbling blond buffoon that you once used to laugh at is now running the UK, and making a real cunt of things like you once, jokingly, predicted?

you would hate this new regime, mum.  not being able to visit family, neighbours and friends.  and not having visitors round for a cuppa tea and a carry on!  i know, it would kill me not being ‘allowed’ to visit you.  you would be considered one of the vulnerable ones.  a high risk.

in a sense, you have been protected from all of this.  but who knew your death would bring relief at this time for me, and my brothers and sister.

i miss you, mum.  don’t get me wrong.  i miss you so bad some days, the pain as raw as it was that Sunday evening in July 2017 when your heart stopped beating beneath my hand…

… but today, like yesterday and the day before and the day before that, i am glad you are not here.

not now.

not now.

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2020

 

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

sarajevo

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?

 

 

Post-Brexit Thoughts from “An Immigrant”

Hello Followers and Casual Readers…

… I have to share this post written by a beautiful soul I have come to know through Social Media and mutual love of art and animals, floof and sweary words! I have not met the girl… YET… but I am working on it and I am confident that our paths will cross one fine day.
It saddens me to read this entry in her blog TetrisandCheesecakes because NOBODY should be made to feel like this. There is so much hatred in this world and we are all too quick to blame other outlets, such as mental health issues, media, peer-pressure blah blah blah… but really… the only person to blame for ignorance in the way we view and treat others is ourselves and our own blinkered ignorance.
I cannot abide racism. I cannot tolerate it and I will not turn a blind eye to it, but when a lovely girl, like Lucie, writes about the HELL that she has been through in her life only to be met with unfeeling and mindlessness by people in her circle of supposed ‘friends’ it is just too much to bear. NOBODY deserves to be treated like this. she is a human being. a wonderful, intelligent and caring human being.
please read this carefully and digest every word. she could be the girl next door, your brother’s girlfriend, your girlfriend, your daughter…. she’s a woman. a human being. being made to feel like an imposition, an inconvenience, an imposter, a freak, a taker, a faker… is completely immoral, unethical, cruel and ignorant.
next time you look at someone of colour, or converse with someone with a non-UK accent, please consider this: what is their backstory? they could be like Lucie. a good person, who fled from fear and certain death and control (something that privileged British white people cannot even begin to imagine) to a supposed better and safer life – only to be met with judgement, hatred and assumptions – is just insane. insane.
wake the fuck up, humans! #evolve

Tetris & (Cheese)cakes

The past few days haven’t been the easiest. I have seen so many stories of an increase in anti-immigrant sentiment, heartbreaking stories of families and schools being targeted by those who misguidedly thought a vote to leave the EU equalled sending all “foreigners” home. I may be unique amongst my friends as I do know people who voted “Leave” for reasons that didn’t include the immigration issue. They made the decision based on their own feelings and histories, and I really don’t want to detract from that. It’s tragic that though their personal reasons were not have racially motivated, their voices have now given credence to the racists and xenophobes in our country, who have taken their numbers as a sign that hate is justified. 52%. I really want to believe that 52% or Scotland, England, Wales and Northern Ireland aren’t racists, and who want people like me to “go…

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these giants

forest dawn

if you listen hard
you can hear them:
their stories,
their secrets,
their scars.
yet they stand,
stoic, silent, still.
tall.
taller than us.
take from that what you will.

touch them…
and realise
you have always known them
but you never give them a thought,
second or otherwise.
they predate us and they will
outlive us
because
they are wise.
much wiser than us.

do you care…
care that they breathe
for you,
for me,
for everyone, and every
thing?
they give us life,
relentlessly,
unconditionally.
do you know what that means?
do you really know what that means?

big-sequoia-trees
choke them, they die.
just like us.
cut them, they bleed.
they fucking bleed.
just like us.
and yet

still, we besiege them;
still, we maim them:
these silent, selfless
giants.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

– a 10 minute exercise in spontaneous writing. look out the window, what’s the first thing you see? okay – write about it.  you have ten minutes.

reversal of a dream

2

play it loud, they demanded.
[LOUDER!!]
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
hands-
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
tape.
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
balloons?
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
crashing
waves, and i can
feel the Earth
move
though i am upside down
looking down upon my
soul.
i see self, thrashing,
and the wind blow
through my hair.
my dead brother says
“the road is
long…
… 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
before.
“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,
desire.
desire.
desire.
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
rises,
soaring,
racing… fast towards us.
please, stick needles in my eyes to
wake me from
this strange
dream.
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
down.
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
paddling
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
underwater.
where thoughts are dissolved
the soul, absolved.
you sing in the morning and i
love how your voice has
the power to blow
leaves
from my mind and pathways.
you cut the gangenous from my life
and limb
you, the amputator,
me, the somnambulator.
sleep-walking
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
stiletto.
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?”
“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
metronome
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

re-entry

20140525-110300.jpg

369 days ago two stars collided.
so bright and beautiful was their collision that it illuminated the universe.
so magical its light that it outshone the sun.

369 days ago two lovers collided.
lovers knew, lovers new.
as new as the new star in the sky above.
as new as light.

369 days ago two lovers took a trip.
a journey around the sun.
their journey around the sun.
their journey through space and time, together.

369 days ago two lovers split light.
their souls slipped out of this universe to create their own.
an exploration of their own deep space, in their own time.
a trip around their sun.

in 4 days, they will re-enter.
only momentarily.
sweet Jesus…
both universes will, once again, collide and expand.
a collision so bright and beautiful.
a light so magical.
a new star.
new light.
new life.
a new journey will begin…

for Robert, my love, my fellow skynaut

(c) Kat McDonald 2014

the “boyfriend shirt”

(c) Kat McDonald Photography

more than mere fabric


the “boyfriend shirt” is blue
blue like the skies
blue like his eyes, as clear and wide as the skies we share,
clear, with perfect vision.
stolen from his bedroom three moons ago,
the “boyfriend shirt” remains quietly fragrant.
i can still smell his scent.
in lonelier moments i hold myself;
i wrap myself in its fabric and breath in. deep.
but it’s more than mere fabric.
wrapped in the “boyfriend shirt”,
its fabric becomes the fabric of time
and i find myself at five a.m. Tuesday.
and it’s his arms wrapped around my body;
and it’s his heart i feel jumping beneath my flat palm;
and it’s his hair if feel curled between collar and clavicle;
and it’s his hands i feel, cool, against my ribs.
the “boyfriend shirt” and i are a perfect fit.
we are more than mere fabric.
we both know how it feels to crave;
to crave the nakedness of this man.
we both know the pale, taut flesh of the stomach;
we both know the golden birthmark on the back;
we both know the curve of spine;
we both know the rhythm of the drum he walks to;
we both know that pelvic gait;
we both know the secrets of the velvet antler.
the “boyfriend shirt” is more than mere fabric.
the “boyfriend shirt” is comfort.
the “boyfriend shirt” is he.
it is comfort when i cannot reach him.
when my arms cannot stretch out across the bed
and feel that body;
when my eyes cannot look across a crowded room
and lock-on to that gaze;
when my soul cannot be soothed by those lullabies;
when my mouth cannot forage in that wilderness.
the “boyfriend shirt” is more than mere fabric.
the “boyfriend shirt” is the perfect fit,
like he.

[for Robert x]

words & image (c) Kat McDonald

bird omen?

a bird fell from the sky

all things must die.

i should have known.
a bird falls from the sky.
dead.
it lands by my side.
i should have recognised the sign.
but my head does not bend towards superstition.
but i should have known.
i should have known better.

i should have known
that that day was to be a dark one.
a bird falls from the sky.
dead.
and my world starts spinning
and spiraling out of control,
like the dying bird
plummeting from a great height,
and falls.
hard.
to the ground.

i really should have known.
“bird omen…” my gut instinct clawed
from within.
“bird omen? what the fuck?
stupid superstitious nonsense!” my head scolded,
my loud voice of reason
– belittling the limp ponderings
of my caged heart’s dichotomy.

what the fuck?

a bird drops from the sky,
dead, like a stone.
it lands, close,
by my side
– with a marksman’s deadly precision.
and i hate birds.
“i really fucking hate birds…”
they petrify me.
“this is a sign…
this is a fucking sign!” spews my gut instinct.
“don’t be stupid!”
roars my overbearing voice of reason.
“but…” interrupts my quietened heart.
oh my heart…
my heart –
which i could feel beating inside me,
like wings
of a petrified bird…
“what the fuck is going on, Kathryn?”
interrupts my gut instinct.

why do i feel like this?
no longer free to fly…
why the panic?
why the fear?
why is my heart beating
like the thrashing wings of a bird,
trapped in a gilt cage?

why a bird?
dead.
from such great height, fallen.
dead.

why me?

why do i now feel
like my world has stopped spinning?
and no more birdsong.

the truth is simple.
all things must die.
eventually.

spillage

spillage

the taste, familiar…

cut adrift,
in the spillage of my arousal,
i feel i am capsizing.
all i can taste is blood –
blood in my mouth
blood on my fingertips;
as you bite
and masticate
on my bottom lip.
salt on the skin, it burns
and stings.

a kiss smeared on my open wound – to dulcify
only fuels the fire.
your fingers, like shards of glass,
cut to the quick.
the pain, an exquisite flame,
flickers and ignites

[again…]

i lick the brine
from your cupid’s bow
– the taste, familiar
as, from beneath the waves,
you surface
drenched
quivering
clenched, in my vice.
there is no space between this time.
the air is taut, stretched,
as flesh is splayed, played.

the whip, your cruel mistress,
hisses, curls and snatches
as she coils around you, splitting skin.
pain, like hunger, pangs
in a lust-fuelled delirium.

[bad.bad.bad boy.
– i want you gagged and bound
shy, shy awkward boy.
– i have you. lost and found.
come. come.
i am tired of waiting.
i am tired of wanting.
come. come.
tell me what you want.
tell me how you like it.
bad. bad. bad boy wants to fuck?
so…
tell me what you want.
tell me how you need it.]

i am tired of waiting and
swimming in the shallows of gentle conversation and pleasantries.
i want the depths of your ocean
your shifting tide –
the rise and fall
the swell and dissipation
i am tired of anticipation.

[tell me what you want.
tell me how you want it.]

lovers, knotted
held fast
held inside
held below, and
drowning.
going down, you
drink in thirsty gulps
salt. sweet. balsamic nectar
from the deep-throat
of this flower…
this hungry, carnivorous flower
this slave to you
this slave to you and your wrists
and the twists of your fingers…
this slave to you, my master

a slave to you – my beautiful narcotic
my flailing junkie arms – open
to encircle you
to track you and bring you home.
all the way home.
like a gunshot.
fast.

i am a slave to you
and your skilful hands
with telepathic fingers.
as you can see, i have stripped you of light
but you can still see inside:
by touch
by taste
by chance
by touch
by knowing
by sensing
by feeling
by smell, taste what i cannot hide.
[blush]

flushed.

cut adrift
no need for means of navigation,
this map, this body, is laid out before you.
this map of simple lines, uncomplicated,
will guide you.
let me show you.
let me take the helm.
you, at my mercy, are subjugated
as wave upon breaking wave crashes upon you.

by what means, without navigation, did we arrive here?
by gravitation?
or force majeure?
i find myself cut adrift,
enslaved to this untimely synchronicity.
enslaved to this here and now
where timing is everything.
i am tired of waiting.
i need you.
i need you to prove to me that time exists.
the past, the present, the future coexist.
kiss. kiss. kiss.
kiss. like glue.
kiss. friction.
kiss. lubricity.
cut adrift
in this vessel
this bed
this body – an open map to trace

[retrace…]

sexploration
sexploitation

on rope raw wrists, a kiss
i suck your blood.
you wince –
and the curl of your snarl, your sardonic smile,
echoes my laughter.
i bite your wrist.
no snarl, no laughter, no sardonic wit
only the sharp crack of a whip.
her cutting remark excites you.
i feel your rising tide and ride
the crest of that wave.
your face, beaded with sweat
your legs, shaking.
i want to abuse you.

[tell me what you want
tell me how you want to fuck
don’t be shy
shy awkward boy
you can do what you want to me
i want you
but i am tired of waiting
and i am tired of wanting]

cut adrift,
i want to ride wave upon wave
feel them break over you
wave upon endless wave
to swallow you, soak you
grind you
– a perpetual motion –
like waves of the ocean lick the shore.
i am your junked up whore
craving you
craving more
craving your narcotic core

cut adrift
– with flesh wounds, hints and allegations
cut adrift
i am tired of anticipation
cut adrift
– we can fuel this fire
and feast like panthers
in this vessel
this hotel room
this unmade bed
this fantastically depraved world inside my head.

[come. come. tell me what you want. don’t be shy.]

cut adrift,
by your merciless
mercurial push and pull.
by strange gravitation
or beautiful collision.
i wait. i watch. i listen.
i am tired of waiting.
torturous hour upon hour,
tide after rising tide.
i am at your mercy,
anchored only by the weight of my reflection in your eyes.
your stare.
your undertow.
a beautiful collision
like the crack of a whip
you have me….

[tell me what you want.
tell me how you like it.
tell me how you need it
because you have me…]

cut adrift,
in the spillage of my arousal, i am capsizing.
fast.

(c) Kat McDonald 2010