this island is mine



this island is mine.
it is where i go
to heal,
to love,
to dream,
to be…
this island is mine
for those sullen days,
for those brittle hours on lonely nights,
for those quiet times
when the lifeguards state:
“No Swimming”
“Danger – Strong Currents”
“Beach Closed”

for times such as this.
this daughter of Woe
departs soon.
soon, she will
shut down.
soon, she will
shut me out.
that time is now.
shuttering and spluttering
she banishes me to this place,
somewhere amid the space
where i lose myself.
but i am not lost.
no… no…
quite the contrary.
i have the Moon
and the stars
and the lines on my palm.
they always find me here,
in the cool
and the calm
of reason.



through the cracks
and skeleton trees,
i see you, Jupiter.
i saw you wink at me.
“come, let me look at you…” i whisper
in a ghost of a breath.
from behind the dust
and vapour, i see him.
he is resplendent.
i look into
his wakening eye, in which
there lies
so much wisdom
and penitence.
so much beauty,
i could die tonight but
instead i
ask him



Jupiter sings me his lifestory
in song.
he is my Jack-a-nory,
my bedtime story.
he is supreme.
he is God of all Gods.
he is my shining father,
my light harbringer.
his voice, a storm above
the open sky.
“you came back!” i cry,
“this is your day!”
[you need hide no more…]
but “why” i sigh
“did you come
to steal
my gibbous Moon?”

to which,
there is no reply.



oh, but he is close now.
the thrum of an eagle’s beating wings
fan my face.
oh, that sound.
it terrifies me.
it beguiles me.
it resonates somewhere
inside me.
such power,
such grace.
oh Jupiter…
let me see your face.
i have nothing to offer you.
no white ox
nor lamb.
all i have is all i am,
so take me.
take my loyalty
stoic, like the oak tree.
“take me instead”
i give myself to you.
a small sacrifice to pay.
“take me from my burning bed”
“i could be your sixty four”
oh Jupiter…
i could travel with you.
show me your universe,
leave me be…



this island is mine.
and the Moon i hold
in gaze and
is all that i have.
i look up at
the falling sky
and i am swallowed by
its wondrous gaping mouth.
i am
devoured by its beauty,
i am
like a new star,
by its amplitude and
i feel so small.
the smallest i have ever been.
for here i am,
shipwrecked on this tiny isle.
tossed and breaking
in an ocean of dust,
my wanderlust
fuels a fire
ten billion years old
’tis no wonder
my feet are cold.
but i see it now.
i can taste the “why”
and touch the “how”.
i see it all
through this firewall.
i know why
you come around.
i am fearless,
i see you
through awakened eye.
i am not lost.
no… no…
if truth be told,
i am



“Goodbye Jupiter,
i will see you soon”.

leave me alone
with my gibbous moon
light years away,
when you’re not here,
she is

words & image (c) Kat McDonald 2016

– did anyone else see Jupiter last night and tonight?



who are they?
who are these
old souls,
that walk among us,
clad in black feathers?

do you see them?
do you hear them?
because they speak to us,
in ancient

and they are watching,
waiting for our Death.

and they speak of us.

in cabbal and clique
they gather
to scold us:
to scold us for our own
trite flights
of fancy;
our sycophantic
fanciful worship
of false prophets.

they mock us,
laugh at our ineptitude,
our ignorance
and vapid existence.
if you listen… you too
will hear them…
chattering among themselves-
hooded and
in their plotting.

i see the way they look at us
with incisive intel
and devisive intent

but who can blame them?

we are lame.
cripple and incompetent.
our cognition,

i know we have failed,
as a race
we fell from grace
could this be their
coup de grâce?
but… here’s the caveat:

they never forget your face…

so you and i
to make this world a better place;
little by little
we whittle
and strive
to enhance this life
in this space
and time
we call ‘now’.

words (c) Kat McDonald 2016
lead image: from The Solitude of Ravens by Masahisa Fukase, taken before he sadly plunged into a coma…

the other image, found on Rebloggy – apologies for the name of photographer remaining unknown. damn you internet!!


the shirt

these eyes
can see.
they see more than most.

this blue shirt?
it means nothing…
NOTHING without
what lies beneath
this skin.
i am happy in this skin;
but happiest when you
caress what resides within.
this heart, this beating heart,
that beats with aplomb,
when you plant
a bomb.
this view?
this stronghold place of my own?
’tis nothing
without your arms
to fold
and unfold me.
this bed?
this bed was made
with love
for you to (not)
sleep in
every night.
without you
it is only
the food
in the fridge?
it would no longer
a love-thing be;
neither comfort
or nourishment
without your tempered blade
and steam.
i could let it rot.
why not?
without you
it is a
i cannot swallow.
these nights,
long as time,
are the longest time.
and the stars no longer
impress me.
they lack lustre
and seem inept.
they can’t catch wishes.
they lied.
the sun in the sky
try as he might
to bring light
to brighten
and share the burden;
for my heart
would be crushed,
to mush.
without the love
of my love,
i am numb.
numb, blind and
a dumb automaton.
i don’t want to feel
or to see
or utter a word,
or a sigh.
and why?
because without
this love, my love,
everything means nothing.

words (c) Kat McDonald 2015 (a lost poem, and a found philosophy: there is no such thing as loving someone too much. love is everything)
image (c) Ewan Rollo of Avatar Photography

for Robert, my nourishment & protection.  my talisman. my anchor. the love of my life.

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

standing on the shore of a dream


my mind, a sky. my thoughts break and tumble down, like rain.

i lie in the dark, drenched in thought. alone.

i listen to the sound of night. it is a quiet time.

the sea beckons. she is mourning. the waves of her long arms stretch, beseech and grapple at the long-suffering shoreline. i hear her wail, i feel her loneliness and resignation. but she is bitter and cruel.

my thoughts distract, the waves retract and return. that sound. that sound.

the flow of my thoughts, broken by that sound. they break like the waves that break the bay. there is solace in those waves; i remember how it feels to be cradled by the sea.

jumbled and tumbled, these thoughts wash up on the shore of the fore of mind. thoughts, like flotsam and jetsam, spewing into the night.

i can feel my body sink into the cool, crisp cotton of my bed. soon…

an owl. i hear an owl. i picture him – his soft feathered breast and wide, unblinking amber eyes.

street light fills my room, everything is golden.

the sea-breeze drifts in through the open window. dulcet chimes softly herald its arrival. it toys with my hair and releases a scent. the comfort and spice of oud. the comfort of a fragrance my lover made for me.

it takes me to him.

he is not here with me tonight. he is in the city. but we share the same sky, always. i take solace in that he and i can see the same moon.

oh the moon. she looks beautiful tonight. do you see her, my love?

tonight she is but a slip of silver; a sliver of platinum pinned to a black velvet sky. stars, like diamonds, stud the very fabric of our existence, connect and map. past, present and future unified.

i trace the map, with my fingers, as if it were his face. it is clear. i can almost touch…

i see his eyes – infinite galaxies with their own beauty and complexities. i fall. again.

i see, in my mind’s eye, a beach. a long sweeping stretch of beach. wet sand, rippled by time and tide, and shimmering beneath our new April moon.

you’re so close now.

i feel my lover’s hand. i feel the long twists of his inquisitive fingers wrap around mine. his hands hold me safe. his hands hold me dear. everything is clear.

my guitar sits alone in another room, momentarily silenced. i found, in her, a new voice. a new tuning. DADGAD. new songs gestate in my womb, in my heart.

i hear the music of summer. i long for summer daze and balmy nights.

i yearn for summer picnics. picnics with my lover, where foxes chance upon us – just like the song. they steal our food and our hearts, but leave us enchanted by their curious dance.

we lie, on a blanket, and watch the beetles. we watch as they scurry and disappear beneath scrub and earth; their wings iridescent and ready.

if i had iridescent wings, i would fly across the water to my lover. i would slip, silently, into bed beside him – leaving my wings upon the floor with discarded clothes and cares.

oh my love… we are infinite. we are fearless and golden.

we must travel. there are places i have yet to see. so many places. i want to see them with you. i want to see them through your eyes and wander.

the night feels heavy. sleep comes now, like a flood. i stand on the shore of a dream and will soon give myself to the breakers.

soon, my love…



(c) Kat McDonald 2015

i am wise to your game…


i know of two sisters;
two sisters,
so alike,
people mistake one
for the other.

two sisters
so alike,
like daughter
and mother…
but who
gave birth
to who?

and Envy…

the ugliest of sisters.

i see you, Jealousy…
oh i see you, there,
standing tall.
even with back turned
to face the wall,
i feel your stare.
those eyes…
… of burning green.
yes, it is true.
how astute of you.
you are taller than i.
what of it?
from across the room,
i feel your watchful eye,
drill to my core.
i look at you.
you are nothing to me
but i am everything to you,
aren’t i?
i feel your pain.
i am not sorry
for what i have,
for what came to me
and resides in me.
why should i be?
why should i
make apologies?
what of you?
where did this insecurity hail from?
your head?
your bed?
oh i feel you watching.
i feel your resentment,
so you choose to belittle.
how very big of you.
yes, you are taller than i
– in stature only.
oh you catch my eye
with unnerving constancy.
every time
i lift my eye
i see you,
staring back at me.
i see you, coil
i hear you hiss.
oh i know you.
i’ve seen your type before.
i know you don’t like me
– you are made of glass,
i can see through you.
and your casual invitation?
i am wise to your game.
there is no contest,
for i have already won
and you are broken.

Envy, oh Envy…
you petty thief!
point those long fingers,
like daggers
or shards of glass,
i will break
them off, lass.
oh i see your smirk,
your smile,
a sphincter;
thin-lipped and tight,
coiled like a whip.
why do you knot yourself
with resentment?
you made quite the entrance,
in this arena…
yet you tried
to fell me
with words you
tell me what i already know.
– what a fool,
for i am impervious
to your cutting blow;
your words of rancour
and begrudging admiration.
oh i know you hate me.
you hate me
i have
what you want.
that is clear.
your judgement is quick
but ill-disposed.
there is coldness
in your eyes.
what do you think
you have been denied?
oh Envy, i pity you.
you are collared,
like a dog;
immobilised by
your own desire.
you are vapid
and paralysed.
what did you think
you had?
i listen to your heart,
your black heart,
as you try
to subjugate me
with your words.
ineffectual words.
i am impervious
to your scathing
and hating.
i am immune
to your disease.
is that all you have?
where is your substance?

oh sisters…
i pity you.
ugly, twisted sisters…
i see through you
and your ménage à trois.
i am wise to you,
and the games you play…
i pity you.
i truly do.

i hope, one day,
you will find peace,
find love,
find a lover…
it is that you so sorely covet
i hope, one day,
you heal the wounds
that makes you sick.
but you cannot
contage me,
you will not cage me,
or enrage me.
you are horrid.
i feel nothing for you.


gentle rose-coloured
and a kiss
upon your forehead.

(c) Kat McDonald 2015

as Baudelaire suggests


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

(c) Kat McDonald 2014

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

The Great Insanity

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

Pure Phantasy

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

Don’t rain on my parade

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

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