Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Parma Violet Prince

Opium,

under my skin,

soaked into my soul,

slightly sweet,

supernaturally seductive.

 

My parma violet prince,

on the air,

my mind,

my lips,

nestled in my neediest nights,

when I creep down the stair case,

sniffing and sighing,

like a mad woman.

You are my affliction,

addiction,

obsession,

conviction.

I am handcuffed to heaven,

living in violent,

violet,

vintage.

 

I am driven to distraction,

destitution,

and desire,

by your slightly sweet,

supernaturally seductive scent.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Toyland

Summer seeps through the spokes,
of your baby blue bicycle wheels.
From the sidewalk,
I stare,
through long lashes,
and tinted glasses,
a popsicle in my pastel pout.

I hope you’ll fall,
graze your knee,
tumbling in my direction,
so I can peek,
through tinted glasses,
and eager eyes,
at what you hide,
in your toy chest.

Take me to Toyland,
on the very next train.
Wind in the white ribbons,
my mother hoped could keep me pure,
as we lean out the window,
making faces at the future.

I’m tentatively tempted,
to give in to growing up.
Discovery is a toy for two,
but once we play,
we can never return,
to being just friends,
or being just strangers,
or being untouched,
by the claws of candy concupiscence.

pexels-photo-1056555

You lay out the board,
like you’ve done this before.
Mystic, merry, mistakes are made,
your intentions spilled in my lap,
crawling up and down my legs,
as I coax myself from the ceiling,
with promises that nobody will know,
and that all the cool kids are doing it.

Then,
it is done,
and I am torn from the grounds of Toyland.
Marched to the gates,
by beanie babies,
who hold my white dress,
spotted with my innocence,
above my head,
monkeys playing the drums of my demise.

I can never return again,
and I don’t have your heart,
to remember you by,
because you only wanted to play,
for the afternoon.


Enter The Poetry Competition here

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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Love Is An Exorcism

Last night,
unclaimed flames,
floated across the islands,
and followed us to the shore,
to watch,
from the heavens,
as you left mountain avens,
on my lips.
I slept,
silent and still,
by the mermaid’s grave.

I dreamt you were waist deep,
in the water,
the jealous moon,
showing off,
shining on your bare chest,
and auburn eyes,
trying to tempt you from me,
as I crawled from the shore,
to show the moon who you belonged to.

pexels-photo-704623

Fairy hounds surrounded me,
in the hours of darkness,
as I ripped my darling demons from my head,
and buried them beneath the sand.
I was dragged by my heart,
into icy blue,
swallowing salt,
worshipping your waist,
as it clung to a soaked shirt,
under the night’s sky.

800px-Traigh_Sunset

I waded through whiskey,
both conquered and dead,
my fingers wrapped around your legs,
like the sultry seaweed,
beneath the waves,
that ran around us,
until we were bound,
like a couple of crazy kids at Gretna Green.

I was so sure I drowned,
that I was shocked to see the sun.
I still tasted you,
though you were gone,
so I rose,
following the trail,
until I found you again,
in the misty morning,
waiting to conquer me again.


Enter The Poetry Competition here

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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

First Kiss

My first kiss,

was a tragedy.

Not Greek,

or Shakespearean,

just us.

I shook,

inside your guilty grasp,

not your niece,

but just as nice as Catherine.

You tell me twice,

you can’t believe the mess,

as you gaze,

from the bridge,

where people like us end up,

enjoying the view,

before we throw ourselves off.

 

 

Sweet sixteen,

your precocious princess.

You confess,

hands down where heaven rests,

and learns to love your clumsy caress.

I meow to the melancholy melody,

of each mea culpa,

waiting for you to decide,

if you are my lover,

my father,

or my teacher.

 

 

You didn’t mind the games I’d played,

you told me I could toy with you,

and I’d be safe,

from the harsh, harmful hands,

of my previous playground peril.

You tutored me in trouble,

I took notes on a tongue I didn’t know how to use,

as the narrator got weary of our weakness,

and abandoned the script,

on the tired theatre floor.

 

 

Bad behaviour,

on the Brooklyn docks.

You moved me,

with Marlowe,

and Miller,

then mauled me,

which my adolescent adoration overlooked.

 

 

Lust,

too much.

Going where it shouldn’t,

perversely predictable,

because men like you,

love girls like me,

forever.


Enter The Poetry Competition here

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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

New Video: The Actual Moon

Hola amigos,

You can check out my latest video, The Actual Moon, on YouTube or my website, now.

Besos,

J x

 


Enter The Poetry Competition here

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Order “Last Of The Greenwich Glamour Girls” here

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Listen to”Past Preston” here

Listen to “2AM” here

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
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Why I Hate Dating In The Modern World

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