downstairs again at 3am, opening the fridge
to check for milk and honey -
still can’t afford it but who
knows what
goes on when the door swings shut -
i’ve watched pots simmer,
blinked and they boil, but
i’ve lived in caravans, carted
to the sea and in the absence of
cerulean the sky took refuge under
one shabby grey blanket, with
one silver lined side, and strange,
i’ve seen the chop-change tides roar in
so maybe i should check again…
it’s nearly 4am.

open to change, k.s.

#poetry   #lit   #writing   #quote   #literature  

I’m thinking of opening poetry commissions again. I sold a few last summer at the following prices:

£14 = 12 poems
£10 = 8 poems
£8 = 6 poems

Commissioned on a theme of your choice and payment accepted through Paypal.

Each in an individually printed little paper leaflet and shipped wherever.

Here’s an example!


EYELINER SHARP ENOUGH TO
POKE OUT THE EYES OF THE PATRIARCHY!

so I have your attention now,
I’d like to sharply draw
it away to focus on filling in the gaps -
negative space, I think
is the technical term -
with ‘whys’, it’s wise to know
what you’ve got to show for
all your talk of fight and
flying high, seeing straight down
through that glass floor you flipped
around -
hey! good for you,
but as you tread it know the
noses of those told “no”
are pressed still underneath,
oppression bears its teeth
sharper still and while I’ll do what I will
with my negative space,
my bare face can make cracks in the ceiling,
bump tectonic in the street -
so sure I still don’t think I’ll ever look so sweet
as with my

LIPSTICK RED AS THE BLOOD
OF MEN WHO HAVE MADE ME ANGRY!

but it’s bitterness - it’s my bare face -
that sours the tongues
of the men who made me cry


positive thinking, k.s


i don’t want to be your glass half-full -
an optimistic option for
making do, making half a fool
of me, and half a heavy heart -
wait until i turn up at your table
overflowing,
no need for filling gaps
in conversation -
who needs optimism
in the absence of doubt

– k.s.

#lit   #quote   #poetry   #writing   #words  

Living on a steady diet of ash
piling in the pit of my stomach
from firebolts i never had the fight to throw
so i dropped them from the bow
let them slip down, dregs and dirt,
though my throat to cool

See, that’s where the bitterness is bred -
where i am forcibly fed the remnants
of all i haven’t said
(they grow grey fast,
but God, do they last) to hurt, but could
the words have ever really been more cruel?

That said, even when the words are sweet
i rarely share the spoon;
she doesn’t want to hear it,
we’re rearing mutual fear here, spit
it out and wipe it on your skirt or swallow -
either way, all you have to say is drool


– “You’re wrong”, or “You’re pretty”, k.s.

#poetry   #lit   #quote   #words   #lgbt  

if someday my bones grow old
and all i ever do
is soak up sounds and scenery
i’ll turn to sponge with you
-
but should i flit in blues and greens
across a marbled ship
i’m sure, by grit or sorcery
we’re joined, replacement hips

impermeable, k.s

#poetry   #lit   #quote   #writing   #literature  

surprising, like the moon in daylight -
you know it’s there but
there are some things (sweet
sour, pork and applesauce) which
go together
beautifully and still
feel out of alignment -
tectonic plates of
where i fell asleep last night and
where i woke up this morning
knock
with my knees and
my faultlines find purpose

decisions, k.s.

#poetry   #lit   #quote   #writing   #quotes  

Again
down these streets
not seen for years,
so riddled with potholes they may as well be cobbled,
past once-a-bank,
three-times-a-takeaway,
twice-a-hairdresser,
now nouvelle addition in a tiny row of
hinges, netting, tinny bells, half-broke
haberdasheries, afterlives of Aynsley
Bone and carriage clocks at ten pence
a piece
I’m practicing for people,
once-a-bank, three-times-a-takeaway, twice-a-hairdresser,
now so riddled
with potholes they may as well be
cobbled,
not seen
again down these streets
for years.

Holes, k.s.

#poetry   #quote   #lit   #writing   #tumblrzines  

it’s you, still
against the countertop
using it against me
counteracting:
clutching a poorly put-together
mixed drink
with mixed expression
knowing that no matter
how messily you move
away in festival or flight
daydream, doorway,
taxi, cataracts…
it’s you, still

– k.s.

#poetry   #lit   #writing   #quote   #literature