A daughter held him, frozen. Imitation of new dead still; only air flowing through functioning lungs. Numb dumb in thought, inaction. Painfilled love for this new grieving orphan. The fallen favourite of a Mothers beloved brood. There would be none of us had she not been; none of his Fatherhood. A tangled barbed root from which we each came. Some blessing amongst much insane. Now there she lay, dead in a bed; frozen slack still. An empty shell; once wishing well. Dead in a bed, not even her own. Eyes pouring in great damming floods; others uncomfortably dry as desert bone. Through strangers’ hands she passes, between arctic fridges of steel. Upon the final spin of the great Mothers wheel; scions on the side-lines awaiting the final reveal. Embalmed, freshly robed in white; encased as a doll in her satin lined box. A gift to the soil never to spoil. © Natasha Sinclair
My first mini collection has been published and is now live. Paperback and eBook available worldwide.
Small poetry collection being released very soon, currently just awaiting the printed proof for final review before it goes live!
“This is a small eclectic collection from an Independent Scottish writer.
If you’re looking for inspirational poetry, words of deep wisdom, even good poetry, this book is probably not for you.
The contents are inspired by various topics including; mental ill health, relationships, lust, consumerism, commercialisation, veganism, family, death, politics and history.
While this collection is admittedly somewhat disjointed, it is also truly organic.”
She’s a tease.
The femme fatale disease.
Gaming with sultry eyes surprise.
Rose lips of fast lies.
Moaning ecstasy in sweet cries.
Throbbing sex lullabies.
She’s a tease to best please.
No sad begging of cheap release.
Call her out, she’ll flagrantly deny.
No longer look you in the eye.
© Natasha Sinclair
Discarded; damaged goods.
The lone whore bore foul, tainted, bastard fruit.
Shunned while still stunned from her whalers desertion.
Black lamb of the snow-white flock.
Abandoned for the call of the sea; another she.
Betty bid to follow suit with that ill seeded fruit.
As waves began to pour down her choking throat; peace called in tortured unforgiving song.
The final forbidden promise.
Lungs of fire burning; as blackened shadow blotted the sun.
A selfish rescue placed her back in hell; pulled from the mother’s largest well.
Need the ruined to give rest their good grace; a blinding disgrace.
© Natasha Sinclair. 2019.
A couple of writing and publishing projects are currently underway so I thought I would drop a brief update here.
The second ‘Concoction’ anthology is one which is scheduled for release December 2019. This time the prompts are most distinctly Scottish and will feature the same three writers as the first volume; G G Flavell, Natasha Sinclair and Andrew Taylor. As before it is open genre so we should expect a unique eclectic mix of stories. There is potential for a fourth writer to be added to the bill, will just have to see on that one. The initial story submissions have started coming in though and it’s looking pretty good! You can’t beat a good wee Ceilidh!
It is also very likely I will be releasing a mini collection of poetry and drabbles this year. These pieces have already been written, some have been published and some have never seen the light of day beyond the notebook. One again an eclectic little mix of material. Very organic in nature, as with my own style of writing. Themes running through those collected so far include; depression, relationships, politics, sex, freedom, nature and more.
Please look out for updates via here and on my Facebook page; https://www.facebook.com/NatashaSinclair/
Thank you, Natasha
It was always tomorrow; ‘I’ll show you tomorrow.’ ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ ‘I’ll love you tomorrow.’ Youth melted away in lost tomorrows. Wrinkled drying paper skin. Tear tracks embedded as scars. Black hair gone brittle broken grey. Still, nothing or tomorrow. Ruptured seams fraying. Tomorrow was too far gone. Lost in history; no catching it as it caught and dragged in the gale. On black feathered wings, broken promises held in a wrecked heart. Skipping beats and racing to catch up with itself; inadequate muscle. The Crone took that tomorrow to the grave. Cold, alone. Still all’s said, ‘maybe tomorrow…’ © Natasha Sinclair
This picture doesn’t look real…
Like there’s a filter; to enhance, to hide, deceive the eye.
Shielding a painful reality; it was a painful reality.
The mind, like the camera, does this all on its own.
This picture doesn’t look real…
A reflection of how it felt; a blue hew, a hazy dream.
Everything thrown out of balance.
A reality that swallowed you up, yet one that could barely be touched.
Spinning lost through electrical sparks.
A new reality at the edge of everything.
At the edge of all the mattered and all that didn’t.
A steady calm or frozen panic; so close to the same.
Something else on the edge; the blurred borderline where the unreal is real.
© Natasha Sinclair
Read more about our experience through NICU in my deeply personal memoir, ‘One Step Forward, Two Steps Back: A story of love & survival through NICU.’
“I wouldn’t piss on one if he was on fire.”
She hissed with such venom on each syllable.
That hate was imbedded deep; Men, what was the issue?
Those women married them, bore children to them, birthed them, raised them…
Copulators and mothers of abusive bastards.
Of course, it was her fault. It always was, that doomed double XX.
Such hate being passed through generations.
The kind of hate that rose your heart rate, made your bones grind, made you sweat.
Venomous and bitter more than mere words; the flames licked the air in forked tongue.
Man’s kiss; woman’s curse.
(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved
I wish I had a touch of you. Your swagger, your play. The sense to stay away. A fraction of your zingy zest. Never put those dreams to rest. Slick, street and charm. Even nullifying the alarm. Player boy, fake plastic toy. Playing the loyalty game. Making them insane. Lost words and lyrics. Legendary mimics. Nothing real to add to the wheel. Round and round. Pound to the pound. Replaying the old sound. New spunk and old funk. Taking the heat in every re-beat. Corpse warming ‘til the harsh light of mourning. You should’ve come with a fucking warning. © Natasha Sinclair