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
Stuck in the mud; the heart is a-thud.
The tightening throat; tangled in knots.
Edit, revise, delete, repeat.
Sticking in loops; nauseating mud soup.
Shattered mind in broken tongue; where had it all begun?
Shards slashing on the way down.
Dead letters nestling in; stinging nettles grow within.
Type again, reply, no don’t…
Wait, that’s wrong!
Too much? Too little? Too dam late!
Let it go…
Letters in the grave; need to be ‘brave.’
Stick a label on it; Depression
Change the address.
Oodles of mess; time eclipsed by so much ‘missed.’
Misrepresented, mistimed, misdiagnosis, misunderstood, missed.
Return to sender 30 years later…
Wrong label, here’s a new one; ASD
New order from the so-called Disorder.
(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved.
She was so incredibly vibrant, effervescent even. Life cascaded over her and she soaked it up; osmosis from grey to all illuminating colour.
They couldn’t know of the tortured girl hiding behind long straggly hair in the corner depths of her soul. Trying not to breathe, holding her head still between her hands and knees; frightened little anchoress within.
She painted the outside with hypnotic kaleidoscopic colour. Energy was electrifying and luminescent. Rich from living, a friend to everyone, my love.
After the years of youth though; too much mayhem and noise, too much of that painted face. Too many troubles to keep buried behind a smile, she ran all out of colour.
I see her try sometimes. Try to paint it on. Her skin only soaks it into the dead grey; cracking, peeling, painful and raw. Hermit grey, only shade in the shadows.
There’s barely any precious life left.
(C) Natasha Sinclair, All rights reserved
Early flight; foreign daze too bright.
Night draws with a bang.
Curtains closed, skirts up.
Old streets buzz with pimps and cheats .
Sex in the air; for a fair fare.
Her tired mouth, his wallet.
A classy bar, a sleazy toilet.
Part of the play, trip away.
Any old dud feels like a stud.
Pussy on the wind.
Setting up for good grind.
Getting low so you can’t go.
She lays her head to rest.
Holiday urge starts to spread.
He pushed her ‘til she was sunned down.
“Just one more."
Pretends he's not off to score.
Whore behind another door.
Sleepy head all tore with gore.
Slips in hours too late...
Stinking and slick from a professional date.
“Just one more,” he said.
Wet with mixed sweat.
A foreign scent had him spent.
Deceit on the forgotten receipt.
Deceit cheat never sleeps.
It’s always just one more…
© Natasha Sinclair 2019
Those rusty cogs turn, yawning inside that thick skull; a dying hamster on a creaky wheel. Quietly waiting for the cruel rotations to complete their sedate lap around the globe. Knowing there’s nothing of use to be churned out; still I wait, always, for you. Waiting for that spark to catch; only crumbs of life left. Wondering how much of you is still in there; amongst the rust and fumes. Once it was astounding, fresh with abundant wonder and curiosity; almost dormant now. Stuck mindless motionless. Baby, do you even know your name? Does such a thing even matter anymore? © Natasha Sinclair
Sifting through tatty scrawled notes. Desperately furious hand; pouring forth perpetual cocktails of mind toxins in blotchy ink. Heavy watery explosions; dried time. Tasked to beat the drugs, the sad drab clinics, psychologically challenged specialists. Yeah, they sure were special all right; paid listeners who couldn’t shut up. It’s too easy to turn the tables on the professionally needy; care couldn’t care less. Unfamiliar hand between his own; Did I write that? Did I reply to myself? Goading himself to take the leap; the devil between the lines, teaser. The years trickle on; he somehow survived himself… For how long? © Natasha Sinclair
First, the dense green leaves; push sunward from between the cracks.
Sprouting from the over nurtured, the ill valued; prisons of possession.
The Dandies bid for life, to bloom, be free; prevailing through destruction and control.
Neighbours spray them relentlessly; Killer with killers.
Down on pristine knees; a homicidal mission.
One never understood that murderous desire.
Holding admiration for their persistence to live; punching through suffocating concrete.
Taking back the malnourished earth; grey to green.
Converting the controlled over preened to wild and free.
Children blow wishes into the ether from their seed heads.
How can one not appreciate the beauty, innocence, thirst for life and freedom mirrored in the Dandelion.
It offers much, this humble wild flower weed.
The regard of wild things as weeds, one may never understand.
Like unruly children and nonconformist adults; weeds of society.
Pests of the pretentious empty garden; still they persist.
(c) Natasha Sinclair 2019, All rights reserved.
Whisper they would; what harm is there in hushed voices?
Heard in the distance; with a smile towards my face, tightness around my throat.
To my door, each one of them would knock; in need of an ear, to shed a judgment free tear.
A closed mouth; their release and relieve.
Whispers feed whispers; taking wicked twisted form.
Filthy crooked fingers point in fierce accusation; neighbour and friendships turned sour.
Speaking in tongues; evil and lust for persecution, the execution.
Tales twisted unrecognisably; cures contorted to fatal blame.
It’s good to have a scapegoat and I’m one of theirs; purging their evils and guilt with gangland misdirection.
Trials fuelled by bloodlust and power; there was only ever going to be one verdict grown from whispers; “Witch!” “Guilty!” “Sentence her to death!”
Strung up naked, centre stage; a place I never wanted to be.
I only longed for peace, quiet, to be free.
Angry eyes burned back in hate; none of them seeing their burning Witch.
Inward looking desperate to purge their cruelties in my bodies destructive flames.
I am Issobella; their last Witch strangled and burned.
I am Issobella; their Wasteland Witch.
They claim to have learned but they still don’t see; times have changed them little, their Witch is still me.
(c) Natasha Sinclair 2019, All rights reserved.