Who needs breasts anyway? I should chop them off Get rid of them Throw them in the bin Away from prying eyes. For they're tired from the sneaky glances That men dart at them from the university camp to the local store. And what purpose do they serve anyway to the single woman? Are they really necessary at all? When you can get children milk elsewhere too? Chop them off I say. Look at how easy men . . .
Don’t forget to dream when dark days and hard-times loom large before you and you feel your soul has fallen asleep. Look beyond- the veil of hazy thoughts, for I see you dressed in colours of hope yet. Bit by bit, your layers are peeling away and you are transforming from sensation to sensation. It is almost accomplished. Until then- let the little things in life, bring you joy. . . .
I am a poet of the daily chores delicately balanced on the beams of is and what was. Etching jagged patterns on paper, composing music for the soul. In the distance I hear, the sound of a beautiful scarlet awakening. And a rose blooms in the garden. I write when the world sleeps and sleep nervously when the world awakes. And tomorrow if I should pass on- these my . . .