I hold her,

But I feel like I’m the one

Who may fall down.

I hold her tight,

I might say something


But right now,

I hold it together.

We are close together,

And whether,

…and if

she falls…

I am here clutching at fabric

and my face is nestled into her hair,

which is not at all like a bird’s nest…

Resting heart rate,

 friends wait,

then go on ahead.

My head

on her head,

here we stand.

And if she falls,

If…she falls,

I’ve got her.



A quiz suggested I live in France because love is important to me in life.

YouTube recommends a 15 minute Tibetan singing bowl meditation to unwind,

Ghost Adventures Season 8, Episode 3,

& a Trap Nation remix of an already acoustically covered pop track on a 1 hour loop.

Facebook notifies me that 5 events I’m interested in are starting soon,

that I was tagged in 2 shared memories from 6 years ago,

that my video is ready to view

& that there have been 4 comments on a comment I commented on that got 9 likes.

My phone battery icon wears a shade of 12% orange

and my laptop dims and switches to energy saver mode.

The alarm tells me I should leave in 37 minutes,


11.11 –

……. Make a wish……

When is there ever time to just take time?

Because time takes away every spare minute up until death

and that guy is the ultimate moment remover.

The Niggles.


I like picking at things.

Stuck bits of food on bedding,

Shedding sheets of salt ‘n peppered cat hairs,

– individually –

Continuously taking the tops off scabs,

Jabs fingers into corners of eyes, pulling out long strands of pupil goo.

Visceral – Like a thin wet string of seagull poo,

Do I eat it…?

No, eww.

I just like picking at things.

Such as the way you arrange the dishes on the rack.

The stack of magazines in the loo,



You get on my nerves, so this deserves a probing;

Bathrobes on door handles,

One jandal mixed between all the other shoes, then,

…the other jandal.

Can’t handle when at 6am you start the sequence of snooze,

I choose to get affected,

These are my irritations.

But, there is also some elation;

like pulling a random hair from your head

That’s somehow managed to lodge up your bum.

Feeling horrified but mesmerised,  

squeamishly delighted all at the same time…

Kinda gross, kinda nice.

I like picking at things.

Blue-tac and price tags,

Loose threads on handbags,

Grammatical errors and your use of ‘you are’ without apostrophe r e….*

The wrongly placed  E, I before C,

Cutlery in the sink,

Half-finished drinks left cold on the floor,

The way you sound when you snore,

Your awful choice of décor,

Your boring obsession with folklore,

and ‘The War…’

The way you swore at that old wh…dinosaur in Arty Bee’s bookstore,

Uncalled for!



Which is probably why I’m always picking at things!

Exploring ways in which to

purposefully pull you apart.

I’ll start learning how to live with these niggles and irks and quirks of life,

Calm that OCD driven housewife that resides inside of me…

I’ll stop picking at things

and just let them be.






I can finally feel the frequencies;

This ‘ease up’ on everything that held me in tangled strings,

dangling from a rapidly-descending ceiling has me feeling no more


Has me feeling free.

Music is delicious when listened to in 432hz,

Spurts of creative outbursts

Immersed in words, I hear my voice over vibrations;

Melodical meditation,

Manifestation of illogical, yet imaginative works.

Right Brain: On

Left Ear: Tuning

Write down: Everything

Left alone: Helps.

I can honestly hear the harmonies;

This pleases my everything

and brings those strings back together to weave

an intricacy of interior peace.

Hearing that Morning Song, those birds…

Hearing from loved ones and what hurts…

Resonations, reverberations,

Audible relaxations…

I can finally feel the frequencies.

Lady from Boston


A lady from Boston once said to me,

“…Your voice is strong.”

I longed to believe her,

But at the time I was wet with wine

And drowning down a not so ‘Mystic River’©.

Shivering at 3 a.m. and 3 litres later,

I wake up with make up fors and must do’s;

Must choose which shoes carry this broken arse to work.

I’m a jerk when I’m drinking,

As my thinking goes grim.

I skim through sent messages

and there it is,

The woe is me, attention seeking, ‘drunk Tarns speaking’ cry for help…

This lady from Boston does not get lost in

the hopelessness and misery –

In fact, she offers to meet up with me,

another time for a cup of tea on The Terrace…

There has been changes since then

And there for a bit,

my voice lay dormant.

The tormented, intoxicated being everyone was seeing,

was not who I wanted to be.

Breathe, Tarns…


I took some time,

Adjusted the rhymes and the rhythm,

within removing a nectar proving

I was making a spectacle out of myself

under this alcoholic spell…

No longer I dwell in this debauched depression.

This lady from Boston,

She made quite an impression!

My confessions now have conviction,

My inflections and diction

no longer afflicted

with sick,

Slurred, words.

Thanks, lady from Boston,

Hope you heard.


The Gaping Gap.


I wish to fill a gap.

A large gap that was gaping, openly seeping with pus.

A gaping gap – funny that I never thought the word ‘gap’ came from that…

… “Gaping,”

That is.

Gee whizz, look at the time!

I have all of the things on my mind,

To find what is not yet lost,

but ultimately worth looking for.

To explore my world and what sits within my quiet;

I relax,

Light a cigarette and a thought

I wonder, am I a decent person?!

Am I a “good sort…?”

Do I give change to those on the street…?


Depends if i can get a long black with one sugar…

Does that make me an arsehole?

Yes, that’s why I give the change.

There’s that gaping gap, you see,

Fill it with things, materistically,

Buy all of the stuff – shit you don’t even need,

That’ll separate you from me!

The gaping gap, the large divide,

Kept nice and tidy over here on this side.

Stride reflected on tinted dressed windows,

Wind blows hair into glasses and passes past pawpaw lips,

Sips the single sugared long black,

Phones goes back into the back pocket and off we go!

Continuing into the wind and into the street.

Look down at my feet and see vivid upon cardboard…

Words like ‘Homeless’,

God Bless.’


I was still on the same side as He on the street…

MY side of the street,

That was kept swept, tidy and clean.

It would be mean of I to just walk by…

To keep smoking my cigarette, handbag swaying by my side.

Make up can hide the depravity of sleep,

Caffeine can un-slur sentences unsteady,

But what can sugar coat lost empathy…?

I wish to fill a gap in my conscience.

A place void of feeling, of shuffling nonsense.

To love and to listen, to look and to give,

To hold onto and remember, to cherish and live

Without images of regret…

Forget yourself for a minute!

Let go of the madness.

Get amongst nature, be happy, be glad this day and everything in it

is in place and exists…

Lift my hand from my pocket and sprinkle the beanie with coins,

Join those crossing diagonally on the green man,

shift my phone from my hand to my handbag by my V can,

Check my appearance in the automatic doors,

Ground Floor

to Level 8 Thanks.




I have used up all of myself today.

Exhausted all of my resources and pulled out extra efforts

Like super powers.

Did I do good things today?

Yes I did.

Did I speak and eat and meet up with friends?

Did I laugh and love and be loved and feel love and wish love for everyone and everything…?

Yes, I did.

That was me.

Was I listening, absorbing,

analyzing and reforming,

Exploring the scenery,

waking up my energies…?


I’ve seen myself change,

No longer living wet and dazed,

193 days away from burning liquor,

The 3 litre piss box that made me feel sicker,

And sicker……

and sicker…

The quicker I get to the farthest away from there,

the better.

I used up all of myself today,

But I hope I managed to give you

a well needed top up.

Remind me to forget about you


Remind me to forget about you

Every day

Be a memo of misery

Every day

Resurface continuously

Wrap yourself around irrelevant things and bring back imagery of what you were to me…


Every night

Remind me of your destruction,

Of your presence

Every night

Make me aware of your essence that declares you left a bitter residue…

Remind me to forget about you.

Take your grip from off my wrist

Take your name from off my list

Take your triggers, you won’t be missed

Every hour

You fight for floor space within my mind

Every hour

You hide, but are easy enough to find.

Remove me from your special promotions

Remove the content, the context,

The addicted devotion…

Remind me to forget about you.

A short walk in the wind


She spoke in poetry

And the rhymes were in time with her thoughts,

But too fast for anyone else to keep up with.

She sought your glance

And hoped that your hands would need her hands to pass you something.

She follows the direction of love

And waits for you to read from the same map,

So you both land in the same place…


She walks too fast for anyone else to keep up with.

She stops.


Then sets off with you, making smaller paces,

so spaces closed in,

Became closer.

She craves your face

And wishes that your heart would need her heart too.

She stops and notices the rhythm in the wind

And waits for you to sweep her hair out of her eyes.

This Cup


Drank the sun down

Drank the sun back up

This cup filled with sand, ash and regret,

The hours have passed,

The minutes we forget.

We forget dates on calendars marked,

Trip, then sit on journeys embarked,

We lose count of the amount of times we said we can’t be fucked!

Ducked under duvets on Sundays,

In some ways

We just stayed still.

Time stops when you’re drinking

And you’re thinking,

Not true…

Week after week after week I’ve consumed.

Long night and long islands and a long hard look

at a long black in the morning,

Dawning on you, yet still you say

Nah, No way!

I’ve partied, had cocktails and been on benders for days,

Displayed behaviour questionable,

Been barely workplace presentable,

Unstable within moonlit, blackout evenings,

Leaving tables of empties,

Bottles aplenty hidden in plastic bags in boxes under beds,

This begs and beckons me up now with the sun

For if I must choose from these options,

then this is the one.

This cup filled with a double…


Time starts, we check we are present and then go

On dates on calendars marked.

Insert poetry here.

As we lay in an embrace, you said “This would be a perfect moment to be poeting to each other…”

And I reached within my emotional tomes, perused through thoughts of things already written, rehearsed and read…

And my brain said…

And my heart said…

“There is nothing here for her;

These memories and words already have a home.”

As we lay in an embrace, works refused to surface, like I’d forgotten the whole alphabet or what a comma was…

and this was perfect.

I studied your lips as you spoke eloquent art and I knew your words too had lived before, but I enjoyed having them visit.

I extended my arm to find your skin

And my brain said…

And my heart said…

“Here is your new page – there is everything here for her…

…and for you, 

draw from this moment from now on.”

The walk.

A hole in the toe of my shoe shows a hole in the toe of my sock as I walk,

wondering how u do the voodoo that you do to me. 

And it’s not pricky like pins…

more like smudges of pleasant across sensitive areas. 

And they are good sensations. 

And that makes sense. 

A hole in the toe of my shoe that shows a hole in the toe of my sock would sometimes worry me….make me think that passersby assume I am not 

all together…

…that I’m lower level…

but it is only me staring down at my feet. 

My sneakers squeak as I ponder how you appear in portions in parts of me in pieces of my day.

And it’s not easy to write as I search for perfect word choices…

…but all my summarised scrawlings are smudged.

And that makes sense to me and that’s ok.

No bones about it – a framework.

About to expose the shit list.

Bare my bruised and broken past.

And it’s written down and it hurts to look at,

to remember…

to feel and re-live again.

About to acknowledge those I’ve hurt and heckled and been hideous to,

And it’s spoken aloud 

and its echoes hit the walls like suicide splatter on aged floral wallpaper.

About to admit that

…this was where I was…

…but is not where I




About to heal.

About to hear.

About time.

Pleasure me…asures

Sunshine upon shoelaces

Dipped chocolate biscuits into Elderflower tea

Big couches and lots of pillows

Two small cats.

Rhythm within earlobes

Dipped paintbrushes in a stained plastic cup

Long walks and plenty of trees

Three written words.

Rain overflowing guttering

Dipped feather quill into a digital ink pot 

Small gratitudes and

…a forthcoming love.

Quiet, relaxing nights

Dipped down underneath duvets

Wide eyes and everlasting energies

One happy poet.


We can switch

If you like…

I’ll try out yours

If you test mine.

I’ll get underneath your pores, you dress with garments from my drawers, 

We explore how each other passes the hours,

takes showers,

smells flowers and how each one listen

and sit in the quiet…

How we react to downtime.

How our bones hurt and our limbs swell and our minds race and our shoulders tense and our fingers writhe and our hearts play pong inside our chests…

We can switch back

If you like.

Thanks for sharing yours,

Thanks for wearing mine.

Be in your moment.

Be in your moment.

Sit in your skin.

Observe the people and their place and their faces and look at their shoes.

Be aware of how far we have walked

And how we hold our own hearts very carefully with both hands now.

Be present in your world.

Feel what a good life feels like…

Live this.

Embrace your friends and soak up nature – be in your moment.

Surround yourself with calm and kind and caring and love…

Be in love.

Sit next to skin.

Observe their eyes and smile and look at their hands and hold them, feel and soak in how this feels…

Be aware of your journey and pick the path most pleasant.

Now there are four hands around your heart and they are still holding on very carefully.

Be present in both your worlds.

The pigeon in the room

Will you rub my back when I’m feeling tense?

Will you hold my hand after making amends?

Will you encourage me to keep sipping tea?

Will you help me up if I fall to my knees?

I once was very much broken.

Once, so very rudely outspoken.

I once was selfish & unkind,

More than once, lost my shit, my mind.

Will you excuse the awful poetry?

Will you refuse my negative ‘woe is me!’

Will you kiss my dirty smokers lips?

Will you wipe away my mascara slips…

I once was always inebriated.

Once was satisfied but never sated.

I once was an attention seeker,

Never once the listener, only the speaker.

Will you take my past & my mistakes?

Will you accept my scars, bruises & breaks…

Will you trust that I’m a better me,

Will you think of me pleasantly…



I am okay.

I AM okay…

Honestly, I’m so far away

From the darkness of my yesterday.

A Literate Elation

Words on walls written

Readily readable rhetorical rhyme

Confidential conversations craftily consumed

Enigmatic energies emotionally exhumed

Sensored strobes stare into his soul.
Sips of Sauvignon sunk

Drams of delicate Drambui, drunk

Mind melting melodical mime

Tripping up on tipped, turned time

Darkness dwells deep in his dreams.
Arriving with artistic arrogance

Listlessly listening to loves language

Harbouring hardened hearts, heated

Tenebrous talks traumatically treated

Vexing the virile virtue in his voice.
Performing as poetic prodigy

Facetious feelings flow freely

Quantifying quotes, questioning quips

Gluttony gloats, greediness grips

Broken brilliance burns into his being.



Now that I’m clean I rock a positive sheen, instead of standing clothed in last nights filth.

Having had crawled out from under the duvet, I’d survey, sniff and repeat into the next day.

No longer do I sway when

I walk through the streets;

I don’t footpath weave or drunkenly bush pee…

Now that I’m sober I no longer fall over the black spots that are lost,

The unrecovered costs…

Waking like a dried up dehydrated ghost after the evening priors host un-responsibility –

Still hungover ’til morning tea…

Nothing resonating, nothing functioning.

Now that I’m dry I no longer worry why my life was or is so hard,

Because it isn’t.

It’s straight edged with pleasures,

It’s enjoying beautiful weather,

It’s remembered and lived in.

It’s lessons and laughter,

It’s’befores’ and ‘afters,’

And it’s now mine to get amongst.