I am PUBLISHED! (See? See? It's REAL!!!)


Granted it's not under my legal name. In retrospect, I feel slightly foolish about that.

Before We Slept

you are bone
weary, exhausted body
aching from the strain of hauling
hundred pound boxes down
three flights of stairs

I press
the heels of my hands
deep under kidneys,
framed by hips, on either side
of spine
you groan

I knead your flesh
Cup scapula and rib stroke
Deep, find and unbind
Long cords of knotted muscle
Dig fingers into skin

You turn so I can work
My fingers along ridge of brow
And cheekbone
Follow the cartilage curve of your ear

Small breasts exposed, you gasp and
Twitch with every press and pull
but my hands stay firm
above your collar
bone cup
your lolling head

massage your scalp
my longing
badly hidden

you moan

my fingers in your hair
amazon_syren: (Bisexual)
( Nov. 19th, 2008 06:30 am)
I wrote these just before Hallowe'en. Have finally found the words that were missing. I think they - certainly the first one - still need a little work. If you have any suggestions for what's missing, I'd love to hear them.



I like the way you strut
Like you own the road
Loping, lean and lanky on long
Strong legs
Jeans tight to your muscled thighs and
Black hat riding low over your eyes

You make me weak in the knees

Wanton with want

Aching to flay
that thin veneer of brazen bravado
Peel it
back like skin
the pulse and throb of
naked need

I like to suck that smirk
Off your face
Make you moan
All your edges gone
Yielding under the onslaught
Of my touch

I like the way you melt for me
your Gutsy turned to gasping,
all your solid walls dissolving,
Body arched in acquiescence,
for the mercies
of my mouth

Yeah, I like the way you strut
So certain and so self-assured

Strut into the maw
of my desire



I want
To devour you

To taste the salt
Of your sweat on my tongue
Sink my teeth into your trembling
Flesh and feel
The muscle
Shudder Underneath

I want to claim your mouth
With my own
Breathe your breath and
Every moan

I want
So much more
Than just one taste

I want
To devour you


Questions, comments? Suggestions (particularly for the first one, which is... in need of some sort of tweaking, but I'm not sure what)?
amazon_syren: (Default)
( Oct. 11th, 2008 02:46 pm)
Yesterday was eventful. :-)

Thing one: My beads order came in. Sadly, I don't think the green garnet is going to do it for the necklace I want to make Sara. I was expecting it to be much darker than it is. Blast. So I'll have to get Malachite after all. :-P
However, since I didn't get enough Sodalite, this isn't entirely a problem.

I went for a (very) long walk with my sister -- down to fifth avenue and back along the canal -- and her dog. Oh, Fletch... He's a very big puppy who likes to run and has separation anxiety to the point where he ate half of my sister's couch when she was at work the other day.

Yeeg. :-\

But he seems to be adjusting. Hopefully this will work out. :-)

Aft the walk, I went forth and read at the Umi Cafe.

It went well. :-)

They have an unfortunate tendency to start at, like, twenty-to-nine on an open mic that "officially" (meaning the sign-up sheet comes out) starts at 7pm. It's a bit ridiculous, really.
But it did give me the chance to write a third poem. :-)


Her Bright Spirit

I can see the fire in you
it burns under your skin
turning you golden,
hot enough to make me froth
and boil

I want to fan that flame
make you hiss, spark and dance
amid the vapours
of my steaming sweat and breath
water-body boiling
under your touch


I was quite delighted to see Tsivia and Raynedaze came out. :-) That was a lovely surprise. :-)

I will see them again tomorrow. :-) Woohoo! :-D

Anyway, I had to leave by 9:15/9:20, so I didn't actually stay more than about five minutes after my reading. (And, as such, missed out on a bunch of very nice music, I suspect). From Umi, I walked over to Miz Sara's house, spent the evening chatting with her while she worked on her website and such-like. :-)

It was a very pleasant, casual evening, followed by a very pleasant morning - which included both broccoli-tomato vegan quiche (made with a soy-based sourcream instead of eggs and cheese) and another long walk down into the Glebe (around Clemow and Powel and there) and back to my place.

Sadly (well, -ish) she had a yoga workshop (focusing on upper body strength -- as if she didn't have buckets of that already...) at 2pm, so she had to scoot home after that and pick up the yoga-mat for the class.

Still. That was about three hours ago.

In the interveining time, I've had a pink bath (featuring a haagenbath bath bomb -- which smells like toothpaste, alas... But hey, I know it for next time), strung one necklace, and re-strung another.

Now to re-string the rhodochrosite (sp) -- which is like malachite, but pink -- and then I have my collection of pride necklaces complete. Rhodochrosite & cheroite (like malachite, but purple) -- both of which were my grandmother's, and a sodalite/lapis!lazuli combination (lots of blues) as the new third party. :-)

Whee! :-D

I think I'll make chocolate-mint poundcake next :-D (Yummay!), and then maybe re-string my moonstone and pearl necklace. :-) (It's on dental floss, and I'm a little bit worried about that. ;-)

So it's been a productive-esque day. :-)

- Amazon. :-)
This has been a frustrating morning!

I just spent the last half-hour trying to apply for one goddamn government job.
I had to make a new fucking account.

Which I doubt I'll ever be able to get back to.

I hate it.

I hate them all!

<*deep breath*>

And on that cheery note...

Gods... This is so frustrating. I seriously just want to throw tantrums and hit things and yell at people for not just *finding* me work when it's *their* job to do that.
Which sounds totally unreasonable, even when you consider that I'm working through agencies.


I'm very frustrated and very angry and I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO FUCKING SETTLE!!!
I've been 'settling' for years, living in unhappy, isolated circumstances, in a situation I fucking despise!
Why the hell should I have to settle for the lousy job and the crappy, overpriced appartment.
Why the hell should I have to sell my beautiful, hand-me-down furniture to live in substandard, too-small housing with a lousy-assed landlord who'll treat me badly and smoke in my house???
I've done that every fucking time I've lived outside of my wretched mother's wretched control, and it's always ended up miserable and wrong.
I don't want to do that anymore.
I don't want to settle anymore.
I don't want to take what I can get anymore.
I'm tired as hell of thinking that I'm not worth enough, that I don't deserve something good from the goddamn world.
Why the hell wouldn't I be?

Also: There is an airconditioner directly over my head, and I am cold.

<*puts on shawl*>

See? I could fix that.

<*settles feathers a bit*>


So, I'm pissed off. (Gee, what gave that away...)

And I'm reading The Twelve Wild Swans (Starhawk) which isn't doing a whole hell of a lot right now, because I started midway through (having started reading it a year ago or more). So I think I need to go back to the beginning on that one.

On the plus side, I've been writing some more poetry.
With intent, no less. They are, for the most part, works in progress. Please feel free to comment and critique. :-)


Poetry )

So that's my poetry for today. Two or three for the Selkie collection, and three more for whatever they end up in. :-)

Your help is appreciated. :-)

- Amazon. :-)
So I've been reading this book, Anthro-Porn-Ol-Ogy, which is somewhere between an interesting look into THE-P-WORD in mainstream US culture and, uh, cosmo. Or Sex and the City. Or those chirpy guide-to-getting/being-married books I used to buy (actually *buy*) because I got such a kick out of them.

I have come to the conclusion that (A) the author is a bit of a twit - though it occurs to me that the author may be turning herself into a Character for the purposes of the story, and (B) that I associate my het side with being a useless push-over who doesn't stand up for herself and doesn't live her feminism where it counts.

This last bit is quite a little problem, I think.

I mean, it's like associating my creative/emotive/writer/singer side with being intelligent, well-read and interesting, and my efficient/good-at-saving-money side with being paranoid, dismissive and boring. Two sides. Same person.
Which, DUH, means that my dyke side is just as much of a stupid push-over when it comes to relationships, and I'm just as likely to land myself with a manipulative, needy, controlling woman as I am to land myself with that kind of a man.
For fuck's sake.
(On the plus side, chances are reasonably good that, if I'm ranting about The Patriarchy, a woman SO isn't going to feel like I'm attacking her, personally. That said, it's not like there wouldn't billions of other potential sore-spots just lurking under the surface, but at least *that* one wouldn't be on the plate).


I've sent you two letters
One a hymn
of thanks
One a promise
to read June Jordan
to keep on writing
to be brave
for you
(for me)


Longing, I want
your hands
on my body
your mouth
thrown open
Longing, I want to know
what to do to make you
shivergasp, tremble,
want me.


On the couch,
You at one end,
Curled casually around a cup of tea,
Me at the other,
Trying (too hard) to be the cool
socially aware
political activist
woman I think you want
trying (too hard)
to hide my desire
making inane conversation
and mistakes
to cover the fact that I want
your body
curled around mine
your mouth
soft-lipped and hungry
your breath
your touch
your kiss
your need


I can picture you - all too easily - singing the fishheads song with alternate lyrics, singing it in a sudden burst of carry-a-tune-able song, with your nearest and dearest, as you cut leaflets, or marker rally signs, sitting cross-legged on the ancient, slightly warped hardwood of your house/appartmentliving room floor.You are smiling to yourself, sharing that smile with those friends/lovers/sweethearts/comrades-in-activist-arms, at the silliness of singing about marxists and how good they taste. I have fallen for you, hard, already.

I have written letters in support of co-op brothels, abolishing unfair laws, and honouring treaties, because the mere thought of your (imagined) teacherly approval, the thought that (maybe) you would like me more, want my company more, maybe even want ME (if you knew me at all), if I were a better person - has given me reason enough to get off my own scrawny ass and make an effort, small and determined, for other people I don't know.


Self-improvement through crushes.

It's the wave of the future, I tell you.

I remember when I tried vegetarianism for a year or two. I never fully went veggie -- too many family dinners, for a start -- but I cooked only vegetarian food, tried to go all the way to vegan a couple of times a month, just to see if I could go A Whole Day without ingesting eggs/dairy/honey. (It generally didn't work - I'm far too fond of yoghurt/milk/kefir/icecream/cheese/cream/etc ... and baked goods that incorporate them... to give up animal products entirely).

Part of my reason was because a friend of mine eventually responded to my statement "I'm thinking of going vegetarian" with a disbelieving "Still???" -- when that happens, you know it's time to stop considering and actually DO IT -- But the main reason (the reason I started considering it in the first place) was because I had a crush on a vegan.

<*insert eyeroll here*>

So I learned how to bake without eggs, and found out that I can make one heck of a nice stew using romano beans plus the celebrated What Have I Got In the Fridge approache. :-)

Self-Improvement. Through Crushes.

I find that this crush (on that kick-ass poet from toronto) is resulting in the same sorts of things.
Which is good.
As far as I'm concerned. :-)


More Thoughts on the Dream House )


Anyway. General madness, as all things go.

Two sets of people are looking at my house today. One has been and gone already, the other is coming at 6:30.

I'm going to run errants (and/or surf the internet) until I can go home.

Things I've done today:

- Washed my kitchen floor

- Writen to INAC regarding the honouring of the Barrier Lake Hydro agreements

- Writen to That Guy at Public Works asking if he's got any research positions he needs to fill (he's out of the office until the 21st of July, so it'll be a while before/if I hear back from him, but I figured I'd ask).

- Eaten home made cookies (Mmmm... White!chocolatechip-amaretto-peanutbutter and mocha-chocolatechip... Very tastey...)

Cookie Recipes )


Anyway, I think that's it for me. :-)

- Amazon.

P.S.: Check this out.

Further to yesterday's link: The Brothel Around the Corner.

And (sort of) regarding legalization vs decriminalization.

More on Canada. Here's hoping.

- Amazon.

[1] Bitter much?

There's a sharpness to the way you sit in the world,
that's only half to do with
your delicate bones,
slender wrists and
sharp chin.
A sharpness that is familiar to
or so it seems.

I'd like to think we could be friends.

Knowing that we share a love of
speculative fiction, and
kinky sex,

Knowing that we could
talk gender/queer/feminist theory
for hours
and not get tired

that if
by some miracle,
we met,
hit it off,

I'd want to hold on to you
drink coffee,
talk shop,
see if you and your
marxist philosophies
could handle my
ecofeminist religious fervor


I have to warn you

If, by some miracle,
we became friends,
I know
I'd always want more from you

I'd want those
long fingers
inside me to the wrist,
that smart mouth,
sharp tongue,
on my clit
making me groan,
making me yours.

And that scares me
(for too many reasons),
Because I've already got
(no matter how I try to renegotiate them)
and, besides,
I suspect that
hunger or no hunger,
I'd be too awkward for you.

My insecurities tell me
I'd be
Too old, at twenty-eight, to play
the inexperienced innocent
"I've never done this before," murmured
eyes downcast,
lying through my teeth
(so eager to drive, hard, into your pale, perfect skin)
But too young,
by some ten years,
to be taken
This came today.

My reactions (for what they're worth) are below.


I want you to come today,
words murmured while
for my keys,
as if the pages
could be the person,
as if
I could have any say in that,


I wrote a story
about a public school librarian
who gets off
the Encyclopedia Britanica.
(She had fantasies about
reading dirty stories
to the English teacher
down the hall who - clearly - must have shared her
love of literature)

Today is a bit like that.

The envelope is waiting
for me
Slim and padded, inside
the book is still shrink-wrapped,
Your name on the cover.
I brush it against my cheek,
foolishly wanting
to catch the scent (unknown) of you.
As if it might linger,
ten years on,
in pages
never touched.


Her words
like an old bone
healed over but
never quite set.


My heart slams against my ribs
Not pounding,
Only too big, suddenly, to be contained

talk to me again

I'm aching for your voice
(long distance, and only imagined,
a letter or a spoken word)

But all I have is this:
One, slim volume, of not quite
sixty poems.
The only words I have.

"Vow" made my heart swell.

"Pairs" made me cry.


"The grass is always greener,"
you said,
taking a drag.
The corner of your mouth cocks,

Am I crazy for wanting you here?

You who I never knew,
Yet feel (a little) like I know.

Familiar longing - but I'm making you up,
Bi-girl, femme-girl, writer-girl,
Match-stick arms and combat boots,
A short dress and a sharp eye.

And me?

I am suddenly fifteen again, squealing over your
Cute Tomboy Dyke Version of Sexy
as if you were all five of the backstreet boys,
rolled into one.

I am an amourous zombie, hungry for
And falling for everything else in the process.

I am all too familiar with this hunger in my heart,
the need to know more, learn more, see more, hear more,
more, more, more, more!
the need to devour you.


I want you
In the fair-trade coffee shop,
sitting across from me,
thinking out loud.

I want you
in my living room,
sitting in my lap,
legs spread,
but still
out loud.


Not quite sixty poems,
Not quite sixty tiny slivers of your heart,
here in my hands.

(Thank you
For the sharing)

I read them,
Gulping, slurping,
Can't get enough of what you have to say.
Press my nose to the crease,
Breathe the scent of paper,
Only paper
And still
I murmur to you
as if you could hear me,
As if I had any right
to act as if you know me
or want to hear what I think.


I want to sleep
with this book
against my skin.


So there you go.
Crushed out on an acadyke left-wing poet/activist/slut who I've never met, and yet who has walked so many of the streets that I know. Both literal and figurative. :-)
I want to submit some poetry to dig, an annual poetry (and other stuff) 'zine.

With that in mind, how can I make these better?

Regrets, Unlessoned

Walking down the street in early April,
In shoes (at last), not boots, my
mittens stuffed
unceremoniously into my shoulder bag
My hands feel the freshening breeze for the first time, since
Winter came

A stranger stops me

A stranger stops me,
across the boundary of space to
my skin, to
my hand, and say:
You have got to take better care of your fingernails. No
man's gonna want to talk to you, looking
like that."

like that.

For only a moment (the purest
you could hear a pin drop,
a shoe drop,
a drop that, falling, makes ripples (in the still, cool waters of someone else's lake)

There's a little boy clinging, in a way that says
Big eyes that take everything in.

"How Dare you??" I did not say
"What (the hell) gave you the impression that
am doing this for
(the likes of) you?
I am (the subject of my own world)
NOT (an ornament to yours)!"

I did not say it.

Big eyes that take everything in.

I wish I had.


Old Shoes

You are the comfy shoe
I put on when the day is long and
My feet and
My heart are
Comfortable and familiar, but
I don't want
to wear you out.



The clock ticks

if we met now,
would we have met at all?

The house is silent

cars on the road go by outside the window
you're upstairs and I can hear you

The house is silent

is this the beginning of the end?

The clock ticks
And the present
Becomes the past


Not sure if any of them fit the bill of "challenging, compelling and impactful", or, for that matter, that they aren't "romantic or boring", but we'll see.

Suggestions? Pretty-please? :-)
They came! :-D

I've got "Peace" on the cd-player right now, and will probably throw "We Too Are One" on shortly. :-) "Consensual Genocide" (Leah Samharasinha) is, so far (five or six pages in) proving to be excellent. :-)

I have come up with this:

Sierra Leone

My heart is a mine field,
smooth as any road that gets you
from here to there.

My heart is mine field,
Scabbed over,

Years from now, maybe, there'll be flowers blowing,
In the churned-up earth,

But for now
You gotta watch your step.
Anywhere you put your foot will
an explosion.

My heart is a mine field,
And you are Fred Astaire.

I didn't know I was marrying a dancer.

You didn't know you were marrying
Sierra Leone.

Hopefully "Longing, At Least, Is Constant" will come in a few days or less. :-D

Poetry reading tomorrow night @ Cube Gallery in Hintonburg (on Armstrong st., one block west of Parkdale, I think). 7:30pm. :-)

Have been reading No Way to Live, which is about women and poverty (generally cyclical and abject), specifically in BC, but in Canada in general. :-) It is heartbreaking and enraging at the same time. It's got me thinking about stuff (which is always good).

Also: In my marvelously kismetic meet-up with Commodorified, Raynedaze and Torrain (and Seanchaidh, but that bit was intentional), the subject of how "bad/dangerous neighbourhood" often translates into "noticeably non-white population + working class/lower-income-bracket + women working the sex-trade after dark".
Commodorified mentioned the John Retraining Program )

Gotta go make dinner. :-)

- Amazon. :-)

There's a word on the tip of
your tongue,
A word I've heard before.
I suck it, hard,
right out of your mouth, and
Build myself up
with words that would weigh me down.

[this poem is unfinished. I'm not sure how it ends...]


Winter/Spring 2008

Winter is long, it
from november 'til april.
thick on the sidewalks, and the
drifts are hip-deep,
It's hard to move.
You and I are
calm as an iced-over lake.

Three weeks after the last
snow falls, it's
twenty-five above and the snow is
boiling off the sidewalks.
We crack open
like an ice flow in the thaw.
Breaking up?
Or moving again?



amazon_syren: (Default)


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