Cyberus the Black Dog

Poetry

Cyberus the black dog, creeps in under Mary’s skin, licking his lips, penetrating her holes, gnawing away at her sinewy tendons and succulent bones.

Isolation Desolation

He rapes her subconscious crawl space, probing his wet nose into her closet crotch, sniffing out the buried remains there like Cujo; gnarled lips, protruding tongue and crazed eye stare.

Mary pricks her ears, Cyberus howls at the April blood moon, his mourn calling her out from behind her silvery veil, behind her mindful interludes – moonbeams bleed crimson and red rivers pour from her nightmares, blur the edges of her days.

Cyberus spreads his malaise like a disease.

He infiltrates cavities and grey matter mimicking the ebb and flow of tides; dopamine highs and serotonin lows, squalls hovering on the horizon – the ramblings of a mad woman batting her eye lashes, baring her sharp teeth.

Mary flatter’s her fans upright for .50c an hour to satisfy Cyberus’ insatiable appetite, gulping down terabytes like an insomniac slip streaming strip scenes and Mary rubs herself raw, learning how to love the hands that feed her.

The water slides off her duck downed back, down valleys and cracks her bareback fingertips squeezing every last drip from her drops.

Mary turns off the shower, swipes the window and peers outside. Two stray dogs have escaped lockdown, causing havoc on the streets.

She would take them both in and give them a good feed, if she had a backyard big enough to bury bones.

Tom stands outside on the pavement, peers up at the window, his threadbare trenchcoat just as superfluous as his empty pockets, except for the cornerstone content bulge. He watches Mary’s jailbird swagger dance and sway behind a steam curtain.

Cyberus can feel her skin crawl, he allows himself to rise – settling in between her mind and the blurred images of breasts and buttocks, infrared eyes stirring up his night vision.

My Corona

Poetry

This is my lyrical take on the song My Sharona by The Knack

My Corona

Ooh my little dirty one, dirty one

When ya gonna give me that germ, Corona?

Ooh ya make my nose run, my nose run

Got it sliding down my lip line, Corona

Always blow my nose, wash my hands, do it all again

My, my, my, ay, ay, whoa!

M-m-m-my Corona

Come a little closer, huh, ah, will ya, huh

Close enough to give you my germs, Corona

Keeping it a mystery, conspiracy

Dripping from the edge of my eyes, Corona

Always blow my nose, wash my hands, do it all again

Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty germ

My, my, my, ay, ay, whoa!

M-m-m-my Corona

Na, na, na, na, na, na

My Corona

When ya gonna give it to me, give it to me

It’s just a matter of time

Corona

Is it…

Shadowban

Poetry

I see right through everything you try to impress upon me.

My nose is already cut; off, my mask forever cast into the pantomime of the dead.

When I rise,

I won’t need you.

There are no wallflowers here,
just silent observers casing the joint.

My grandfather’s spyglass has a cracked lens – one of those monocled, steampunky brass edged gems that’s uncoordinated at best but it serves more than a purpose.

Without you, I fade into the background.

I am like a mage.

I draw you in, but you beckon me out from behind my crystal pillars dangling wads of money and a job offer that’s on hold.

I come, baring more than just my breasts,

I am yours.

Till the thrill is gone.

I am in danger of succumbing to my own spell, rebounding long before

I am discarded,

when you’ve already moved on to Nightingales and page three nostalgia,

my unnatural incantations losing their spark along the way.

Still, you make me question where I belong.

I stand in the orange sunset smoking a durry on my balcony,

looking down from my lofty thoughts.

My high society, contemptible self-loathing

boldly framing my red-hinged double revolving doors

that would swing wider, if it weren’t for the sunstrike that has me

blind.

A spectral shade

of surreal light,

trapped by my own shadowban.

I see right through everything you try to impress upon me.

My nose is already cut; off, my mask forever cast into the pantomime of the dead.

When I rise,

I won’t need you.

Tinders Cora Pearl

Poetry

Tinder dating.

Balancing on that tight rope between modern meat markets, vintage marriage proposals and a continuum of taffeta excuses for those with no idea about couture.

Coffee date number two,

torn between a Trelise Trelise Cooper bustle or Collette Dinnigan trousers, opting for mid length K-mart culottes and flat shoes – quite sensible really.

Then he makes a move, casually stroking her genius arm while he takes a business call leaning back on his wing.

It’s an affront to Cora’s touch-starved senses; Georgette raised speed bumps, bristle with expectations.

Its awkward for a moment –

deciding weather to pirouette or sashay onto the dancefloor with some spurious home truths.

Ta da!

‘I used to be a sex worker’,

she crowed, sipping on a nonchalant eyelash latte on the verge of treason

‘and if I decide to go back, you can’t stop me’.

Silence.

Ms Pearl takes another sip, the onslaught of ignorance threatening to tighten her whale bone corset breath, now held in contempt.

A standing ovation or white knuckled finale taking the bias edge out of contention, taking it all in.

See, she can’t see the point of another round of ruffles and rouge.

Spontaneous attraction hides in the shadows

of a cloak and dagger past life, frightened

by a mere unorthodox interlude.

Whore

Poetry

Clock app, I chime well.

The sheets are slithery crevices

Satin-lined, with serpent tongue poised to strike,

It is a meeting of the soul,

A shaft of light

Through cathedrals of stained glass.

Where you are safe,

There are no family heirlooms,

No dinner on the table, no lies.

Suave virile hips, the smirk of men

Glaze at her smoke

And I, in my honeyed plume,

Milk a gallon of amphibian seed.

To release

The roar of angst I swallow toads ~

Meat and three vege, a staple,

The ‘Elixir of Life’.

My mouth gags,

The mouth of Mary

When my accelerator touches the pan.

The giggle of my

Plastic features, my way of arching

John’s to rigors of trapeze

Lays on the charm, a gasp.

And it goes on and on, and on.

I shall remain a nymph. Old muscles

Strain like a bough and I

Blush like Betty Boop

Satisfied,

All the sighs of winter, fall

Offering up last seasons rosella

Tea to read.

Visible Woman

Poetry

I’m a whore.
A hooker for all
Intents & purposes

I fuck

Men, women or both
If they show me
Respect & pay my fee

How they treat
Me is how I screen;
They peep through key
Holes in my web,
Mobile phone or face
Book

Leave me clues
I peruse at my leisure.

On my unpaid time,
Weeding
Always pulling
Out roots & bare
Back, barking mad
Messages

Cutting into my family!

My family time
Intrigues you & yours –

Watching how we
Balance on that edge,
While I swing my leg
Over, hold on
Tight & tiptoe
Around the giant
Dildo in the room

But we do

Those Bill’s
Just don’t stop coming!

I work hard for the money
I work hard for family
I work hard
Pulling my weight where it counts
To make ends meet;
Reconciling differences
Underneath

I bleed red & my shit still
Stinks but that doesn’t make me
Invisible, unless you’re
Anti

Anti this, anti that
Why should it matter
What I do to support my
Self or my family?

I should ram my fist right up
Your arse, to my elbows
(I’d like to – bend you over) &
Piss all over your pride & prejudice!

Your mind is already made up.
Stuck up, to the eyeballs
In condescending lies pandering
To unpopular beliefs;
Nothing like countering ‘prostitution
Narratives’ in the belly
Of the beast

I am a very tall poppy.
I am not so uneloquently on display
I am not a victim
I am not coerced
I am not a survivor
I am not damaged
I am not suffering any
More than anyone else

I don’t buy into
Negative, stereotypically ignorant
Profit driven victimisation
Either!

I choose to be the
Architect of my own life
Doing my bit,
Arousing your awareness
So that those who are
Tarred with the same brush
Can find support
Not rescue

It’s called autonomy.
Something I have more of than
Some, but you are not one

Tomorrow I’m going to wake up
Turn on my phone
Answer messages
Boil the jug & light up a dart,
Considering all my options
Before heading back in to sex work

It makes me stark raving
Mad, to think you could
Possibly be offended!

For what it’s worth,
I feel sorry for you

Written in protest of the ‘World’s Oldest Oppression’ Conference in Melbourne, Victoria 2016

The Online Protest

Pieces of Meat

Sound of Silencing Sex Workers

Online Pocket Guide to Dealing with Antis

Unencumbered

Poetry

My love
is in a constant state of flux:

she is a free spirit
as naked as she is coy

shy beyond reason
her senses betray her

ever-widening polygamous circle
of ‘friends with benefits’

today, I languish in the arms of those
who, in the privacy of their shared

experience/existence
profess to asexual tendencies

off & on

a pair of comfortable shoes
is the next best thing

to the proverbial
wet patch

she cloaks herself
in makeshift aroma & powdered illusions

power & control
wanting & needing

pushing & pulling
to feel simply unencumbered

monogamy is a death trap
says the muse

my love is everywhere
I want it to be

Puppy Love

Poetry

Lovers of pain and comfort, unconditional
with puppy dog eyes wide shut
head on my stomach fur coat attired
foetal and like old things, worn

Moments and memories dispensed
a hairs breath between prickles
and whiskers tease
rubbing the shredded skin of dissociation

Thoughts escape, awakened
stirred and panting
playful ball sports and eyebrows raise
sniffing familiarity

Belly rubs and legs splayed
assuming the mould from in behind,
the scene
anticipation hungry for food

Dependence in exchange for love
money in exchange for lust
No flea’s here, no blood,
no life-sucking thoughts here

Gods comfort wrap, fur-lined
with licky tongue
slobbering kisses of conversation
done and dusted.

I Met A Girl

Poetry

I met a girl
Red lights blazing
flashing backstreet bars
in an alleyway

shadows silent behind

lamppost’s, thin stripped

light bouncing off

her shoulders, Medusa

scantily clad

dancing through her

fractured Halo,

stockings hiked up

high, lest the cold

penetrate, short skirt

on latticed silhouette(s)

tiptoes pointing

slipping in behind

taxis. Threadbare

pockets strain

fingertips smooth into

green folds;

a handful of jewels

lining her silk purse.

Lady of the Night

Poetry

Your wish is my command:
I will push back and pull forward
confronting your senses while tearing apart my own

I perform admirably.
I hold my head up in the face.
There is only one thing on my mind

No monthly specials here!
No flat ‘on my back’ rate either.
I’m a bargain in the first place, comparatively.
They should be so lucky

No chance of getting bored.
I re-invent events, creatively
juicy and spicy hot
with a side of lies

The blood never drains nor loses its metallic colour
and the well will never run dry
with KY, spread
from arsehole to breakfast like _______
Class?

I lie
on my back, my side, my stomach
and my face is covered.
69 divine and women line up?
I am not exclusive, smile (wink).
Sad and lonely is universally applied, like my eye-liner
smudged and blurred,
obscured from most

I provide a service.
The hostess with the most(est),
and fine wine will have you spellbound!

They line up,
in a downtown apartment with a sea view
on Fur-Lined Avenue – not!

My un-inhibited wide-on, exhibited
and the 26^th floor, awaits you
but I am not for free.
Never for free.

I am a Lady of the Night,
who shines in the face of adversity
with trust issues and insecurities like the rest of us.
I am not blinded by earthly needs by fools.
I wake up.
I put on my make-up.
I dance to my own tune,
and pay the bills

The Pleasures of Jezabel

Private Independent Escort of Australia & New Zealand

Poetry

Cyberus the Black Dog

My Corona

Shadowban

Tinders Cora Pearl

Whore

Visible Woman

Unencumbered

Puppy Love

I Met A Girl

Lady of the Night