Emily Hinshelwood

Emily Hinshelwood.

Tattoed Goddess

       Picking through the carcass of a dream
       scraps of sinews hang as loose strands in a story
       mis-spelled, half-formed, spoilt, spent actors in a show
       that never played,
       a joke that never laughed,
       a word that never spoke.

       Not a choke, nor a spaced-out wise-crack
       but guised, selected lies.
       A cushion with no filling
       a life without living.

       Stretched and strung upon a rack - a teased thread
       hooked on conscience and jealous guilt.
       Shaved, planed, tidied, boxed
       packaged to fit with the rest of the world.

       No.
       Lick the rules from the blackboard
       Spit the social code on the streets of prejudice
       and power and threat
       Spin the feathered flocks into a calypso, a jackpot,
       a Russian roulette.
       Pounce on the present with greedy, lucky-dip hands
       crush convention in a vice of life
       and
       like a tattooed goddess,
       gorge from a chalice of wet pleasure.

       Surf the sunspots, surging, splashing, crashing,
       wading through white light
       dragging the glow, the molten heat,
       the burning core
       into your veins
       Burn. Love.
       Live.