July 30, 2010


Right so the trans guy me and Virtual bought hash from, a mate of hers apparently. She said his old name, that he hang around here years ago, I think she also said he'd hurt a girl. Yea would that be me by any chance?

It destroyed my mulitples, raping the one that always knew when to vacate. I thought he was kidding, he had slapped me. The sex had been lovely but hard for me to understand, people that young shouldn't have sex. Maybe he saw or heard about me and someone else. I remember him asking if it was because of him I cut. The other night when I remembered who he was and a little about how close we were and how fucked up everything was, I instantly felt like cutting.

He has turned up in a few surprising places, I become un me. It felt like I had never really felt like a person until we talked, the way he would treat me, the sex. But the constant pressure for violence and hate, the latent on brutal misogyny that is everywhere when your and abused young man. Powerful feelings, that got the better of him and me.

Abusers arn't people you can fall in love with, I'm too clever to fall for that bull. When I realised I was no different, the drugs and the tricks stopped working I felt and saw everything. He took my last safe place and I know that is not a small matter for him, knowing I am no further forward than I was 15 years ago. Still cringing at others sex lives, still denying my own, still hiding in the spliffs and away from scary people as much as possible. He used to talk so easily sometimes, like he was talking about a day a school, it was so ingrained so part of him. That acceptance of the way things were, he was a bright but twisted lad. I am still in this house, crying and waiting.

July 25, 2010

soon my pretty..

It will be you, me and a glass or two of wine. Our darling boy will be camping and we shall be up all might making art and sense.....

July 20, 2010


Stupid cow sayin I'm the one who needs good luck, got herself a cleaning job and thinks she ace. Glad it fell apart before it went on for to long she wasn't right for me, too negative, too selfish, too grumpy.

It was nice to think I had someone for a while though even though I knew it was a fantasy.

Back to realities of the compensation claim. Really feel like my chances all came to me when I was in no position to take them. They are what they are. In that wee town today, it didn't bother me at all. The vague horrible memories of being there before, didn't seem to matter any more. Then of course I came home and watched Eastenders 'if you have been affected by these issues, phone this number for some indifferent, badly researched advice that will make you wish the bastard had just finished you of..'

Now, now, just because I want a baby, don't have a girlfriend, am well skint and puke up at the thought of working... boo hooo
still got the best kid in the world and a bitchin brain, not to mention the looks I get from people on the street in summertime...

July 19, 2010

Scottish summer misery.

Just a little bit more sunshine, just a little less rain,
Just a little more money and heap less pain
It's not much to ask for,
a menstrual cycle that doesn't floor me
and a bit more honesty and compassion

July 17, 2010

Write grrl, right!

Novel 1 -

more or less me and my fantastic oh my god I wish could imagine this tales. Too focus on poetry drives me mad, I need to dive into something hundreds of pages and thousands of words, something that takes on a proper life of its own instead becoming smaller, the simple statement I was born, I am hurt and I am not stupid or ugly.

The magazine research can take a back seat, the poetry will grow out of the fiction, when trying to put linear narrative on a life of regression, flashbacks and disassociation.

Its stronger than Italy, the connection with the red earth, the feeling of moving beyond dysfunction and negative mutual dependence not in terror but because its a better life, because my needs and my sons needs are the same. Because I love and its nurturing and respectful and not fearful and desperate.

Got a letter from the Government Compensation people the other day, saying there was not enough evidence saying I reported incidents to the police enough or of sexual abuse..
I'd have been really upset my that it wasn't for the antidepressant, the contraceptive pill because menstruating makes me bed bound and the cannabis that frames negative memories in a spiritual faith.

July 15, 2010

Morning Time..

Not doing much work but the grey cells are ticking away.
Glasgow triology
Brava -
about how I love Spain, sexual confusion that becomes a desire to reproduce and be safe.

Anti-depressants work - four aeroplanes 1 unconfident 8 year old, one mine diva, one almost three golden boy, a bampot of a sister, a my mother - no anxiety. Contraceptives work no bleeding no agony, no ovulation misery. Being a bit strict myself, wouldn't let myself take a double bed into my wee office/den/bedroom. I felt wrong in a double bed, like a girl in her mothers heels. Today I will move them! All the swimming, pushing buggies and suit cases up hills in the heat has deepened a need for regular physical activity. My shoulders look strong, my lower thighs look damn good, the steroids are helping the lungs a lot.

Cece still hasn't married that fool, good lass but has put all she was left into her career. I don't have a career at the moment but I do have a history and a reoccurring lust for her on off fiancée. He's a good lad, needs to talk likes motorbikes, getting old enough to want to settle and breed. Our pal wouldn't mind, not now.

Neither or off will make any calls, he might talk, I might tell Virtual, bless her but I need MORE! I will seep into his muscle memory he will say goodbye as naturally and as unconsciously as changing gear, then I start talking to the bike like it's got a pulse, till it pulls him back here and we let our overworked depleted frontal lobes take a back seat for a while.

I do want a career, I have to swallow the pride about Twitter!

July 14, 2010


There was Luis a waiter with a Spanish name and a strong Irish accent. A way of saying 'alright' that makes me feel 9. It broke my heart on the last night when I left to go back to my caravan with my grumpy sister and not sneak of into the warmth of Costa Brave camp site night with his chiselled butt. I couldn't sleep at all, my mum gave me the pull out bed in living room myself, the sofa cousins and pillows were piled up and eased the coughing. The Scottish hormone related sweets some how cured by nights as hot as the best of our days. I was perfectly comfortable, except for the lust that moved around my body, healing and waking. He would of known, they usually do. My dreams wrapping around their senses at opportune and inappropriate moments alike.

There was the cook. He worked like a machine, a race horse with hands that sprinted for days. Dark eyes, slight smile lines that went deep and permanent when Spain went one up over Germany. Late one evening I turned the corner to the take away corner, for more chips and burgers and found them leaning against the work tops their body's close strong and tired, their eyes soft. I smiled as sweet and tipped as heavy as I could, then more so when the battleaxe came in and ordered them around with a voice like an injured stray cats mating.

But gave us the opportunity and motive for a kitchen counter lit breathless eye roll that the women he worked with permitted without judging either of out intentions. I will always love her and them for that. His shoulders shrugged and neck as retracted so slightly but plainly as slumped as he ever could be. Then every line in his upper body stretching, basking in the greasy, steamy tourism polluted air. The smiles in the corners of our mouths.

The French kid on the boat, who winked at me after handing over a bowl of Mediterranean snacks, wee man had woken up hungry and happy after his siesta.

Remembering the way sexual desire for women was never so cute, so flirty, never so life affirming. It was always a shadow I tried so hard to catch a glimpse of, so desperate to know but it would only dig deeper until I was grinding my teeth and physically ill at the sight of a tiny thong triangle above a pair of well shaped jeans.

I am less disgusted by my own boobs these days even if other peoples are still a problem.


July 01, 2010


There is only one real way for me to treat me.

Chocolate, crisps, cake don't fit
I hate being chubby and feeling heavy
this makes me sing and walk and see
As for cunt or cock, the grass is always
much greener. She holds and pushes
but never shoves.

Oh to be in love with something that has a pulse. It has life when its growing, hands and needs. It responds too, warping wiry roots around me dreams and my consciousness. I see where I am and the almost infinite places I could be going to. Free
to stand back, breeze in, stretch out my sides
and choose.


Its going to take about a year!!..
If im lucky. I think fiction I write me in third person, I think me I write about WWII partisans. Its about the writing not the story, I can do that, they grow and I know how to grow them. I don't want to start without something historical, it can simmer in that back ground but I don't want it to take over my whole brain.

Novel - let Gibbons twist up inside me till I puke out all the dreichness and the corruption. Chapter 1. Shrink/ public transport thats all

History - War music - LET IT START