Introduction: Frances and Martine

I shall create a new world for myself – Frédéric François Chopin


Frances and Martine were eating spaghetti from the same bowl. It was special. It could take them back in time. Suddenly, five years ago (before they were friends) Frances tripped and broke her ankle. At the same time, Martine was waiting for the phone to ring. Neither of them knew this: Frances with her ankle, Martine with a phone not ringing. Frances did not know Martine. Martine did not know Frances. It just happened they were now friends eating spaghetti from the same bowl that could take them back in time, and those were the moments they went back to.

On the List

Not on the list
Too far down the list
Top of the list
Sad on the list
Out of the list but
Under the list
You’re on the list
I’m not on the list
Never on a list
Afraid of the list
Fell off the list

Don’t like lists

Will I get on this list!?
Back on the list
Up on a list
Not seen on the list 
Or seen on the list
Was on a list
Now not on a list
I’ll put you on the list
You put me on the list
We’re both on the list!
On every list

Get on the list
Get off the list
Get on the list 

Memories of Martine in Spain, 2067

I lived for a while with a French Diplomat in a part of Spain I can not name. From time to time he would exist in the living pots of exotic plants, survivors of the previous revolution and decidedly grey for exotic. I asked Rod, the French Diplomat, if he knew the name of his once home. He couldn’t clever use his spirit to tell me, but waited one night in his office dressed as a fox. It was shocking. Mostly a complete list of house plants that doubled up as complaints: Gareys Eureka, in a six litre yellow pot. I forced his passive aggressive passport to get him home in the truculent van, painted red and a sure miracle. He arrived. 


Back in Spain, I deserved more freedom, more of a voice absent of male (show off) intellect. I’m just writing here. Don’t ask me what I mean. 

Dragoljub Obnažena!


Me and Dragoljub sit in the bathtub u uživanju.                                
Our small lake sings daleko but he thinks in guitar.                          
Let’s go to Japanski he says i utiskuje large feet
between my breasts – moja strast!                                                 
I turn taps to zadivljujući hot, o radosti.
But he’s neoprezna ponekad with my feelings                                              
such spoilt bubbles, he’s polako made instinski                           
silna and I am obnažena! Oh kako sam žude
for warm dry towels of savršenstvom.

From, The Night My Sister Went to Hollywood (Cultured Llama Press)

Viola Man

Martine, it’s a disgraceful act of resistance you display with the viola man. 

But I love viola man and nothing you can do, or sing, will change my mind away from his engaging output of Ode to Joy. When he plays it I am in love all over again. 

How about cake? 
No, not enough ‘ode’. 
How about pizza? 
No, not enough ‘to’, 
How about frozen eggs?

Yes, yes! This is it. Frozen eggs are the ultimate in Joy! I shall construct him a letter with absolute immediacy ... it’s all over between me and viola man. Pass me a frozen egg.