Intimate I

The Catholic Church gave me a certain view of the world 

and at some point I realised 

the sepia colour they print it in to appear ‘oldy worldly’ 

is actually brown because it's been dipped in poo 

Now I move on again 

from red lust of deep gaze promises 

from burning cross to blue eye stare 

The mysterious moves of the other 

nail me with my familiar script of self-critique: 

 ‘Not good enough’

I learnt to write this on my hand when I was a child 

dressed in mismatched white frilly socks 

to prompt me when I didn't know 

But now something else captures my attention 

and I close off from all stimulus 

I realise that the darkness that falls 

when I close my eyes 

it’s my night sky 

which is glowing black 

and unanalysable 

There is no atmosphere 

nor words 

or shapes 

to splash paint

or spark feeling 

It's just the brush of my own hand 

across my own skin 

and the physical sensation it creates 

flutters at an unpredictable frequency 

which is all mine 

from baby cry 

to orgasm

 to wrinkly death.