Biding time until reaper's weepers dispersed The mourning departed to spread grief song I linger until silence befell cemetery gates Beyond the ceremonial bound In observance Solitary silence Spiritual widow I’ve waited… Making way across the damp green Souls stick in the mud sinking Making my way to you One last time Love out of sight Residing now on opposing dimensions Held in the brevity of penumbra Lovestruck in shadow Your dark spell, loves curse By the mound afore you I stare into your pit Imagining the pits of your eyes behind the box Pondering the transparency of your boxes of fabrication Heart-shaped carpentry, weak to these sorrowful eyes My love on a fine line Kneeling with my hands in your mud bed I climb into your grave Lay atop of your box poured with flowers you hate Deep in the hole upon my loves burial bed Breathing in the fumes of your death Feeling deaths whispers swarm my head Love eternally buried in me Beyond the finite blood and bone Can you feel the heat penetrate your cold corpse? I lie in your pit Widow death shroud On top of my love… One last time © Natasha Sinclair
Just dropping by with a quick 2020 writing (or more subbing) wrap up since it seems to be the thing to do!
On my first year actively subbing and writing for specific calls, this has resulted in 58 pieces accepted for publication. 42 of these have been published this year – 8 Short Stories, 13 Flash Fiction, 20 Drabbles and 1 Poem. The remaining 16 accepts will be out in 2021.
I have been lucky to have my work appear alongside some cool folk from around this wee planet. Thankful and grateful for the opportunities and encouragement from my friends, family and writing community. Writing wise it’s been a pretty fun year — I’ve learned so much and developed some new skills along the way.
As for the rest of 2020, it will not be missed!
2020 – that’s plenty, be on your way!
Gnashing and gnawing at my innards
Viscera shredded; trauma tombs embedded
Stitch in bells, weigh down the nauseating flapping
Jangle a euphonious jingle
Steady placement of chinked shield
There my guilt brims
Shame for wishing away rapid cell division
Liquor and voluntary scalding
Natures way away
Life folding poured out
Out of Order; terror of disorder
For two, a freshly dug hole
The morning after
Nipping at heals with the snow
A hollow in another garden
There, a piece of my heart lays
A depression for my first’s succession
She wants to see my torment on display
To harvest in morbid grief games
Pretend she’s just the same
Yearning to reap from the suffering leaks of my soul
Observe my lamentations trapped in a fishbowl
To don a cape, be in control
Prodding my wounds, infecting
Imitation empath storing stories
Catalogued, indexed, held hostage
Latching of grief vampires
Sucking ephemeral life’s marrow
Chipping stones off my bones
An archaeologist scraping the shovel
No delicate brushing of bristles
Desecrating my pain
Self-appointed steward on my cradles grave.
Claustrophobic, locked in. Mirrored headstones line the grey road. Buried alive, suburban death-row. ‘Did you hear about so and so?’ Blurred race of parallel lines standing still. Masking — one fanes will. Mimic gimmicks with lacklustre flare. Another unforgiving snare. Teeth scraping bone. Smile while blood flows soaking frozen toes. A trend-setting bush, a coat of paint. ‘Oh, look together we’re dammed saints.’ The season of outdoing the clone next door. Marching down the line of uninspired duplication — snore. Bored. Trapped. Locked down on cookie-cutter lane. Painting beige with grey, painfully mundane. Disgusted with one’s own disdain. It really is insane.
© Natasha Sinclair
Rolling rumbling tumbling of the muscle
Steadfast working out the dead
Waiting through waves
Expulsion from womb to world; inner-outer dimension switch
Existence given visibility
Life unviable; dead tangible
The ticking clock veiled agony; pulse-quickening within the neck
Swimming through minutes in viscous shards; stark, exposed in wait
A sudden burst to cemetery-serene-silence
Shock of expectations met, tension swells and pops within the void
Her body expelled, revealed
Limp, still, disturbingly perfect
Few eyes lay upon her — none with such desperate thirst as the child-loss-mother
Tattooing details to memory
Cerebral and uterine imprints
Memories outlived instantaneously
Tiny fingers, toes, torso, fused eyes, jaw, ears…
All except the beating of the heart
Virgin lungs void of air in this, her death hours stare
My pathetic heart beats so hard it chokes the throat
The muscle has pried itself from within its cage, making way up to swell in the gullet
Don’t take her away…
Emotion sickness swells drowning from the inside
Even dead, she’s still the baby; even dead, she’s my baby, still
Must give her honour of life…somehow
Gemini mother; creator, reluctant reaper
Now her death feeds life
Entangled in root tendrils within the earth
Forever reaching within and upward
The true heart of something that doesn’t have to beat
Her cycles visibly viable
Bleary eyes can’t always see their praise of stars
Despair wracked the heart for a time
Peace isn’t only for the dead…
She sways in the wind now; dancing grace
Energy shared, scattered through leaves and bellies of beasts
She worms and she soars through them
Not the life imagined; energy shifted, realigned
Heart-wrenching, gut-punching beautiful
Death Born Still — Lives
© Natasha Sinclair 2020
Written on reflection during ‘The Wave of Light’ 15th October 2020.
A daughter held him, frozen. Imitation of new dead still; only air flowing through functioning lungs. Numb dumb in thought, inaction. Painfilled love for this new grieving orphan. The fallen favourite of a Mothers beloved brood. There would be none of us had she not been; none of his Fatherhood. A tangled barbed root from which we each came. Some blessing amongst much insane. Now there she lay, dead in a bed; frozen slack still. An empty shell; once wishing well. Dead in a bed, not even her own. Eyes pouring in great damming floods; others uncomfortably dry as desert bone. Through strangers’ hands she passes, between arctic fridges of steel. Upon the final spin of the great Mothers wheel; scions on the side-lines awaiting the final reveal. Embalmed, freshly robed in white; encased as a doll in her satin lined box. A gift to the soil never to spoil. © Natasha Sinclair
She’s a tease.
The femme fatale disease.
Gaming with sultry eyes surprise.
Rose lips of fast lies.
Moaning ecstasy in sweet cries.
Throbbing sex lullabies.
She’s a tease to best please.
No sad begging of cheap release.
Call her out, she’ll flagrantly deny.
No longer look you in the eye.
© Natasha Sinclair
“I wouldn’t piss on one if he was on fire.”
She hissed with such venom on each syllable.
That hate was imbedded deep; Men, what was the issue?
Those women married them, bore children to them, birthed them, raised them…
Copulators and mothers of abusive bastards.
Of course, it was her fault. It always was, that doomed double XX.
Such hate being passed through generations.
The kind of hate that rose your heart rate, made your bones grind, made you sweat.
Venomous and bitter more than mere words; the flames licked the air in forked tongue.
Man’s kiss; woman’s curse.
(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved