I want to display the peacock feathers of my mind

What I look like is the least important part about me. Bare physical details will never really get across what makes me, ME. And what I have now in terms of skin matter won’t last but my ideas recorded through writing...... oh, they can outlive me.

Inside me:
Cherries and peaches come at ya to feed you on the intergalactic trip to Ursa Minor, then back down to the Amazon in jaguar form to climb the trees, move on the ground freely and swim the water. To lick the hallucinogenic backs of frogs whilst crawling around naked, to roar and fuck like a lion, to roam with the mountain lions and avoid getting shot by Che, to send Jimi’s arrows of desire back to Jupiter and shimmer, glitter, EXPLODE like a star, a nuclear reaction; STAR BRIGHT, SO LIGHT, STAR LIGHT. To leap over mountains as if they were mere foothills and capture dreams of friends who melt into cats and then burst into a stream of colours. To feel as oblique as ultraviolet shining through a prism seen by a particular type of butterfly in Thailand; to swim, stoned within floating tyres near Buddhist temples where the monks wear dusky red – yet red means cold and is further away from us than the blue ray in the expanding universe of music, but the question is –will it pop before you die?

Do you know what it means to be human?

We haven’t finished yet – we’ve not reached the Sahara Desert yet....

Nothing I write is ‘mad’ because I’m only responding to the fucking insanity of this warped world; when sometimes I feel that popular thinking has had a brain lobotomy and I seethe that Orwellian double speak always sells well. Ruh! Ruh! The word ‘dog’ doesn’t bark. And I only write because no one else will say it for me (except when I quote others out of context).

My sexuality for me is how I think, feel, touch, and experience.... the interaction of the pheromones and a meeting of minds and mutual desires. How I see through my eyes...........
I live it and feel it – no need to be on a stage. You don’t have a monopoly on it. Taste the acid rain.

I can also touch myself in my own right. Or should that be left? I touch these keys........ the closest I’ll come ...... to being the punk poetess that I wanna be. I am the anti-Lady Gaga of words, at least. Take these slices of my brain and try and find the coded ‘female’ in me – the so-called ‘cerebral’ one. Ho, ho, brain cells fire in patterns and if there are 9 genders, I,oh, why is it ‘I’ and not ‘E’ or ‘K’, K? I have at least 3 and I’m trying for the fourth.

I don’t want to suffer delusions; I’ll always try and connect with somebody out there. I create pictures to try and tell the story of how I’m BEHIND the camera, the canvass; the subject and not the object. In my own world and in control.