🥀 A Collection of Poems by 🥀 Sally A Mortemore To be a poet is a condition, not a profession. Robert Graves If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as…

‘ … a lifetime of loathsome deceit’ — she will bleed on the inside each inch of her child’s flesh un-sanctified by brackish waters no baptism blue lips silenced by the tide her tangle of clothes tossed across juvenile bones where pain rests submerged on driftwood and buried…

‘ … her love the one thing only which keeps the whole alive.’ — “This is the even-handed dealing of the world!” he said. “There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!” Charles Dickens In this 21st Century ... Play In this 21st Century ... from Sally Mortemore. Play audiobooks and excerpts on SoundCloud desktop and mobile.soundcloud.com

Thrifty Words 100 Challenge #89: ‘Discover Me’ — look for me down some rabbit hole climbing up my own arse of words sniffing out the crass from the banal or the insanely self-obsessed, endeavouring to be discovered. what is the difference between Whitman and…

‘ … when home fires glow their warmth across those seasonably ingratiating hearths.’ when fires burnt their final embers all warmth cooled under the heavy weight of loss my innocence was told to smile and bury grief inside an empty house of wordless sighs…

‘… a soft descent of tissued-particles floating in slow motion …’ — the seagulls fly through cracks in torn-down windows. invisible screeches catching on glass. their avian feathers in mind’s-eye only. for this room creaks with age. locked in flocks of mired-angels. wings still beating. but for now. incapable of flight. eyes tire…

‘the water-colours pool in tones of melancholy …’ — ‘Such fearlessness exists only in the complete calm that can no longer be shaken by events expected of the future … Hence the only valid tense is the present, the Now.’ Lost and Found — Hannah Arendt the water-colours pool in tones of…

‘… blood scaling my skin in razor-like flames.’ — the school gates push shut and the last car rumbles the cobbles. panels painted green. the green of my tweed’d blazer. stranded. under the mansion porch. waiting. as the clock strikes on. each hour of abandonment. forgotten me. my mother. forgotten her five…