It picks at her brain slowly unravelling the pieces of her mind that were hidden now the darkness has come to light the putrid smell of depravity clogs her senses burning sulphur the stench so horrific she chokes on her thoughts filling her subconscious with dread and despair the mind like some vicious parasite crawling underneath the membranes of her skull unreachable constant torture her head swelling out of the confines of its straight jacket unable to decipher the origins of this disease she stumbles around in the pitch-black depths of the abyss she has created by drowning her truth unaware of who or what she is anymore lost in the depths of a raging storm she finds solace in its eye watching it all fall down and so destruction looms around her solidifying this fate this descent into desolation but her eyes are fixed on the one above who promises restitution if faith is wielded like a sword yes the breastplate of strength shall protect her and her feet are firmly planted in hope – this is not the end no she will forge a new path a new realm where the light shineth in the darkness and it comprehendeth it not, for we are all given to our choices and free will shall be the curse which leads to our undoing slowly chipping away at our humanity until there is nothing left but blood however it shall be a blessing to those who rise above the primal instincts to slay whether physically or spiritually those who are given to pursuing and inspiring light for they shall reach the promised land and prove that the sky is not the limit when you have wings.

First, I saw your hands as they floated through my door.
How I watched your watch – hands moving, as minutes followed suit,
fingers twirling so fancifully through space, they drew my regard 
and fastened it there in orbit.

A few days later, I noticed your footprints in the snow
and then toes, ankles, nipped red with the cold.
After a week your arms began to form,
arms as delicate as those kissing the shifting hours around us.

I had never seen a metaphor in flesh before.
Then as fragments descended through the eye of ticking time
your brows, half-sketched, the smoke of an ear, 
the echo of a nose, a scent of chin, an unmistakable sense 

of mouth, open and watching and wandering up my own arms, 
my own chest, I perceived your gaze,
the eyes of a wild animal, searching in each crevice of my being
The swift movement that would precipitate flight.

I felt your skin form around my fingertips, your body pooled, 
rippled, enveloped. I heard your teeth grind, 
your lungs sucked air, gasped to life 
and from your lack, your voice began

and in the cage of your ribs, I heard the violence 
of your rabbit-heart, and loved you all the more gently.
You came to me in pieces
And I, with the arrogance of a man 

thought I was putting you together 
when you were fully formed already
You appeared to me in pieces
I just had to take the time to realise

You were something bigger than I was used to comprehending.

When I write, I have to have a playlist.  This came about because I needed to block out my family – lovely though they are – I had to be able to get into my writing groove with a multi-generational LOUD family.  I needed to drown out Gardener’s World on the TV, top pitch, long-distance conversations in Yoruba and whatever the hell computer games my son was shouting at the top of his voice in the back room. Also, with my earphones in, nobody was going to approach me with requests for food, clean clothes, lost keys or any of the other interruptions which are death by a thousand cuts to creative thought.  Or any sort of thought in fact.

So I played music to drown them all out. But soon that music started to reflect the era and characters I was writing. It began to actively help me to get back to the place I needed to be without conscious thought.  I’m currently trying to write a South London trilogy and am on book two.  The first book was set during lockdown and in the seventies through flashback.  In the seventies, my characters were part of the sound system, blues party era and my playlist was Gregory Isaacs, Bob Marley, with a sprinkling of Peter Tosh, Janet Kay and Carroll Thompson. The song that was the motif for one couple was ‘Extra Classic’ by Gregory Isaacs and for the other, even though they were a different generation, it was ‘No Woman, No Cry’ by Bob Marley. 

My current book is set in the nineties and the present day. This time I intentionally started with a Nineties club classics playlist with bangers such as Show Me Love by Robin S. Missing  (Todd Terry Club Mix) by Everything but the Girl, Killer by Adamski etc and then there are multiple songs for my main couple – Lost in Space by Lighthouse Family, Angel by Shaggy, You’re No Good by Aswad and Here Comes the Hotstepper by Ini Kamoze.  Throw in M People the whole best of Lighthouse Family Album and a whole lot more Club Classics especially Ebeneezer Goode by The Shamen and You’re Not Alone by Olive and you get the aural landscape.

 
A mother this morning, no title this evening
She screamed “it’s not true, please just come home”.
 
Her father breaks down, there’s nowhere to go,
Did she ever know, she was his home.
 
Her bed lies empty, with unopened presents,
The smell of her perfume, from her last time at home.
 
Could she have seen, how much she was missed  
Would she be gone, or this time come home?
 
That frightful call, still echoes in my head,
“She passed away this morning, she’s not coming home”
 
You never think, it’ll happen to you
‘til you one day come home, to a now empty home.
 
She’ll never get to feel, what it’s like to be free,
To go off to uni and move out of home.
 
She’ll never get the chance, to walk down the aisle,
Have her own children, and build her own home.
 
The pain left behind, will never be healed,
Her separated parents try to build their new homes.
 
Why did you go? Too late to ask,
Life must go on, in a now empty home.
 
My partner in crime, my friend till the end,
I’ll miss your sweet laughter, filling my home.
 
But tonight when I see you, you’ll tell me again
I’m sorry I hurt you, but now I am home.

I remember when needles only grew from pine trees. 
When the scent of the earth was sweet 
and I could taste the dew drops on my tongue 
standing in the backyard
of another house I grew up in. 

I remember when I'd fight sleep. 
When I’d count the fireflies outside my window
begging to stay awake with them
as if i’d miss some firework show 
like the ones we’d watch on the fourth of July. 

I remember when my only scars were from scraped knees and paper cuts. 
Before I felt the bitter hands of wrath
for now I have two
and they remind me everyday
that I am not who I was. 

I remember when I felt something more than this. 

When I felt the warmth of the sun in august.
And lit the last sparklers of the summer. 
When i felt the grass under bare feet 
dancing in the darkness. 

When I felt like I could breathe 
and i didn’t have to heave every time 
I look at what I've become. 

I remember the sky  
the twilight, the dawn, the sunsets, the stars 
before colours faded to grey
to black. 

I remember when I wasn’t like this 
I remember 
when I felt there was something.