I was born in a house on fire,
flame like a hand on my mothers throat.
A distaste of ash is left in my mouth
the dust on the wings on moths
pretending, to be butterflies.
The monarchs rise when I meet a man,
they stand to take a knee and bow-
a patriarchal kaleidoscope, swarm or rabble
manifesting itself as bile.

They say that a sensual touch is like a spark,
and man, in me does it start a forrest fire.
Wings beat free from the chrysalises made
by the caterpillars forced down my throat as a child
as they hid from the burning walls.

I don’t know if I can take another cocoon,
my stomach grows hard with string
spun out of copper wire caressing
with it’s sharp points and mutilating scars.

A two year old screaming as flames lick,
she doesn’t know that the world is ablaze.


Holly Anne Harford

The smell of the washing power on my jeans
Is the smell it was when I last kissed you
The sun was burning and cooking me here
And now it’s getting cool again and so am I.
It smells like a thousand years ago,
Like a whole ocean and like spice with a hint of vanilla.
Next time I wash these ill rinse away yet another memory of you
Another thing that pulls your smile to my mind,
And one day they’re won’t be anything there at all.

Jan 22nd 2014 I was scanning old photos today when I found a stack of terribly taken, out of focus photos that were mainly of pets and very uninteresting things. From the look of them these are some of my first ever photos that I would have taken at around age 5

it’s so beautiful
to walk along breathing
in the smell of second-hand smoke
mixed with the cold, fresh air
the natural that has always been
mixed with industrial history 
and the warming chemicals
making clouds in the cold air

this smell reminds me
of so many people
and so many places
and so many selfs 

view over Saudi Arabia 19 December 2013