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Princess of nothing

You meant the world to me once,

but I never really owned up--

except in that badly written note I almost

wished I'd fed to a goat.


I may have browsed your new profile by mistake,

making out from pixelled shadows

a back-lit halo and your

kinky grin of fallen angel.


I used to watch, smitten,

as you handled by the edges,

those inky polaroids,

taken without my consent--

our heads crudely painted out --

all for the good of art, you said.


I was your Eve, but you turned me cruelly.

I became a serpent on legs

eager to slink beneath your thick skin--

but I never did find out if you were rotten to the core.


How I hungered to feel your pulse quicken

against the fleshy coils of my measured death-clinch--

but I spared you in the end,

let you go back to that settled life.


I'm down to the very last relic--

a stranded shimmer of unplayable tape,

hooked into a figure of eight.

But no doubt I'll see you in my dreams--

a paler version, standing just the other side

of the golden mean,

your pencil raised in admiration

of my serpentine line.


She takes a sideways look,

pouting towards the abstract plant pot,

while in the pink corner,

dolly legs straddle a beach ball--

exposed below bikini line, a rash

of signature benday dots.




         lives on the South coast of England and writes poetry and short stories and is currently working on a novel which she describes as 'a wreck of a perfect work of chick-lit'.

Check out her writing and drawings here.

Lise Colas

Lise Colas

Bright young things from Islington

stroll the neat perimeters,

exchanging linear glances in the


glare of shape-shifting sorbet


Her empty face stares into space,

and somewhere lost inside is the intent,

gliding between the edges of the


in uncertain procession--

Princess of Nothing.

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