Be Softly Website

Music, Video, Writing. Based in Bristol, UK

Soft of Lover's Silk

Holding tweezers you pull in long lines
vein’s burst blossom. Waxed thread
with feather frayed petal ends wound delicately
in neat coils, spooled around dried bone,
placed in lines by sharp needles
to stitch pulsing openings.

Collecting eyelashes from our floor
you dress my naked eyes.
“These will hold your tears,” you say
each word orange scented, drying beads of glue.

In glass jars: the milk and oil I’ve vomited,
labels with the dates and holes they fell from.
“I am heavy with you, my body bloated and swollen.
My hands are now full and you have spilt dark puddles.”

I think of how many times you have collected me,
linen rags wringing tight knots to drip me back
into lip-lined holes.

How with each kiss you fill atrophied lung that hangs
torn tissue across the cracks of each sun bleached rib.

I see the tin box filled with anger spat teeth.
I remember how cotton studded gums
dragged against scabbed tongue
and you would kneel, silk fingers
cold against the inside of my cheek.

Washing sadness dried purple from bruised palms
I lean into the pool above your fingers.
My eyes drink in laps, each lash ending in salt pearls
until with wet face I see each blistered knuckle
reaching out.

This close I can feel your chest and I am your blood
in each thin arm, pulled towards your heart across
my back. I am each collected piece you have saved,
loved in parts while shapeless.

Your warmth dries out my wounds and I am sorry
for the stains I will leave behind.

Philosophical Idiot

Music by Poisonous Birds
Video by Mike Abbott

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Web: Poisonous Birds Artwork: Georgina Hounsome

Directed by David Aragon
Starring Sydne Lucille Blackshear & Walter Mongin
Shot at The Refuge, Appleton WI
Music by Be Softly

When I Email My Poems to People I Like Their Tweets Hoping It Will Help My Submission

when I was 12 years old a friend hit me in the face because I was bullying him

(I have never told anyone that, I do however tell people about how I was bullied for being overweight at the same age)

I think I deserve to be hit in the face more often, but adults are less likely to do things like that

when I tell the truth about dishonest behaviour I expect to be forgiven for my bravery

(this is because my mother always told me I would be in more trouble for lying than anything else I could have done)

today I am back home and I won’t see anyone else until tomorrow and no one has punched me in the face

I think for now, I am safe.

Philosophical Idiot

Music by Poisonous Birds
Video by Isla Badenoch and Poisonous Birds

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Web: Poisonous Birds Artwork: Georgina Hounsome

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here is a twitter thread about the books i’ve been reading:

i am 27 & i have been trained to feel more accomplished when i have notifications on my phone than when i do absolutely anything else.

i only seem to move places when my phone has red battery
& i can’t find a plug.

i spend more time wanting strangers on the internet to love me
than i spend time doing anything that i’d include on my dating profile bio.

i go to cafes and buy coffee even though it tastes very bad
& the coffee at home tastes good and costs me less money.

just so i can sit quietly,

to read my phone with a book open on my lap, or on the table, or on the other chair — face down.

when i am at home i sit on my phone too,
with all my books closed in my bookcase
& i text new friends about how

i love to read.

when i am 28 i will still want strangers to love me through the internet
(vomiting their little white numbers on red balloons across my screen).

today a parcel arrived with a book from america
i hope the author retweets my photo.

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Artwork: Sophie Davis

A Feast of Shattered Glass

From the gutter you collect handfuls of hammered safety glass,

overstuffing your open mouth with fists of rock-salt popcorn.

A heavy snow of green cubes falls through thick red

with teeth tumbling, cut loose from rotten gums.

Jawing car’s crushed ice, one million brilliant edges

behind feathered lips, a cave of raw diamond flesh.

A feast of shattered glass, loose asphalt and bottle caps

feeding that anxious static –– terror-choked, hissing.

From new holes, hot pressure pushes blood-filled voices.

Screams ripple to gurgles over studded tongue.

Dark-chipped marbles stare wet as you drain.

That infinite panic echo pulses out of gaping sugarcoated wounds,

a forgotten silence returning as fingernails drag over

yellow painted lines and overflow drains.

You bend and flow inside out,

vomiting smoke-stained filters and meat-hooked rubies under wheel arches.

But there is no lover to pull these splinters,

with plump painted lips to suck clean your wounds.

No thin fingers to reach inside and stitch together your tongue,

to place each crushed tooth in sagging gum with seams of gold.

You will stand leaving brain’s black tar hardening.

A bloodless lightness.

There can be no more talking.

Philosophical Idiot

Video: Wild Child Studios
Poem and spoken word: Sam Pink
Music: Be Softly

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Artwork poem and spoken word: Sam Pink

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Web: Poisonous Birds

Until There Was No More Flesh to Grip

We drag barbed hooked happiness through rock pools blossoming red coral sharpness,

a hard blue choking back blood freezing razor ribbons held tight between held hands.

Falling against wet fingers, ripping soft palms.

Our eyes taste bone’s whiteness before the scab.

1000 year’s marbled warmth unloved against fragile fists.

Bent toothed knuckles cracking tear ducts; pooling hot love smeared.

My mouth screamed throated sobs and from your pockets handfuls of my hair

still wet from the shower.

Bloodshot black eyes bruised by heavy kisses to bandage neglect of when you needed flesh to grip

and I was sheeted flint cracking from the weight of wet breath.

You clear clouded eyes with a rolled sock from our floor and through the hole in your body,

a new space that is unchanged except for the cavity of each point with your shape.

We rip a square of skin from the soft lined flesh under our eyes.

I fold you delicately to place in the damp under tongue and taste you with every kiss.

In dark rooms new loves hold my bones under your skin and my hands end with your fingertips.

We fall hard rocks crashing from white foam and bite down fierce misplaced lust cracking shards.

You are,

long after I’m bleached and picked clean by passersby.

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Video by David Aragon
Music by Be Softly

Video by David Aragon
Music by Be Softly

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