Category Archives: STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS COLLECTION

Flying woman

No one knew of the flying woman

No one knew if she would fall

No one knew she hovered above

Watching those who stumbled on the cobbles after painting the town red hoping for a bloody breast to fill their stomache one night more.

Free range chickens -motherless

Hoping that no proud rooster would make an early morning call

For one night peace could be theirs thanks to the flying woman they found spread out

Life is mostly forlorn.

Sinners are the reason martyers exist ?

Render me unfaithful

Eternal sin stains noir shades on my skin

grief knocks at my door with a leash in his hand

reads me my rights, instructions of the feelings I will parade with a downcast glare remember this moment of shame – remember the touch of the unfamiliar intimacy

Emotions torn from the sacred part Please don’t stare

Turn your eyes away -oh shame sit down I have lost my dignity – the grace to care

sinners are the reason the saints are adorned with absolute conviction in Believers prayers

(a stream of consciousness writing prompt 10 line poem REGRETS Poems_For_Life

Titivate to titilate

When

She is in the mood to arouse you and She wants you to reciprocate.

She has a technique she uses to spruce up her petals.

inject a colour dye

No doctors needed to take an oath

No need to hang dry and desiccate.

All she desires is to tempt you with her words.

She looks upon them as her Fire stoked Lords.

Simple and overused is tedious when used as commoner slurs.

So titivate is something She does.

It doesn’t require a zazen mind state to create an immediate demand for 1950 style Fords.

Take a dust feather to your ear, tickling it ever so slightly, a murmured breathe escapes – to let you know she is quite eager and indeed keen.

Arouse you with whispers of sweet adjectives.

Use words that excite you to shudder instinctively.

Now She needs to make herself seen.

Fluttering eyelashes – butterfly kisses.

Sensual and cute -tempting yet blissfully innocent.

Pure and light and dreamy enough to set your imagination to seek out. Whatever is in that mind of yours…

She wants you to know She finds you alluring

magnificent.

Which of your senses does she wish to tease out the most?

The ones that arouse mental fuckability from an agile, graceful host.

Often she craves a tidy up just to try out something new.

Freshen the vibe up.

Create dribbles from your lush dew.

Bubbles have more of more a rambunctious appeal.

Invite a sense of pure, exquisite fun

Her mind seeks out to imbue.

So to titillate you, she has to titivate herself.

Seems rather rueful

Please be curious about what she has in her mind –

Truth is her middle name.

Look by all means.

Dare is the name she gave to herself when she was born.

Feel free to question her too.

She speaks in orgasms when someone can make her laugh with their wit or indeed see a sparkle of hers thrown our carefree and unconsciously.

successful relationships are a honed practised recipe inciting those who have an inkling or some fledgeling clue.

Where SOCS

Where were the people when I needed them

Were they where I left them?

Did the full moon transform them into werewolves

In a warehouse coveted to me?

Why wear the fur of the monstrosity of nature?

Or are humans wary that they need some creature to poach so they can reach the clouds ?

Were this a poem,

A parable of wear and tear

I’d gladly state my animosity wherever it would state:

I’m a human feral.

A token to the lost parade

Share the flag of those who ask where to care and when!

The one where I said f*** binging

Safe guarding warfare

How could you disguise  that face smothered in disgrace
By attempting to console me with that  condescending utterance: I could have held the EHA behind your back.

MY BACK!

The SS goose stepping all sloppy like they were in an Augustan rain parade.
The Gods mercifully laugh at the man below who believes he’s a Demi
Demon suckling off the maleficent mede milk of Zeus’s pseudo mother’s

udders.
Others like you Bongaard with your safe guarding a half littered candle of conscience.

Once philosophers sparked off concubines thesis in riddles.

Ticking off the boxes-she says, Flicking those remnant ticks off her manky teeth whilst she puffs and huffs out the front door.
Who do I talk to when I’m feeling mentally incapacitated ejaculating seems too complex to grasp?

  Bongaard can only gasp: Well, me of course, I’m your CPN.

She gestures to her limp, matted ginger vapid soul.
I’ll close the door behind you . Don’t bother I think, Insipid to the core if you can found them in that mass of fleshy ,ginger ,ruddy rotund-she’s invented a new geometric shape-I can’t help but watch her in unbelievable awe


Cos I know she daren’t turn back to gaze at a face that was and could still be hers if she didn’t have a profession to safe guard her. (roll of the eyes — only cos I need to lubricate my contact lenses) .

I’m not going to let her see me cry again.
Every session I hear her garbled muzzled diatribe  about her life,
her pain,
her suffering,
her gains,
her shames,
her pains;
her issues!
Bongaard, you are paid 24 K a year to do a job — shut your gob or do I have to show you where I hide the flipping cookie dough cream tub?

Find out how your’e gonna help me top help myself. I can’t do it alone I’m on both knees . How many suicide attempts do you have to sit through or read about or eat over with your unintelligible mind-space app and you archaic DBT clod splash therapy How many more gesticulations do I have to avert my perverted gaze because you blatantly cannot see.

The greatest heartache is the tears doubting this won’t be my last breathe my grande plan will find me in a goldie locks bed-wide awake , Paramedic-dejavu -ing that I gulet myself to A&E to get checked out.
Not in this state

of mind,

though

I still think  that ole Gemma is kind not like Rachel nor bongaard.
Gemma is divinity  at the cusp  of this dastardly  escapade-an epitome of life.

Flashback: Crisis team! trello that treble holler, I’m, feeling suicidal again 7 days coma near to death suicide

You’ll be fine, dearie, I’ll just put the receiver of these words out in the gutter with my ethics.

An outline silhouette frowns ready  to break his idle  bones
A lingering   chapati scent of a glazed woman longing to dance amounts the misfits in her town.

Welcome home-I love that sign — that font so silent so serene.
Solemn stare
You don’t care, my better half a Achilles heel screams spittle into the wounds I hold in infested band aids.

For another moment I feel ashamed-eyes don’t know wether to look at that piece of lint on the stairs or raise mine to give him a stand off that he would never attempt to stir the birth of all my misery that I can’t regulate my emotions even if it would stop my heart beat- finally

The fastitious musty gut butt dances in a disorder darned fashion Disintegrates the log piles.

The fire is gone . Yet, I cry for I felt it-a smudge on my morning complexion Yet, I cry for I am half doused by that arrow tic carved matchstick.

The archer

the poison

the apple

the madness

the fruit frilled guilt lasts as long as the hem of these petty coated words promoting the warfare of safe guarding our children in a bed ridden world based on a frame of text books.

The colony

My faith was tested by the colony

The cross bore into my chest like multiple sessions of ECGS

I thought I had forgotten what it was to feel like an honest me!

The strength of survival of the fittest

Compelled hope to flee

Or save me

My choice

Brainwashed for a profit

A racquet

Insidious to true inequality

I’m here

I’m an insurgent

Indulgently

Indignant to all the two faced flags

Denying

denoting

Independent thought

For the books to be written

of/

Off

philosophy

Clouded the dogma that corrupts those who believe in their infallibility

Water – a drop

A drop.

A drop.

A drop

Do not judge me

For my sapling survival

a birth of a scape goat to inscribe the words of a free spirit

With no country

I claim as my own

I am who I choose as my identity

Borderless

No government

No political movement can discriminate against my spirit

For I denounce those who cannot see the truth

In front of them

even when they kneel

Before nature

The only divine death

With nothing to face.

Sincerely,

The unknown scripture of abandonment sans fear

Again

My husband slept on the floor again.

My daughter slept out away from home

Again

I stayed upstairs in our kingsize bed

All alone

Again

I’m beginning to detest the word again

Again.

It’s a kind of Magic

Behold, the black witch inside her!
“For one day she will realize her true powers to the full and command her random intents.
And, so the ‘magic’ of her possession will  will cause the chaos to come,all those toxic around her will tumble.

Bruised and scarred
They will all roll away.

The witch inside her will turn in on  herself and become a tiny black , pincered  scorpion. If she is  arrested under a great ultra light she will glow.
Yes, she will  glow fluorecently so, and  appear other worldly and of  exceptional brilliance. That is when she will  decide  sting herself to the death.

The End

Or  not….
maybe   she will  use her power to create ‘real magic’ that sings with a beating heart-one full of  love and acceptance.

This. Is.The. End.
Doors close.

Bears in man cuff

Walking with man cuffs round the 4 edges of these walls

and every reflection i gaze into

Al I see is those beaten ,bloody paws

the ones that climb into me even when i scream out

I am worth more.

I seek for a relief from this constant itching to feel sweet relief for a few hours

I long for a moment when I can look in the mirror and not see a pair of eyes lower and cowers .