She’s must be a fraud. Disconnected to this world
a caricature of a human.
An imposter civilian of society – a living entity to her dismay incapacited to disappear
always chased back in this race -the rush
It’s marathon pace she detests
The First in line to devour the despo’s discarded crusts.
Her washed out hat mirrors
Her bottom lip
Scrutinizing the clouds wafting by.
Human puppets strung up
A reason to carry on the charade?
Compelled by the hypnotic pull pulsating with a love song serenading the humanity of heart.
If you know how to love you know how to live
If you know how to live you know how to love
A stolen sign
whilst awoken waiting on directions for heaven’s gates
Run out of fuel
words condemned ?
soul ( emaciated)
Fated E Lated Disorderly
Dispose these written words
To an insincere society.
The mardi gras lives within
a breathe wren
Sightless strumpet life (insert your own GIF)
Demanding hymn for those
Singing pslams to the prejudice
Justified :those folk who missed the nearest fire exit.
He can’t bear to look at me.
I hate your nose – it’s bulbous, broken
by his nemesis circa 2017.
It blows. It’s flat. It stinks. It’s fat.
It’s a face he doesn’t want to know.
If he knew how close I am to snubbing him
It will show up in a bloody knife responsible for cutting off his honker.
Noise pollution-snoring slovenly.
I should be asleep!
3am is a bit late for a distorted nose disfigured by his hatred for gluttony
If he hates this nose
If he detests to look at me with an impoverished plea , why won’t you up and leave me?
I need to change!
Don’t we all. Happiness resides in our very own core.
I love you , do what you need to do. Thank God it’s friday.
I’ve gone off fish -is he interested in this snivelly, snotty news?
No, he’s confused.
What do you want if money was unlimited?
There’s not limit to further your happiness
Depart from those dirty, tinted glasses
Depart from the lady you thought you once knew
You’ve outgrown her dance. Your silence is more than a clue
The confrontational snoring . I want to bludgeon him with out further ado
Who really blew it, God knows! to hell with his slumbered shout – the only form of commication he can muster or do.
The lack of reciprocation.
The lack of effort.
The lack of indecisiveness
Start again .
Change is a fearless beast for many rather than the few.
Guilty as charged.
Perceptive-on my guard.
Make a choice. Don’t sit on the unmade bed. Your freedom is self made. Doubt starts in the mind.
Who has the highest score?
Perhaps if I took my sleeping tablets I’d have drifted into my haze
Tonight I’m the monster awake with a the unsightly nose.
God only knows why his zen state lie soley with me changing my all.
He snores and snores doesn’t know what he wants. He’s his own boat with a chance to carve out oars.
Right, that’s it I’m going to get the carving knife
I’m going to cut off his nose then we’ll see if we indeed reap what we sew.
What a carry on.
Blow after blow
A mindless hedge untrimmed unkempt. Shut up I’m the one who knows.
A charlie chaplin lost in translation
He mimes in waking moments
Dictates his Hitler speech in the hours of slumber
Separate the whites from the yolk.
I’m out of here. He’s bleeding profusely.
You heard nothing but the snores of a sloth.
It’s up to me to disappear. The ugly nose is a no show.
My husband slept on the floor again.
My daughter slept out away from home
I stayed upstairs in our kingsize bed
I’m beginning to detest the word again
Walked out my front door
First time in 5 days, I turned right for a change of scenery chucking out the rubbish – the highlight of this today
Beneath my feet the concrete was still grey
My demeanour resembled the bland council houses unimaginative choice of decorating on the cheap -resembles a prison … whatever . No , I’m done rhyming today.
What prompts these feathered words typed and on display – a bird not in flight
Wings tinged with blue a sorrowful sight to see no fight
Eyes bright with dew dawn light.
Eyes screetching victoriously: I found the worm special of the day!
How do I say , justify , describe the way my heart swooned the wrong way. I looked up at the sky thankful for the first time in many for it’s consistant rays.
A distraction , a rouse – I knew it was dead . I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t move him onto a more dignified path. I was afraid he’d come back to life.
Circled around him in a hesitantly callous way
How dare he interrupt a quiet walk-the first in almost a week from sunday?
Did I imagine it semi flutter whilst I walked past him with my bin liner full of litter ?
I profess to love watching those with wings -airborn soaring . I’m envious in away. A speculating visual painting adorned with glittered hues , proof that life moves in every way.
I confess I have a phobia of dead birds. Past memories of one I wasn’t able to save in my childhood
Direction moved me to walk the other way from a lifeless soul left to rot on a staircase.
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.
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.
Sometimes life seems like all buckets and spades
And pensioners in rain jackets.
Until you look up
Dazzled by a spectrum that makes up your rainbow.
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.
A smudge, a mark on those dissident souls who dared enrage the olypiums with a cry for mercy.
Crimes captured in , mud clay, paint , words, thoughts , emotions – indulged passions strewn over Bacchus shrine.
A brief Collison
The Thunder bolts,
The snow blizzards,
bows, illuminating deities with human mannerisms scowling stares
A Compelling spectacle – a free fall for all denied access to an Olympian banquet
Persephone lingers loftily draped in a seed sewn solemn shawl
This sabbatical reunion reveals her true fabric fertile & willing to share.
Soiled sapian of sand doomed to a prom thesis saloon for the forgotten , the abandoned
a gumboot dance off -The patron muse of Genocide –
Our namesakes never forgotten.
Latin ized, hubri sized, hibridized, sacrificed, sodomized.
Sacrificial slaughterhouse our ancestors offered up our mothers, sons and daughters
Faith a wake for piles upon piles of ignorance a holocaust of corpses cremated on the pyres of unknown sires
Faith adrift the bells and whistles promised to those lovers lost to the after life
The dichotomy of lace.
We shouldn’t be afraid to reach our full potential in life and blossom. Yet we do. Are we so scared of decay and rot and to be forgotten?
Seems that way.
We must not fight what and whom we were born to be.
Why do I have to pick the one tree that I love, over all the other ones, that is only with us briefly?
A blossom tree
I wanted to get married under one. There is something so ethereal about them when I see them at the height of their beauty.
The moment they seem most exquisite is when they are closer to death than life.
I see the beauty in death.
I see the beauty in life.
I researched what the Blossom tree has been used for as a symbol.
In Japan, in world war 2,
It became the symbol of patriotism to the Japanese people.
They too see how fleeting life is. All the more to live it with great deep breaths and with as much gusto and energy as one can.
What does piss me off is the propaganda the government spread around beliefs of the blossom tree.
As poetic as it sounds: It is said that people were encouraged to believe that when the souls of warriors died, they came back as blossom flowers.
A lovely notion but this is on a par with Roman rhetoric. It is a manipulation and I hate seeing the words – Nature and manipulation standing together.
But can the two exist without the other?
I think, let flowers live and be what they are.
Let us humans live and be what we are.
Humans with a heightened awareness of the fragility of life,
are the ones that put the humane inhumaneness.
We don’t need to be any other but ourselves to stand out and be beautiful.
Look how magnificent we look when we coexist with nature.
Appreciate what we have today.
Our beauty in all its manifestations from the second we shine never leaves us -not even in physical death.
It does transform.
Transformation is not a bad thing.
Revel in each one.
Always closer to death but rocking the Wabi-Sabi philosophy.
“Wabi-sabi reminds us that we are all transient beings on this planet—that our bodies, as well as the material world around us, are in the process of returning to dust.
Nature’s cycles of growth, decay, and erosion are embodied in frayed edges, rust, liver spots. Through wabi-sabi, we learn to embrace both the glory and the melancholy found in these marks of passing time.”
Beautiful because I am withered.