I got caught in the rain again.
I let it drizzle down on me.
Eventually it started to gently pelt my face.
I didn’t run for shelter this time.. I just stood there
next to that tree.
I gazed up to the sky and smiled up.
I’m the defiant one who knows my place in nature.
I knew I was still winning. ‘Fake it until I make it ‘
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
These are slogans I told myself to believe I wasn’t drowning. Inebriated by the sobriety of our existence . Is that an oxymoron of life ?
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.
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
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,
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
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.
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 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.
I drank a lot today
It read back to me like it was poetry
I woke up yesterday
Some other day
And the words hung over me like a scorpion waiting for a punch line to pass onto it’s ancestors
A bloody Mary
Dog of the hair
These words aren’t poetics until
I glare at that question
Maybe another time?
I’ve tried to epitomise my mom-in a few words. No easy feat to do.
a la mode
a Panache for transforming a lifeless neck scarf into an haute couture piece -an eye for detail that makes you a formidable fashionista Godsend.
Finesse in all you do: from baking bananas loaf’s salad Nicoise or cauliflower cheese.
Woe, the day a chef attempts a bake-off with you for he’d lose his hat, all his stars and wail, mamma Mia what a mistake ah I make a. I must have caught some disease.
Self-sufficient -you can lift your bed on your own, fix your dryer, paint your home, fix the boiler. Your tenaciousness growls especially when your body dares groan: please take it slow!
Talented at reinvigorating my moods with that eccentric, warped wit.
An example: the time you thought it would be fun to pay for me to get my entire face threaded. You laughed at my pain.
I love our giggles-the side-splitting snorts are hilarious to watch and hear. It takes me back to our flare nostrils days. Who could make each other laugh first?
Your loyalty towards me astounds me, your unwavering love for me confounds me, your forgiveness impels me,
Life gives us many hard knocks -your heart nor face betrays your past pain. It reveals your altruistic complexion. A reflection of your heart. When you give you to do so freely without seeking to gain.
I’m in awe of your spiritual journey. You think I’m not remotely interested in your opinions & sentiment. Your faith is truly remarkable- a tangible contrast to your ethereal temperament.
Remember how you tell me to straighten my crown, the world is in the palm of my hand?
Remember numbers do not define a person’s character, beauty or ability to achieve greatness. I see the talent and potential within you. You should/could become an interior decorator. No age or number can dictate your dreams, hopes, aspirations and goals. The skies the limit.
Happy Birthday, mom.
I love you xxxx
My cow bells are a little bit off par
My serenade seemingly won’t separate the stars
Trees won’t surround my natural state of being.
Everything I feel
My inner sight.
I’m meant to be singing a stream of consciousness of my inner plight
To gloat I’m on another planet.
If only I knew how to consistently cope
In this moment
In this dimension
I might have a bit of hope.
A full fleshed 3 D character would awash with the flostam
Starting from the Knee deep creeping up to reveal my fragile throat.
I’m you, man.
You are me, men and women.
We’re all floating in the same boat.
In water we still get soaked.
A place we try to fathom
stake as our own.
If not to deem ours authentically
Then atleast to titillate to titivate
With a decorum of sensuality
Aaaaaaaaargh! I have been putting off this post for a while. I mean the one guy
You were the first real man I knew not some boy but a real man.
I tell myself I have dealt with the indifference. Yet, as soon as I find a way to make contact again. I let all my pride go and open my heart and soul to you. I do it publicly on social media websites. I end up looking pathetic but I don’t care.
I post things like:
I hope you will forgive me one day so we can build up a better relationship
or I tag you hoping you will comment back.
I am looking after your queen. I won’t let you down.
I comment on those silly quizzes you do that pop up on Facebook, like
WHAT NATIONALITY SHOULD YOU BE? –
ME: You got you look like a Spaniard – haha! funny I got I should be American (silence)
New comment from a friend: I got Portuguese
You to friend : you look Portuguese
I don’t want anything from you . Okay that is a lie. I only want a bit of your time, a few words once a few years.
She warned me not to go there again. I wasn’t prepared to have my heart broken again.Well, not broken but pumping with less voracity than before.
I know I wasn’t the most affable of characters all those years back. I mean what did I know at 12, 15 years old? 24 years old ? Not much.
Yet, that was when you first turned your back on me.
I know I have mental health issues and to you it’s all just,
DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA
A heads up? It’s not been a fucking picnic or tropical island holiday for me either.
Do you ever think about me?
What do you feel when you look at a picture of me? Do you look at pictures of me?
Are you so distant with everyone? We’ve been drunk and stoned together and you are a legend at Karaoke . Over the years, I have seen how you make everyone laugh…
Why don’t you talk to me when I Skype? I know I fall way down the bottom of the hierarchy chain of the many girls in your life.
To have a slice of your heart…
Well, of what is left to give. Is that what it is? You haven’t got any more heart to give?
I don’t want much… a few words, a phone call – no maybe that is too much..
Okay ,what about a teeny tiny interest in my life on social media perhaps… You live so far away and it’s my only source of contact.
Why do you reply to other peoples comments on what you post but not mine?
Why don’t you reply to my emails?
I’m not bad. I’m actually a fucking awesome person. Why can’t the past stay where it is.
Don’t judge me.
I don’t judge you.
I thought I had closed the door on ever having a chance with you again. I opened it again three months ago,, feeling we were in a more equal position. Me being older and you being older – wiser they say..
Never mind, I have googled the meaning for indifference again and read it out loud,to remind myself.
I can’t make you love me or want to contact me. I know you are going through hard times – if you must know-
we all do .
Maybe if you decided to chat properly with me I could make you laugh. We may find out we have more in common than you think.
Done with this post. Finally got it out of my head. I can move on again.
I am an adult and I choose to be happy.
I don’t resent you.
I am curious to know you.
I am sure if you let me closer, you would find I actually like you and love you- unconditionally.
But it is cool.
You are over there and I am over here.
Living our lives.
Your blood runs through my veins.
Nothings changed and that is cool too.
Indifference it is then, dad.
Lo and behold!
(A slightly dramatic introduction). However, it’s inspired me to write about my recipe for kindness. I went to pick up B from school and she thrust a pamphlet in my hand.
It’s magic,mom! Ok , I realised the reason she thinks it is magic:it is a map that requires a powerful
ancestor with a great recipe to fold it back up to it’s neat , once untouched form.
The theme: believe in yourself! I read this first activity and realised I need to do this activity more than my daughter does.
Kindness. Why not bake a cake of kindness ? Add your own ingredients?
If I had to bake my own cake of kindness this is the recipe:
4 TBSP’s of no shit taken off people who don’t reiprocate your kindness wirh the respect you value.
A generous helping of be kind to those you say no to.
3 drops of mouth sealant essence. We are born with 2 ears and 1 mouth.
Surely listening and then (filtering our words) answering is a better way of communicating because responding is more effective than reacting. Reacting is reactive. Too many reactions can become radio active. An explosion and a recipe for an unkindly disaster.
4x cherries dipped in sherbet (tart and sweet) to remind myself and others that I can be sweet most of the time but if my sweetness means they forget to sugar their cake then they may lose all of their teeth when I sweetly give them another tangy aftertaste they aren’t expecting.
The icing can’t be too fussy or too messy. Plenty colouring of all the colours I can find in my kitchen to show my values and beliefs respect all cultures, religions, genders and the rest.
1 x candle lit in the middle of the cake. So, that people who are tempted to indulge in my recipe for kindness, remember that my kindness cake will lose charm and taste if the candle dies out by being watered down or worn down with unproductive critism, respect for the effort I put into making a cake of kindness.
A solid sponge base with the ability to absorb peoples different opinions and views. It will be slightly dry to convey my dry sense of humour. Add a dollop of butter or cream ( adjust portion as needed) to subtly suggest a flavour that reminds other people that my kindness is an act based in reality My reality. Oh, and a degree of sympathy /empathy at the very least.
My dry remarks and after taste can be tempered by adjusting the measures of butter and cream to soften my natural essence of character.
The final impression I would want to leave with baking a kindness cake is :I accept that we all have different tastess and degrees of what a great kindess cake tastes like. I promise not to take another slice of another person’s kindess if it doesn’t conform to my ideals of the perefect cake. I don’t expect to force fed others another slice of my kindess if it doesn’t suit them.
My pain is an insufferable spurt of growth as your own
If I led you into my darkness
Would you you identify me as your own?
Or dispose of me if I were to say no?