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Squwark sounds byte

https://youtu.be/9Gc4QTqslN4

 

Shake it

… shake it baby

prompting

This

Behaviour.

Uptempo Keys

unsilence the drama

a

hip-pity

a happy Russian Soviet bass choir impersona

caricature

I can’t rap

But I do

got flow

70% water — can’t make this shit up…

Scientists don’t discriminate-

Updated stream filled in

by today’s  quantified current

His-

the premier

First and foremost a muse of note —

scale down the scratch post

lude blues.

Look

Above

common clouds count in beats

search for a pulse in

Metropolis  Metronome

Vinylise –

no more inches to add to her form

other than to

intro- apple -genuisly feed

a podcast

 worthy for  wonderlands flowers to perform ?

‘mo brain mo crane’

Fly to the East

Sigh to the West

side with the South

Hustle with the true north.

Whatever get’s these words out

If this  riff sounds willowy

Shucks,Throw in a hillbilly

 Sound squwarks

Splat!

doo wee

doo wop

Guess what?

ain’t apologising for being an invader of my own  rythmic space.

R. iveting

I.nsightful

P.ost

ha ha when you cha cha.

It’s dead.

‘it’s gone,Gym’

Giblets strutting down this street.

Shake a tail feather to those with the Harmonised Harlem shufflers feet.

Footwork.

Intro

Outro

vitro –

Dutch flowers

chiming the bell

toll

Modest mouse  slam beatbox a  scat cat.

improvise the blues in fluent meow-skies —

Stop.

Hammer time

Tell her where she lost the plot?

The living aint easy

life hint

Where is she at?

doing the wriggle worm , 8 years young

thinking ,

maybe I’m a kid ‘— kidders rights to think

‘maybe I am shit hot.’

Impervious to the nonsense .

Tolerate her apparent nonchalance.

wind down tempo

No more Scratching ideas  shape throw your hands in the air

Hit, publish —

have no shame telling people move on to another cloud

Your content is your own  style and flair.

Sometimes you gotta groove the ghetto to let up some get up and get some get go.

 

Inner dictator: Food for thought

PREAMBLE BIT  -feel free to dig in to the poem and scroll down now

I’m looking forward to  next weeks monthly spoken word night in my  Halifax, West Yorkshire.

Turn The Page  

I get to gorge on my inner dictator and speak for three minutes & perform & be listended to.

Oh, the power over the masses.  (Ha Ha)

This month some regular chip off the old block decided the theme should be potatoes!

If I were the dictator I would not choose to talk about something as common and earthy, and the   -potato `is on  my unsafe food lists).

 Even inner dictators need a slot with their name to dicate for 3 minutes if you don’t you will be denied your voiced& forced to listen to all the other rival inner dictators.

The only time potato poems event  should take place is in   Africa  with millions of starving children with “natural” eating disorders. This is a recipe for disaster because,  mental illness fed by  oppression increases achances of become a real future dicator starving their own people.

So this is my potato theme in yer face poem  

 

 

Hark! I feel the desperate need to fletcherize.

 

What? Is this some new mumbo jumbo, hybrid– combination form of exercise?

Yes,   I would imagine it involves some motivation from a person with no predilections to become easily disheartened.

 

Why can’t you just eat sensibly, stop this new wave of choosing a new flavour every month-

to keep up with fitness promoters incentives to keep people outsmarted? 

It’s a new rage- it’s catching. It takes great skill, I can’t help but swallow great lumps of it, 7 days a week –

such is the weight of my grief.

Sounds like a disease with such a symptom as that. Rage is not all  it is cracked up to be as a moderate form of stress relief.

It is not just some novelty – like limited -edition candy bars being sold to profiteer the next big entrepreneur.

Oh really, so next you will l tell me it is an exact science – proven to actually have more lasting benefits than summers worth of lazing on the beach in a bikini –  eyed up by the oil slick crowd that draws in like a tide -ogling to be near.

Oh no. It has been well proven that to engage in this exercise is likened to yoga. It is a practice.

The evidence for this is where? a desert far away – hiding in the form of H20 in a well prickled out cactus?

Look, I’m not asking you you join the parade and get down and groove with us who choose to exert ourselves in this way.

I know, I just don’t want you to get sucked in the PR vortex and lose yourself with an accompaniment £10  diet plan-

 to prove the results work when you have your weekly weigh day.

Tsk, I’m not just going to gobble it all up without reading the terms and conditions.

Well, I am most sincere when I say I am glad you have paused for thought -slowed down your impulsive urge to guzzle down additional condiments –

and other unnatural apparitions

In practice, I am going to be mindful and chew on these words slowly and deliberately.

Wise words, coming from someone who is usually so careless when it comes to honouring your basic right at retaining your liberty.

No offence but you partake in media shake-ups, that regurgitate out a new shape each season,  with an acute, floundering dignity.

Triangle.

Circle.

Square.

Heart.

Diamond

Potato

 

Mmh, that’s sparkingly rich. I only look up at those who have a celestial essence of shape – one quite like the star.

 

Well, while you persecute me for attempting to live my life in a shape I desire to acquire- with all due respect,

 

I will strive to be what I want to be and you be who you are.

 

Wait!  I need 20 minutes to digest all this information.

 

Now, that it the right attitude – jut enough time to satiate before you give in to more temptation. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My thoughts on escaping the past

Bahtuhkid · my thoughts about the past

When I think I’ve escaped the past

I know my Ma doesn’t drink alcohol and she Sort of kicked me out without kicking my ass.

My daughter cried

Tatiana didn’t meow

I came back to the place where I thought I would relapse

I went to buy cat food

shop was closed

memories of that drug dealer who shine bright with implanted teeth

£4000 inclusive holiday

I could have gnashed

Instead, I congratulated him for his holly wood smile with panache.

Using my money to fulfill another dream — one more ticked off his bucket list

It’s so sad

I’m back in the house

haunted by ghosts of the past.

Mother wouldn’t let me in

steam off on a legal poison

Get Sleep with Prosecco & a gin with a 60 pence glass.

Daughter cried I packed my bags

I saw her cry for our cat

I packed up all my bags

And walked out like an immature twocker

with a dirty rash.

DIDI WANT TO SCORE THE GREATEST OF THE GREATEST OF SNIFF?

Nah, all I wanted was freedom & to sleep without alcohol and illegal grass or bash.

Here I sit in darkness not happy to be back.

I have a packet of lamberts and Prosecco I’m NOT interested in drinking until I’m befokkered.

I won’t sleep

Forever forgotten all thoughts that made me  high

Making drug dealers run for corruption, greed, and bite so compared to ash Wednesday like sinners driving by.

My bee she cried for my Tatiana

I left

 Guilt came flooding for sleep in a bed

where my inner whore rode the men who treat me like trash

Except for my soul mate …

He told me to fuck off and I gladly said

Fuck you

Went to the shop

Closed

no

cat food.

Found spring water tuna-I

Felt Less guilty

felt less crass.

Went against the momma bears rule.

I’m a wildflower with an instinct to rebel from life rules.

THE FALLEN ANGEL WITH INVISIBLE WINGS

If chickens could fly  higher I’d fly higher than the dragon from the land of sniff  ready to rape

& Chase

fOr an extra taste.

In coma 5 days x another  5

In a coma, I remembered the alien abduction

Their torture made me atone to live life differently

I’d even believe in mom’s anointment of Jesus Christ.

Thorns of roses

Thorns of self-destruction.

Alone with my cat — my husband won’t come back-

My child is probably still crying.

I’m alone again

I can’t complain

This was my choice.

I want to sleep

Dream of  our family home

help those who shouldn’t live a history worse than orphans blurred vision live on the African continent

Not their decision.

*written on 13 June at 11 pm.  2020 ( today is 29th June and still wanting to Live)

I didn’t relapse. I didn’t want to get high. I had a drink because I needed to sleep and I’m on sleeping medication 5 days a week out of 7. I’ve asked my doctor to take me off 15 mg of Nitrazepam that I had been since 2007.

It three weeks since I tried to take my life and nearly succeeded, maybe Life is not finished with me yet because my family were told to prepare  for my death, brain damage or me being paralyzed*

Second Life- Mort tell et tea

 

* This Borderline poem was written a week before I attempted to take my life (again).I ended up in Critical Care  in a coma for 5 days & in ICU for a further 6 days. I was discharged from hospital on the 21st of May 2020 *

 

Please, make sense of  reality.

Use a stream of consciousness

words to vent,

rant,

rave,

A discovery in recovery

 Fathom out sense because words are only as good as the interpreter.

20200521_0850322064238938547478683.jpg

 


 Could add literary success to a Gravatar profile  in  an ebook

Add few drafts poured into that fulminate crunched up chaos.

This doesn’t invoke a feeling of literary success.

Trying

Struggling to convey all words .

Reciprocated words are often misinterpreted

Misheard

Another attempt  to convey these words

Perhaps one person will see this array of affray spread its torment defecating the inner spiral case of the

Mind,

It swirls descends these steps in every way.

The moment to call it a day

This draws an outline forever have to have the last say.

Hear me proclaim

This

Is

My

Life.

Don’t want to carry on living this way

Shame lingers

It overstays — the bailiff  texts for rent arrears

Read,

What is laid down?

Listen

I’m not done yet.

 

 Hanging by a thread it’s tethered

Seen many days to identify as weathered

 Hanging by a thread

This is my life purpose!

Final chance to  meet my fate

Waited for this all my life

A  mystery date with a severed soul mate.

 

Taught & tethered & weathered is this rope

To late

 convinced

I’m no tight rope walker.

I’ve become my own word stalker

Shoulda, coulda, woulda arrested these rants before my digress

 

Covert corner

Wait in this hidden corner.

 

Evidently I’ve learned that survival is innate.

It ain’t easy to digest the days I’m not blessed to eat from a plate.

 keep rising up despite a life times worth of trip-ups.

 

Until I die

One fine day

I’ll face the final exit of my mortality

 

I’ll know the truth

Either way it’s gonna end up with a body

Fatality.

Subconsciously  know why I feel

It’s called humanity

What do I know about that  damp dark corner entertaining souls I’ve yet to meEt?

Going to have to wait for a future promising chance we haven’t dreamt of taking yet.

If I lose all memory

 Forget those words  

soggy, wet, lost to another realm of the bereft

Lest I forget.

I write to recover.

Be happy or die trying.

 

Simultaneously a resilient species & inconveniently inept

 

 

 

Athena

 

Infamous conquest of the human race to expose life’s epiphany.

de harmonisation fails to uphold Athena’s liturgy.

 

Poorly managed Pomodoro method

Metis grant Deep Thought access to the mind of the thunderstruck.

Search engine optimised  –  the ultimate article   42 disinhibits a libertarian’s reclaimed autonomy to debate life’s purpose for freedom.

hypophysectomise the moody matriarchy with

Pheromonal replacement therapy

 

Single seeded sire declares she made it up -it’s all in her head

Shamed  for  her  bloody lunar cycle – men stand Erectus repulsed yet horny

 cautioned to never mirror  the gorgon with  serpent  hair

live a life  barren or

Welcome the stones for a martyr’s death.

 

(I’m seriously stuck with this one writer’s block &  in writer’s self-doubt in full force. It needs a lot of work. )

Hermit hymn

*To be revised*

 

I write about the hermit man

He often takes me by the hand.

Lost to gravity a  fan falls

The same one I use to navigate the wind.

 

Pushed me forwards never touching my body.

Motivated a will to resurrect forgotten seeds of hope

Planted for days when there are more downs than ups.

 

This son of a mother pulled out the brazen sun – shed the waning Luna

Roused the Apollo within

  stumbled about -gaze upwards  until

 in sight caught winged creatures

Caught a glimpse of the emotion of flying free.

 

The knowledge found  in a bare, withered  tree

Stem cell life.

 Presumed  the creature lived in my shadow

Turns out  it  had a growth spurt in

An external effort to shirk off the title of the saviour’s chosen one.

He who wears the hallow

Crucified by the unsynchronised dubbed over mouths

Pitched sounds out a  smoke effect bellow.

Can I get a score?

 

Few get to see his fallen wings

Unless preparation  sees an alternative

look to familiar skin.

 

That ole devil called love

Billie holiday thanks for the speckled dove.

 

Highs & lows

hi’s and by’es

 

High light

 at what remains

A pint of Bitter froth decomposed lost in the train of thoughts.

How the sun shine when it comes out.

blossom in spite of mood.

 

Life

you

I

we

Aren’t  vapid merely  short-sighted when  grey-bearded clouds appear

stubbled by  the  5 o clock shadow

 

Stunted by  growth paradigm

tuned into that dark cosmos we know is responsible for feeling so dim.

A connection to a  reflection of original purity to contrast moments we believe we don’t deserve to move forward.

Clandestine cloaks conceal our original sin.

 

This ongoing duet I sing with a feminine hymn

scintillates my belly until I feel the fire lit again from within.

 

Just a few words

 

Heart lurch

Sometimes I feel like an aged whore

Haggard

Men only want me for a shag

Stopgap

Nice bed.I’ll nail it later.

Like nothing happened merely past the bedhead look

 

My features won’t betray the truth I wear on my sleeve.

Discontent

Scorn

Repulsion

And other adversities

 

Is my sexuality all I have to offer?

Give it some clout

No need to rinse or buffer.

 

Mantras ‘you’re good enough

Don’t manifest a reality I wish to create

 

Rage & anger

Stupidity & tears

 

Self-hatred has become an overdue break up with that same old date.

Habitually

This is my mind speaking

My heart sighs

Then pleas

To one day be a freeborn

Wings spread airborne

Follow the winds

Nature’s heartbeat

Repaired again

Not broken nor torn

Glued back together

Reckless risk-taker let no arrow

Poison dipped

Enter my chambers

Rose-tinted glasses make dead flowers appear good.

Keep Livin

My body isn’t a shrine

Nor half as gory as the scene of a horrid crime.

It’s not that abortion clinic

beating hearts put on a foetus pant

in

mime.

It’s not pretty.

I don’t do chocolate box

Not in my city.

This image I have…

of a body in the stocks.

I may look thin. I’m a result of Eating disorders, body image issues & a wasted life on self-destruction.

Well… I’m not dead yet……..

(It’s painful to write about this cos I’m starving my body, mind & soul. I won’t give up!

So I’m going to eat some sushi & smoke a blunt.

20190516_141400698446744.jpg

I don’t know how much I weigh. I don’t care to or dare to out of fear that I will feed even more into my “issues”.

I don’t look or feel good.

This is me today. Thin & far from happy.

A few selfies to make me feel tons better . (sarcasm alert)

Every day is a chance to start again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Love your body And don’t strive to look like anyone else. Talk about your emotions. Don’t internalise. You don’t deserve to hurt yourself this way. It is suicide. You may want to die & get close to it. You are here today. Make it count.

I’m out of here.

No masterpiece to find here… just words. It’s how I survive.HP-PIC-green-ribbon (1)

Good Grief

Grief it churns out carbon dioxide

Thoughts lead by military force

 

Grief it strikes you across your cheek

If you dare ignore the ones hurt by your defeat

 

 

Grief it conjures a body to sway against life’s tide

Grief is tics revealed by neurosis

 

Call it the quacks to lead us to another direct line

You will be just fine

 

Shift a bit in the corner

Let it leave our hearts

For a retrieval

A chance to shine

Turn to this moment.

March forwards to a beat instilling a sense of playful footwork to the dance of living by being.

*writing poem  challenge: describe grief in physical terms

State of Dis Orient

Ladies dressed up to watch the jockeys race, not on but against their steed.

A befitting bet, the only time you will see her bow down, wearing a fascinator – laid on the mud- sacerdotal, on her knees – lunacy fanned out in a stylish turn of the century plead. 

Mixologists stir up a great spectacle – 50 per cent proof. This skulls hidden unconscious is about to  set  Ablaze

Four straws facing north, east , south, and west. It’s nearly 8 o clock and she is losing all sense of walking along cobbled streets – eyes misty -sultry in her glaze.

Somewhere, busy – night rolls her up in its fringed tapestry. 

Abandoned, lost. Cries of her child – don’t let them take her. 

Don’t let them know she is the true reason the station has become a living catastrophe.

How did she make it past the patrolled border?

An elevator –

dizzy,

disorientated,

confused – out of order.

A wack to the mouth causes bones to elementary fracture.

Spewing out pieces of ivory tooth and red rotten metallic pulp. She has become the victim of a  mere capture.

No eyes, no mouth, no voice.

How can an invisible entity  cause so much blood to make enough for a devil   Mc flurry?

She stumbles about – finally free – absorbing kleenex tissues to stifle the colour of Florida’s orange rain. 

Elbows, whistles, laughter  – a short dwarfed jockey, begs, catches her eye – nods at her in mocking disdain.

Maybe just this once she could wish for a  platform called nine and three quarters. 

She knows the wizard told her to click her shoes thrice and think of home. How is that nothing resembles a place she knows holds the faces of her loving daughters?

Chiming spinning, no change, no credit card, no ticket. 

Ringing, coming from her leathery bag – could it possibly hold  the conscious of a good-hearted  Jimney cricket?

Where are you?

Where are you?

Where are you?

Where are you?

Familiarity breeds a set of stifled sighs.

Eyes veer to her left,  a drunken, matted hair women scream to her brood don’t let these people put you down. You are who you are – Never be ashamed and don’t fucken frown.”

” Let’s have it.”

I’m home!

I’m home!

I’m home!

I’m home!

Nothing seems familiar. She doesn’t recognize a face, a place, not even the sound of the underground.

Train tracks look as slumber full a place to have a reality dysphoric fit.

All of you attempting to copy her brand of me -too-ism.

Not even the darkest version of voodoo blended with rum can get you to her level of cuckoo-ism 

Her child appears. Disappears in the arms of another blur.

A man who says he is her husband is here to take her home – in his arms – he attempts to gather her.

Not without my daughter. She knows what these child traffickers are doing. 

Police form a ring around her – all flashing lights- yellows and blues.

What happened Miss – Miss? 

She breaks down into a misfit of boo hoo-ing. 

Assaulted by her mind and the evil hands of time. 

Destroy the ones she loves – her gaping heart – her child won’t come near her,  not even if the thought crossed over to bribe her child with a dime.

Rage, fury, vengeance and betrayal – a feud with her family- the ones who have stuck by her to the very end.

Divorce on grounds of stationary inebriation. 

Rings are thrown to the ground. Frodo come get what is rightly yours and have your eternal salvation.

Clean sheets, a bottle warmer tinkers at her feet, a hug from the husband who she tried to chase away and defeat. 

A portrait of a framed married couple- Cracked and jagged on the side of this man. Fragmented glass distorts a smile, rendering it obsolete. 

So it is true she is the one encrypted with a  learned evil, the one who holds the reigns of the one who goes by the name  Deceipt?

She picks ups her lace parasol. It can only hide little and only reveal so much – she still has the fascinator and her original brand of receipt.