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Now, I thought

Now,

I thought

I’d tell my husband that I was going to walk out into that  main road

Wait

for a car to run me over.

I’m sure he would have expressed concern and said I should have invested in an organ donor

Card!

That he is with his wry sense of humour.

 

 Now, I thought, we’re  on the train & nothing feels real

Except maybe his hand on my knee reassures all I  need to feel.

 

The sun’s out & sparring with my panic attacks & phobia

I have to leave ya for a better time.

 

We’ll have time to play this theme out over & over.

Just for now I’m feeling fresh

Air

Not like I’m drowning in a cashmere claustrophobic coma.

Write to recover. Write yourself out of a panic attack. BUY a book. Look both ways before crossing the road so you don’t get mistaken for  Avante Garde road kill.

Trumpet life

Under pressure.

Breaking apart — splinting at a crucial fissure.

Until,

It  causes an eruptive displeasure.

Disquieted mind  brushes strokes of  bad blood around these elemental  chambers.

Cordoned off.

This is my plea.

So, don’t arouse my anger.

Beaten hearts with a wooden spoon.

These wings will fly-

I’m a fledgling not a buffoon.

Weep for the Teether’s – the naive doomed  creatures.

They grow into  adults

Dolly the sheep baa’ed down pilgrims rest on mothering Sunday.

Bloody miscarriages — that awoke the town from their  walking slumber.

Think 6 nonsense thoughts a day to keep you sane!

Perforate these gums.

We’re merely animals lacking in  humanity,

Evolved to maim the wold for self depravity.

Governed by  social media surveyors  cohearsing   joined up conversation into cursive bubbles.

Uttering bullocks — unravel the mind to overcome the low ebb of the  tide.

Disquieted mind tumbles over.

Terribly tainted its prompted to conjure a pantomime.

San Fransico knights

Dangle buckle boots or  bare feet over the  bay.

The full  moon reflective.

Learned that life will conquer them too  if it has its own way.

Make it a Wishing well.

Make it the  Stage!

Exist or live….

Hell is on earth  — uprise to increasing fees,

We’re bludgeoned to death

if we don’t  pay.

Over and over.

More and more.

Gluttonous gloaters   feed our souls community  with a  skunk;

not from Bombay.

We walk around the streets in mobile  psychosis.

We are a society fabricated from bedlam , deserted   in these woods.

Wondering about other lands,

Running away from daggers armed by cloaks concealed behind hoods.

We dance around  the pink elephant  cuffed behind its  cage — waiting for the  trumpet,

To spray all 7 dynasties  with glory seeds.

A trunk  with roots in disarray,

This is Life that I seek to portray.

*Inspired by writers block, panic attacks, mental illness, injustice, isolation, fear and the song ‘San Fransico Knights by People Under The Stairs’

pycho phantic heathen

Write to recover is what I always say.

I’ve discovered,

Is  few of my words  leave me whirling with  – I’m proud to park,  pay and display.

Deals are made,

devils I summon.

People are abused, Charity leaps to a new order of Coven.

I write this way, with careless affray

to not lose a sense that words are tangible,

if  I work my fingers to imprint my genetic copyright

Confirming my DNA.

Some might say,

I try too hard

To write for better days .

Left to my own devices. I would live in clouds wrapped up in  grey hues-

a cemetery for all the left over  fillings

Thrown away, because of corrosive mouth decay.

In yer face!

Borderline – on the rocks.

I write to prove I’m far removed from serving  more time, in a straight jacket in New  Jack City.

Gangsters running around with silver bullet signed glocks.

I’v’e spent my better days basking in  previous glory .

Like butter it melts away the fear  of sleeping dormant .

One wrong box and I’d have been mistaken for a Tory.

Liberal with my words, eager to serve and love all my friends with creative pulses .

Tic tacs, I guzzle-colours textured in obscure.

I fight these escapism ,  inauthentic, paradise bomber  impulses;

To get high with — to lose track of time.

To think

I need a  potion of artificial wired, chemistry alternatives.

Usually these act as a placebo.

Serve to knock off my crown of  free willed determinism.

Courage lives in a mane,

a city  near Massachusetts

Puritans might discover I’m Freud in a ghostly slip.

I’ll be hung ,

Hands lie limp by my side.

Bled feathers  will tickle  the crowd-

Show I  bluffed my way into the inner circle of creatives who have a grasp of the

same

sane

 mundane

chain.

Heads up!

Forever chasing  the dragon of stream  of consciousness .

My thoughts fail me,

I’m beginning to think,

I’ve become presumptuous.

The kindness in others  words — to allay my anxieties,

Overwhelms me .

I tie my own tubes.

Disgraced.

I refuse to give birth to a dancer  with stubs for toes, phalanges pimped out to strike a  quivering echo-like ,   Margot  Fontaine pose.

Inner fear corroborate with the sinner without a legitimate C.V.

Write nonsense-

The Lakers swan to the crowd

I’m a nutter.

I’d   crack a prince just to see a picture  of  a colourful scene.

Abstract,

Mindful – in  the lines.

It’s not important.

Just a visual spray of shamanic chakras to impregnate the rainbow-I foresee.

Leprechaun leave my latin beats to breathe.

Mouth the words of soft brie , camembert and  wild boar.

Grant me a baguette —    riddle away, and I’ll gather my thoughts to satisfy thee.

Goddess Luna grants a cycle to merge with my  rites in fertility.

Thoughts exiled to Siberia-paid to be alone.

My government  saves me.

My soul

I will put down-

Though I know I won’t gamble it all away.

I win back my losses

Trust me, I know there is always another day.

Write, write , write.

Each word is a  middle finger at the writers academia  establishment .

I don’t want to be even  almost famous.

I don’t need a book with my name on it.

I blog merely to pour my inner most thoughts out — free up my world.

It’s about as poetic as I can get.

How about I insert the word fragrant?

I’m not academic.

My passion is not systemic .

Always in a position to sky dive.

Risks thought about

After I land in the hornets hive.

Stings heal .

It reminds me I feel.

I live by my words ‘cos I’m irksome and caustic within.

I was born walking into  webs of contradiction

and, now,

All I beg is for  is a hint  of credit

For expressing myself in this audacious fashion.

I’m not here to chat ’bout literary success.-

I’m already thinking about my post party dressed as myself-

the bodacious writer ,

Who is in fact a sycophantic heathen.

*INSPIRED BY A COMPLETE MELT DOWN IN MY ABILITY TO WRITE AND FINISH MY MASTERS*