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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.

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.


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

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!

Perhaps I want to..

I want to stop stuffing my mouth with food

To allow the words I swallow tumble out my own truth .

I want my voice not to sound happy

I want it to be happy.

I want to eat meals without guilt.

I don’t want to be over weight.

I want anorexia to stop carving every single slice of edible part until there is nothing but my skeletal soul

Nothing but the debris of littered thoughts

Soiled emotions

Discarded remnants of self love.

I’m screaming

Pleading for just one match to light up my black holed life

The abyss that taunts

Torments

Each moment

Each breath

Every movement

I want to publish a book of my words

One solarity book to place on my bookshelf

I want to feel sexy without thinking that being curvy is criminal.

I want to feel pretty

Confident that I can eat sushi tonight when my daughter has a McDonald’s happy meal.

I’ve scoured the Just Eat.com menu

The thoughts become lairy loud

It becomes easier to take a valium or a drink

Awash myself clean against the accusations

I’m tainted

Impure

My thighs touch

My breasts are disproportionately imperfect

And,

I don’t want to blame it on Some tasteless comment some child made when I was 12 years old.

My collar bones are disappearing

My butt is bigger

Im not disappearing

I’m not smaller

I want a worthwhile exsistance

I want to claim my happiness

Perhaps my words are my winning ticket to recovery .

Perhaps I need to buy enough ink and paper to print off 6 years of documented writings, poems, plays, stories and musings

I want

I want

I want my body to understand what it needs

I need

I need

I need my mind

To understand

What it wants.

Not a suicide kid

Time stands still

Waiting for my child

To pick her up from her school.

Locked out

I’m no fool

Schools not meant to be cool.

Just another institution

Similar to a prison.

My constitution was made to rebel

For a cause

Less

Waiting around on top.

Never thought I’d glimpse a shadow of my former self -over the hill.

Curse these minutes.

Frozen into a state of blissful ignorance.

Wrapped up into a stationary kit.

Sigh

Sudden bowel movements

I feel ill.

Bad

humour

lost to a

desolate

sky.

Simmer into another ghetto outfit

Sparse Sunshine shimmer flecks

Until my skin unravels into motion.

For this moment

I’m not a suicide kid.

Instead, I’m knocked out

By a dead dong ringer

Them there eyes

Catch sight of her eyes.

How they glimmer!

.

Pride

We always hear the phrase

Pride comes before a fall.

And in most cases that is often the truth

However I sometimes wonder if

Pride comes before a call

Because of your beliefs , morals and because your spirit demands respect.

It not easy to discern the balance of pride or a epitome that you need to respect yourself and those who deserve your respect.

It’s requires a spirit level at times because ..

I don’t have the answers..

I suppose I never will have absolute answers,

I definitively want to love and respect my people who have never deserted me.

Respected

Loved me .

Stayed by me.

Perhaps pride shouldn’t come at the cost of all or every thing or any person who serves your spirit despite the times you fall , call or give up on everything;

Including all self respect even when those around you believe you are capable

Those people in awe

Of your potential…

The future is unsure

Take a gamble

It’s essential.

Savages of mockery

Life is a set of numbers within a market of numbers

And we

the

diminutive 1s

who in our moments of graphic growth grapple for an extra addition to our sum total of flock.

We end up divided by a minion of millions

We are

A herd of expletive multiplication lost to the world

Implicated

in

Watching her frock slashed by our greed.

We are the true savages running our mouths with inequality

a mockery

Hypocrisy.

The demise of the humanitarians philosophy .

Oxymoron of life

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 ?

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.

Clean page

Passion

less magical

Cats demand cuddles
A clean page soaked wasted words written in piss yellow ink.

The music falls on deaf ears
Unread unopened books will let me down – or will it be my imagination?

I glance around the room of despair comfortably numb for three hours until a child smiles for her mom’s unfounded fears.

LOVE LESS
it won’t hurt much
scrub off the scent of his odour
bleach the bath with your morning shit
love costs more heartache.