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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.

Scorpion poetry

I drank a lot today

It read back to me like it was poetry

I woke up yesterday

Tomorrow

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?

Gris gris

If you know how to love you know how to live

If you know how to live you know how to love

Momentary

hyperbole

state

Meant –

This

ends badly

A stolen sign

whilst awoken waiting on directions for heaven’s gates

Titillating times

Run out of fuel

Exhausted

words condemned ?

Atoned

Alchemical

Skeletal

soul ( emaciated)

Wasted (fabricated)

Walking into

A fat

 Fated

       E Lated 

                     Disorderly

slum bum

Arrested for

Apathy..

No

A

trophy

Padam

Padam

limited vocabulary…

Dispose these written words

To an insincere society.

Gris gris

A hex

Agon.

Gal

I glee.

The mardi gras lives within

Thanks Ray

Charleton

a breathe wren

Sightless strumpet life (insert your own GIF)

Daring

Demanding hymn for those

A genesis

Singing pslams to the prejudice

Justified :those folk who missed the nearest fire exit.

Ugly nose

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?

No

No

No

No

No

No

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

Cut ties

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.

In defence

Mode

He snores.

I’m awake.

Who wins?

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.

Gastly

Despicable.

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.

Again

My husband slept on the floor again.

My daughter slept out away from home

Again

I stayed upstairs in our kingsize bed

All alone

Again

I’m beginning to detest the word again

Again.

Today

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.

I’m ashamed.

It’s a kind of Magic

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.

The End

Or  not….
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.
Doors close.

Deity

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,

The rain

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

Her Grace.

partly concealed

partly revealed

The dichotomy of lace.