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Folds of skin

A poetry work in motion.

A night before Ebony

Ebony’s shadowed legs followed like bone ivory music notes.

Umbrellas at dawn

No longer will the vampires mourn when each and everyone’s turn

Becomes an endeavour

Becomes closer to a pawn of the bloodless, pastry Underworld.

Fangs serve no required love

Unless

For the hearts that break

fastly

Under the tombstones engraved with dear forlorn amours.

Vials and trials make for complicated aisles.

Stephen Hawking’s shadow couldn’t blacken the suns holy masquerade without a tentative backhanded smile.

Flatulent legs pass an accordion player drowning out the tears of the past crystal nachts denial.

The fish bone corset of his lover – bygone

Weaved into a weathered, once feathered basket to uphold her now skeletal dignity,

A patched-up virgin awoken

A red sealed cockerel

His scarlet fever only breaks

out at night.

Nothing makes sense.

Not the severed maimed gingerbread men

Nor the black pudding

Nor the books written after the King’s night well spent.

Those paltry pawns of Christmas past climbed up the stairs on a general’s stare.

A goose-step march without all the trimmings

Merely a one-armed procured letter bitten off a one-off affair.

The traitor of Ebony’s moonlight dalliance wasn’t in his devilish dance on his journey

It was in the faces of his pseudo, mutilated, unvaccinated bastard offspring

Of each adultress, he gazed upon with an unassuming leer.

The YOU phallacy

Jotting my thoughts. I’m prompted to make a complaint.

Little four-eyes when you were half your current size -why did you doubt yourself so?

Looking back to a densely plotted past – hazy.

What would you have done knowing all people doubt themselves even if it means you becoming the foe?

‘Have no regrets’ – the tagline of the present.

No regrets

No regrets

No regrets.

When you are looking at granny in a catatonic state, unable to walk or talk.

Fragmented images of people now gone by, tell me you won’t wonder how life would have played out by not taking assertive bets.

Complaints department!

See the sizeable queue

What can we do to answer people’s feuds?

Create a passage for people to commit to taking responsibility for themselves,

sign that in ink and wrangle with their moods.

Blame everyone.

You!

You,

and you!

The list unfolds until it reaches the flaws of flooring.

Finger-pointing in every direction.

Buckle up,

prepare to look within

Glimpse how far you can go before you understand only you can change your state of deploring.

Control comes not from puppeteering others.

Cut loose – let the strings fall.

Let people walk.

Hell, let them figure it out- leave them to crawl!

Worry about how you are going to make it.

What you need to do to advance in the dance – motions to elevate and bypass the savage instinct to maul.

How many complaints is your God of choice dealing with?

Her brassic attempt to fulfil everyone’s wish…

Did it ever occur to you to get off your indignant knees tPpppp] ppl check out the employment vacancies for extras needed to help your God succeed in appetizing your particular dish?

I’m the woman who feels her mind unravel every single day. I’m that woman who will drop (almost ) anything to be loved, liked and to try and be there for people. I am that woman who thinks I am one step away from insanity. One meal away from sitting with others -in the cafeteria suffocating with all the beldam and discourse of those who have held all their pain and confusion inside for too long.

I am terrified I am losing my mind. I have panic attacks, social anxiety, Chronic Anorexia and Bipolar. I’m am that woman who sees every one I love (or now)know that I do love get sick or die around me. Drop-dead.

The black sheep. I forget what I want to say. I doubt my self. I think too much. My biggest secret is I want to be grounded. I do! I seem to be caught up in the cycle of escapism. Escapism not in the form of writing, dancing or talking or being cool with me, but I feel myself inching closer towards ‘the dark soul of the night’.

I want to be saved. I question my faith. Did I ever have faith in anything other than toxins that would take me away from my current emotions?

Yet… even though I am the girl shunned by family and friends, I seem to reel it back in. I wind my mind and wrap it into a neat little bow. Always a different colour. I survive. I don’t know how or why.

Well.. I do. I am a mother, woman, daughter, friend and I have a purpose to fulfil. In my most delirious moments, I find myself inching towards praying to my own mother’s version of God. That biblical character. It frightens me to conform. I don’t want to be brainwashed by society and religion and politics. I don’t want to fit in. I want to be accepted.

I find joy in music and dancing. I find sense in writing. I write to recover.

Did I do a Faustus? I did. A long time ago, in between going to a catholic nun run a school, having Jehovaha’s witness lessons after school and then going to get “drunk” in the Lord’s spirit with, my mates, in the evening. I sought out Satanism. I asked it to take me and I lost my way.

That sounds crazy. I’m running empty on spirituality. Mortality is harsh and fleeting. I cry every day for me, my family, even those who hate me so.

I have to move on and let go. Many say I’m too hard on myself. Do we all feel like a fraud?

Knocking on doors for help. What’s the worst that could happen? I end up alone? Forced to be content with this body, this mind, this personality.

I can’t go back. It’s easy to want to go back when the future is so uncertain. In the distance it reveals that is is not benign. It is a vast tumour. There is no way to stop time. It’s an entity independent of reality.

I’m told I need to look within. look after me. Find my place in this world. I’m still here.

I wanted to die. I nearly did.No bright lights.No memory of the ambulance, the police smashing down my door, the room in Intensive Care.

I’m still here. Every time I think I can’t get through with my day or be with myself, time passes and I’ve survived. I’m reminded of Alan Watts famous clip’ What do you desire?’

Be happy or die trying.

To be continued…

Can’t Promise her a title

Lazily, a  tigeress snores into her paws . If only retiring was as simple to rule her inner world.

Curled up in warmth after a stroll  into the big wide world,then  settle for a quinquennium pause.

Her heart beats.

Nationalists- not even  patriots  are exempt.

All want to play in their own chord, tighten the strings ,she keeps  it together, to satisfy their crucified minds.

In a state of constant – motionless movement.

If not an act of physicality -drill cumbersomely inside her cranium and you will see chemicals and synapses – making up fresh bricks and mortar, to fit in with the latest homemade yeast infused hootchie.

Glance away now, for fear of pitying an evocative attempt to get a rise from it.

Secret plots to charge this queen with treason.

Where will she live?

Her throne burnt to the ground to make way for a newly elected dopamine and serotonin scrupulous , democratic union.

Flags of self-belief – burned infringed – protecting her staked land  was all this monarch tried to take into hand.

Defamation – character assassination.

Cloaked – in darkness- rat scuttles past – no pause – it already knows this violated prisoner is barren.

Scars and welts – a confession is sought after by the cardinal living east of the castle manor.

Employed only to instill courage when the  most powerful empire seized a chance to escape into heritic souls howling in the wind.

Faith and Hope – not draft an erratic, purple, incensed  dogmatic pope .

Dire retribution -execute the one who claims  this state is her very birthright.

Clubbed to her knees –  she will crawl  not humbly- you shall hear her plea.

She  wants to make them a better nation.

It’s her biggest exclamation.

Out plotted by her very own court –  bribed by cheap whores-given away by the roughness of their hands, dressed up as expert courtesans,  who clearly have seen at least one day of sun.

Intoxicated by some amorphous potion.

Formalyhde doused  in cleaveaged lace dresses – it was  not her initial notion.

A scented air  of burning flesh

A greek tragedy indeed.

Scorned by her very  owns subjects . She may be longitiduely  dimintitive  but she refuses to be bullied into showing them that wanted emotion.

Defeatist attitude does not a fit queen make.

Words in  a precise order do not  prize a piece of   art,

so clearly a fake.

Forgiveness is her only weapon. She won’t see her country  be overrun by zealous creachers.

It would appear her subjects wish to prove that she is illiterate.

Tortured, holding her breath under water to procure a confession – let her reiterate.

The crown is made to fit one head – It is symbolic and vaporizes with her when she  exhales all energy and   is varnished as  dead.

Look how you’ve turned on one another – in the pursuit of power. It is  a notorious illusion.

To master control over all subjects requires more than an iron-clad fist and an outraged dalliance to declare outright confusion.

Compassion,

nurture,

recognition and honor are what she   offers,

accept these as the wealthiest of gifts.

Only a fool would scream,

‘Off with her head‘ -a face full of sour lemons and a lust to frazzle the last tether.

The Noblest  of causes – so much bloodshed – look into her bloody, vein threaded eyes.

She hasn’t slept for weeks in her fight, to appease  all those in famine, hungry and underfed.

She  needs no  steering Regent to aid her  in her duty.

All she demands is loyalty and valor.

With you all at her side ready to conquer life’s copious battles,

we shall not go down .

your  hearts will not know the true grief  inflicted made up of another community of arrows.

we shall not waiver.

Trust in your queen to walk as a stout  cripple ,duty bound to protect and hold it all together.