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Mrs Tersable

Mrs. Tersable had the patience of  Hades with a lengthy dose of blue ball build up  syndrome.

Beans on toast, eaten straight out of  a tin can –  this is not how she was used to living, outside of her comfort zone.

She wore wooly jumpers to cover  the razor sharp teeth piercing through her very own flesh.

She was so gifted in signing off with a  ‘kiss kiss’ and a ‘mwah mwah’  tres AbFab darling

 BBC  Nigella’s  best Italian  dish.

Unfortunate event, she was the kind of lady who had to learn how to suck the devil’s cock. Have her ass smacked  and molded into   a fine knight  mare.

The tragedy in her quest to rise to power in a Patriarchal society took a heavy blow on a high voltage setting ,following a trail  to the bully matriarch beatbox  competition at ye olde fayre.

She rose in stature  until she hit her own glass ceiling – a rose always  needs to be pruned. All flowers, eventually, lose their fragrance and bloom.

Every season there will always be another eager seedling waiting to come out and steal  her once-signature odorous  perfume.

It’s a lamentable world we live in when the people who are meant  to be  teachers and mentors,

refuse to listen to their own apprentice or student who  listens , then questions the station ranked  above.

Not all students  climb this far to then  curtsey disabled in  fear, at one vicious bark – all the way on the Yorkshire moors.

What does this say about us as parents, role models, teachers when we refuse to admit our own errors?

We pinch our noses to avoid inhaling one whiff of humble pie, no one saw  you order  a Miss Hannigan chaser.

An associate of those benefit drunks with the DT tremors?

Feedback at any age,gender ,role or title is crucial to evidence   your presence in eternal life learning.

Mistakes are a necessary jigsaw piece to conclude  this game.

It’s not  so much what we don’t say as to how we say it.

Oops, maybe that  15-year-old child shouldn’t have appeared to be marking that essay on the subject of learning to  ‘look  kept while she  is on the game-  earning’.

Bullies come in a plethora of forms – the ones with the sweetest touch can turn on a person like a stye in   the eye.

Manic and wide-eyed .

‘Attention , we  now  introduce you to Sir werewolf faint heart . ‘

His title gives him permission to tear down  the fourth wall but he promptly  decides to use off stage to indicate he has his role – his own part.

So changeable – so  constant.

If it weren’t for experimental  folk, you might believe  that the  very word  had been a word that ‘phantasmagoria -the shouting  star’ ,hurtled down to you from a startling  height in  a –

can you picture it?

A cosmic  sky.

Oh, how  some serfs do like a good old-fashioned backdrop.

Kitchen sink drama – ironing and puffing a cig so soon after a hideous operation tumor  larynx op.

I don’t mind  subjective commentary .

Political and social change is in a state of  osmosis.

Dame Equlibrium!

 Where is she hiding ? be a darling and throw us an adlib  objective  objection – based on some factual,theoretical documentary.

Ego  hypothetically propositioned and the  recent report is he is officially   unwounded.

Id is feeling indulgently  charitable.

Super ego is insulted on behalf of all the marginalized  it  chooses to write about.

Prepared to work with all senses engaged, ready to gain insight and  to ‘show and tell’  how flawed this world truly is .

Just because it says something  black  on white  – doesn’t mean it’s exempt from giving you a bad case of colonic  irrigation ,peppered doubt.

The biggest bullies are the  usual suspect atypical members – they all  have a hidden agenda.

Keep your cool and refuse to cower from the tirade of abuse screamed down the cord of a retro style, dial-up  telephone  – switch  on to radio channel smoothie blender.

Only you can be your greatest ally and defender.

Or,

you could   go on one hell of a  bender.

Never been an option for the author who has fought off more heated bitches in duplicitous  organizations with a questionable gender.

*Inspired by good old fashioned rotten to the core  bullies sitting in apple trees *

self destructive perfectionist

Bear change to mind

Get the facts -don’t bunker down with myths set in era’s

assonated with mercury outlined by hate.

The insane are violent. They murder our children.

They should be put away in a state of silence.

Media hype sensationalise stories to feed your imagination – they profit from.

Ill people who usually die by their own hands – strangulation or when man makes fire.

The insane are weak and lack willpower to get on with life – they scrounge the benefits system.

Watch reality tv and wed misery -cutting the wedding with a carving knife.

It takes strength and courage to live with our selves and pretend all is alright – People need to be signposted to treatment -to gain insight.

The insane must be institutionalised – criminalised for they cannot get better.

In bygone eras physical impairment and oddities were social pariahs to socialite invitees letters.

Insane people and I have nothing in common.

Please, take your insults away from my blissful ignorance

Our circumstances can change in a heartbeat. Worlds have been turned inside out to all humans including your current Destiny upcoming deliverance

Anxiety

Bipolar disorder

Post traumatic disroder

eating disorder

Borderline personality disorder

Depression

Substance abuse

obsessive compulsive disorder

family

Suicide

attempts to get it right

a perfectionists manual in self destruction.

My mother called me

My mother called me a narcissist

I delayed ringing an exorcist

Eve didn’t want to admit she was too affronted by the orange county housewife

I’ d laugh if it weren’t for the affray

the truth is I’m a direct line of self sabatageoust

my mother called me a narcissist cos i killed myself

she didn’t find it funny when i told her to go along with it

She didn’t get it.

I take up my place as a a dyed goat dressed in sheep

i wonder if I can make it .

i forget

language-so i bleat instead of weep my tears.

Esther Roe

Charlie met Esther on abortionist roe.

Hedges neatly trimmed – enough to dishevel a bearded vagabond to weep after his latest woe.

No coat hangers to gut the newborn sac.

Charlie stood for hours until her number came up.

Raging

rouge screen screams with a tremulous beep.

Surreal

Conceal

Unable

to strike the star lead role in a Bolly wood film deal.

 

Unsullied arrived in a cumulous cloud

stricken by a thunderous compulsion to wail.

 

Esther didn’t hear the bond lust, lilted scream.

memory hazed -by two fat ladies at gate number 8.

Efforts disarmed – inability to count down to the primal odd.

 

nebulous chlorophyll masked her mouth.

Envy immobilised to an unrecalled dream.

Innocents smile

swinging on tyres.

Freddie Kruger caught in a static slumber loses nightmare credibility to a sterile clinic;

Action paralysing every unconscious scene.

Stratham, London-night defends to keep watch.

Both stumble upon a tidy little room – 1970’s style. No disco defiblerater harmonizing jolts to the beat of

‘ Staying alive ‘

Old granny hoovered up flowers chocked in ivy a patterned carpet,

Mist of lavender lingers. This bitch knows how to spray.

Don’t mess with the O.G.

Peppered, seasoned hair, non-linear lines carve out a facial narrative.

Don’t be fooled by this kungfu hoe.

inebriated illiterates

desensitized to her strategy in a game of cruel cluedo.

It’s all so normal. It’s life, you know.

Scissors ready to stab a beating heart,

Positioned in foetal

Sucked out the uterus.

Pro-choice.

Pro voice.

Pro-life.

Pro midwife.

Tall walled wars.

Bricks bolster the Illusion of affairs in order.

Nobody is scrutinized so fiercely as the woman who maps out her own destiny – navigates the boundaries that her ideas can afford her.

Quality control.

The NHS paid for a private eye.

Two signatures deemed sufficient to see her through the hours of her sobering silence.

Shameless in her flowered disguise.

Ginger nuts, unsavoury tufts.

No, this wasn’t her nine month due – no ice cubes for killing in the name of freedom to govern her own vessel.

No need for pro-life Stepford wives lies.

Sins anoint.

Sins accumulate.

 

Where would our saints stand without a dissident at hand?

Society sits down, protest proudly.

Part the veil of clouds

Peer piously downwards,

ready to strike thunderbolts of judgement.

 

Rain down booming terror tactics.

Esther cares not for their gospel band

Society sips, exhaling wafts of fair trade, Ivory coast coffee beans.

Privilege smells of a modern holocaust of starving babies in bony mothers arms.

Who said any of these women consented to consummate?

Penetrative obedience to the phallic statues erected in morning glory psalms.

Civilized society!

 

What if God was one of us?

a scripture in the making.-

Touch and kiss the sky.

Would he become the true reflection we see, when we catch ourselves about to exhale the final breathe before we die?

Fantasies always signed off with a silver lining and promises of a rainbow.

Reality is cold,

winter serves a plateau of ice.

Frigid flowers are frozen in angst,

Shatter

like glass.

Rebel against their reproductive nature.

Air,

breathe.

One full gasp.

If only a mere raspy rant leaves on its depart.

It’s either them or an urban jungle of homo sapiens collecting another free day ride.

Ready to infect ignorance on every global ocean that has shores that go out at low tide.

Pulp Estate

The best way to get through rough times is to be creative.

 

It’s not Saturday and I’m feeling non-conformist. I guess its kind of my way.

Haven’t done much this weekend — except nursing bruises, swellings, scrapes and downright painful blisters on the mouth.

I’m fuming.

The lows of last week found me beaten to a pulp like a survivor from a war jump.

Didn’t get no gangrene or scurvy dying on a rowboat at Dunkirk on sheets of ice.

Spinning around not a La Kylie Minogue mode.

I’m over the worst of the beating-

I “secretly” hope these two bastards get their come( t)uppence.

It would be easier to get high and escape from the downside-

Look out my window and the skyline is blocked by housing estates.

Crumbling – it’s always a better view at low tide.

Three a.m. wake up calls for months-every time.

The creative freaks come out so, I suppose I’m in good company and I will be.

just fine. 😀

Physical strength is the only thing that let me down in this fight against the Alphas.

If guns were legal I think I would use the second amendment to plea —

Y.ankee

O.scar

B.ravo

S.ierra –

Give at least one of the limp cocks a belter.

Only one would be laughing — this bruised weed — always making sure her brood is out of the firing line;

Standing in the shelter.

Ballroom blitz and shammy with my king.

Oh how we will dance!

— cowards should carry around organ donor cards.

On second thoughts, who would want the innings of someone who can’t fight to their  own strength —

Run little boys to your Audi and drunk mommy-

The one you beat up on a regular basis.

You think this is a female annihilation version of the crusades?

I’m low not in mood but my body says — sit down and feel your boo boos

My head says life is for living.

I don’t want to walk out of my house,

like a beast or looking like a victim of domestic violence-

Here comes the freak in an endless hued complexion of distracting tutus

The highs are the times when I hear my child laugh, my husband he bathes me and kisses me tenderly,

loves my sense of spirit when I look bloody unsightly.

In truth I look hideously ghastly—

Green beans and asparagus — home made by La Bonne chef, ma Mere.

I struggle to eat more than ever, but I won’t let two stomped out cans put me off the future horizon I’ve cut out —

The scenic view from here is a — plethora of orgasmic sight sees.

Lows inevitably come with highs.

I’ve accepted a hand

taken that step off the top roof.

The next time I’m up their , I’m going by lift.

Agenda?

To dance and rub shoulders with people channeling the same level — hearing a sub woof.

Clearly better days ahead.

Wasted time on talking pin heads.

Its fine, its mine, Its life.

Yesterdays news is on current recycle mode.

This Mary Poppins has already started making UP fresh linen beds.

A break from the toxicity of incurable idiotism — helps me see far up the winding road.

Perspectives easily imagined —

There goes a heavenly striking stair case.

It may not lead to a conventional heaven .

I’ve already stated my unorthodox ways right at the beginning .

I missed the word that rhyme ending three sentences up,

So, I’ll close SOCs by stating:

I’m recharging my load.

 

Evidently bloody

Evidently, I should have recognised your kind well.

The type who thinks it’s okay to throw punches at someone not strong enough to withstand your spell.

Evidently you think with a ‘she deserves a slap but not a nose break blood gushing fatality.

The warning signs – illuminated in the dark – yet one was driving further and further away from signs of reality.

Evidently, the abuse became physical – Ma gets a leg broken and screamed out of her own home.

Respect lost to those willing to put up with tirade of abuse – shattered by the illusion that inside is a not a lost soul- but a vicious short-sighted, inbred gnome.

Evidently, it went too far – blood gushing with Niagara force. Dr Jekyll came out to suppress his calculating side.

The damage was done. The apologies came thick and fast. A makeup of sexual intimacy -lying in spoons – easy to forget the true impression that you are an insidious Hyde.

Evidently, acts of treason were thought to be safe because of making love or banging next to a mother, drunk, lying on the floor in a made-up carpet bed.

Kind words and questions poured from the mouth who easily quickened to taint the air with putrid attacks, to these addicted females’ wrong idea of what respect means in the revolving door of her head.

Evidently, New found respect for the one who took a punch and lost consciousness for 1 minute – brain damage pondered whether it would take over her body – luckily her will scourged it to flee.

Sexy is the one with broken teeth, cut open flesh, cartilage and a nose flattened from senseless violence; unjustified with a kiss expounded by debasing eroticism intoxicated sparks of Malfunction -plain to see.

Evidently, words were promised that her husband would never know the truth of what happened on the blood stained sofa – a night ensconced by lust -finally she felt acceptance.

A day away from the chaos, in a house cluttered with but one nebulous mirror Her ways spent in error were seen in the stark light of horror. This was a mere council estate , drunk fuelled norm in decadence.

Evidently, he loses more numbers by the day. Days on his life, friends by his side. The violence she won’t cover up like a weeping wound hidden from the world – oozing in shame. It’s a disgrace.

Is there justification for treating other people with the utmost disrespect?

No retribution will come from knowing that she may remind him of his mother, but he has turned into that devil he half loves and half despises.

The one who gave birth to his diseased soul. A disfigurement- a sour-faced, soot -aura – shuddering at his own self made, society shun the beast with a cleft palate.

I’m down for equality but I cannot tolerate the violence, hatred bred contempt.

The notion that a woman’s place is to submit to acts of a ghetto’s patriarchal, backwards, reprehensible mentality.

Cassidy – a mind butchered

Go with the flow.

Instigate the wrong blow.

Cassidy never knows that what she reaps is what she will sew

Calamity caught stitching — a bleeding heart— on the floor in the kitchen

Screams and howls.

 Blowing off steam.

If only this was some form of dream.

Think not .

Think nothing — don’t go over each scale unless you are  retuning for the next —strumming.

Take a hammer to dead cartilage

 What’s the point in discriminating?

We all dine in silence  secretly trading  under the table of  Carthage.

Dead mothers — don’t miss them when they disappear.

Lucky girl-she is the true foe.

Deny a  credible witness but accept one day of fake snow at Christmas.

If there is a will there is way-understand the burden is useless-all that we inhale.

Heads talk of the grand hubris of being impaled.

Brain dead wrote this amongst a pesticide raid.

Shades of locust.  Supposed to be more focused.

Blanks fill this page.  The dud is conscripted to engage.

Failed .

Nailed.

Breath wanton to exhale.

*Just something I knocked up when I was in a bad head space a couple of months ago 

The yo yo man

Girl bets he weren’t always  so plastic.

Fell deep into a pool of eyes that hinted at a heart full of fantastic .

The world is now a bit colder.

Sun shines even a little bolder .

Don’t know why son  pushed away the  great play to his heart when it only allowed   the   room temperature  to stagnate into a cancerous cadaver

now 30 years older.

Harsh cold facts .

Perspective  bound by smaller minds clouded in a haze of toxic, inner house attacks.

Girl weeps to know two doors down

son and mother abuse each other.

We  were all once innocent.

We all grow up  to the reality of life.

We all make mistakes .

Son hides  behind a pointed finger for a cover

to save face from only himself.

 No-one else

 not even the one he now calls his true blood brother.

Girl weeps

 walls whisper inferior

by the son 

 the pedantic,

semantic,

sexist,

passive aggressive

virus carrier.

Girl bets he wasn’t always so plastic.

How many more years is he gonna carry on sucking lemons?

sitting on  a pedestal of empty   cans

spitting out condescending  pips and belittled bits?

A hard,long way to fall

blaming.

Always taking the moral high  ground.

Amongst  the smudges of smugness

girl saw  a glimmer of  his original fantastic.

Lines crossed – militant gas -lighting to the ones on a lost path.

Characters don’t need to be shouted down at.

raise son’s ego so he can live amongst the Olympian Gods;

Temporarily.

Devastation – pride miseducation

can be the  only aftermath.

Girl weeps – reasoned  with her heart – trouble found her passing inappropriate affection.

Misdirected intention.

Hands up.

This time she won’t carry the  burden when she floundered  in son’s manipulation and rejection.

Players play a part.

Games lose all fun when the son only sees  people he can step on

Heighten an evoking,  abstract canvas.

  Draw out a new horizon.

Fickle foe.

A disappointed son

finds he has exhausted all misaligned souls of their energy.

Turns up the abuse and sticks a knife into a beating , drumming heart.

Blood trickles 

overflows the space with shades of reds and blue hues.

Trurh be told.

It’s better to have everything  to lose  and still walk tall with purpose

than to

 live an inebriated lie.

Hoaxing  folk with a demeanour of  nothing to lose.

Eventually,we all have to play our cards.

suffer the consequences of our  enacted desires.

Girl weeps  for the carbon copy spirits

consciously conscious of losing sense of all self .

Grab a hoe

dig for more dirt to throw on  misplaced bodies

 already buried vertically .

son’s light gets  dimmer.

The deities stole their fire back.

Girl  bets he weren’t always so plastic .

Spinning dog – hounding smaller animals with greater  spirits.

Poacher trophy show case

in a house of broken doors,overflowing ashtrays, side way glances.

Specks of dry spit spewed from another night screaming in an accusatory fit.

Close the curtains on the yo yo man – the son that once  shone  vivid, in the coat of arms,  bearing fantastic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Buy ding time

So many people watch and talk about those who they under estimate. By all means watch,

And learn.

Maybe you will learn how to deal with one or two of your own issues

A perfectly flawed Daisy Willows

I let us down?

Shadows betrayed with a mere glimpse of a frown.

No words can express the guilt dictatorship governing me

It’s not a cop out. I know right from wrong – I know this plea

Manipulations-sucked into the vortex

Epileptic fits, child crying for a place where dinosaurs indeed exist in the mix.

Buying time while losing our minds.

Insanity led me to insist this was the shortest cut to a state of perpetual eutrophic times

Heart attack — Jack missed his usual target in sundry extrapolation.

Too much — too much — afraid to not have enough-

Threats

once choice I  have  to have an abortion

…..or an abortion.

 

The value of life against a three digit number

is not worth the risk of  another loosing sanity – Look at that temper!

Fuelled by selfish, ridiculous acts in  percussive persuasion.

Sick of hurting the good ones in the pursuit  for a place in time where we are  not struck down by  our own damnation.

Heightened emotions — rouged the face of her grace .

Head  rendered poisoned by the one with the  latex face

Queer sighs — teary eyed.

Worth all this anvil chorus  shrieking out implacable aural instigation

The fear if a god had its grip on me – I would take the whip out on my vice with attempts of self flagellation.

21 days

my soul betrays all sense of balance –

5 years of drudgery for something that has less weight than a heart.

Lost in that maze of procrastination  — buying time — throwing out another seasonal  line.

Fear – it will run out-plans mystify my usual organised self — maturate until all evidence  of ejaculation is collected by its DNA component to outsmart.

Happiness leads to an oasis  dried up well —

See that camel over there?

she’s my final hope for a sip of redemption

Unusual  for a vegan to murder an animal for a quench of innocence-how far I’ve fallen —

two points away from extinction

Madness runs forever in a contortion

Fucked if I know how to talk sense into a cross eyed mass of exhaustion.

Pillage me for I am running low.

All thought out plans left in the bloodied soulless bodies of Russia’s war in winter snow

Front line-I cower-there is no courage in the how I dished out my packable blow

Left in a quiver — screamed by the knock of confrontation at my door

I do. I do I do..

If not for myself but for the one who I look to

amazed-

I observe it as one would in a zoo

Rueful

Meaning to be dutiful

This reflection is the antithesis of beautiful.

How long can love last?

when the tokoloshe is cross examined for its  denied  attempt at buying its time

or trying to convince that biding echoes are indeed in the indefinite past.

 

 

Free cello flotsam

 

I followed a trail

To rock with scurvy emotions inside of me.

Don’t know what to expect.

All the rage, ignorance, silence

bleaches the promise of a future sapling tree.

Astrology says we have a Destiny, and there’s apart

inside

Who revels in the nostalgic quest within me.

Why do I shirk off those who encourage my rays to reflect outwards?

Why do I seek out on my impulses, toxins to detract from my light?

Keep me from growing into a burst of melody  I can shout out to the cowards.

Confidence issues get the best of me

it’s just all about

ME

ME

ME!

But….

It isn’t-it’s also about my husband , my Bella bee.

When I enunciated my vows last June-what a chirrupy day.

I didn’t have a clue what commitment to another meant

That I would be required to stop mid-flight and stay.

Stagnant breathe, I cry out for security

Inside it’s all I’ve needed to explode into full maturity.

I write aplenty about letting go

The rage, the ability to let it stop over analysing my creative flow.

Seeking out what exactly?

Roses thrown at my feet every hour?

In case I forget in my self and believe I am merely dour.

I crave a prism of  connection and escapism.

All I want is to answer my own question.

What is my purpose?

Ignored.

The birds murmur in their usual stanza of cursive.

Have I ever learnt the language of civility?

Emotions  have tripped me over

Countless times.

Surprised to appraise the sky admiringly

I’m chasing after the elusive high

Frequent in multiple forms.

molecules,

atoms

Sometimes a shape  in a human form of fungi 😉

sigh, me and my warped sense of humour

Desperately  trying to prover I need a holiday under my current demeanour.

the rage inside is never  quelled .

I write and I write yet the tears continue to overspill.

Reticent to see what is standing in front of me

I pause,

I look up

and despite the majestic scenery,

I feel the weight of my guilt-dissecting me into bits to use as flotsam at sea.

One small town to the next

Happiness is a state of mind

Not some hidden idealist.

A paradox of uncertainty

Love me.

Need me.

Crave me.

Believe in me-

The true person outside of my physicality.

I’m not stating I’m beautiful or full of grace.

I do believe I am unique .

This is more than a hope or a whim.

I don’t see absolute distaste when I glance at my face.

The simple moments, the words , the memories that won’t hold on.

I have a purpose-some path to walk without feeling triste

Emotional depths descend into an abyss — it ranks.

I adore the ocean , I hate that I need technology to breathe in, and gasp.

I’m not a shipwreck lying on the floor who gave up and sank.

I’ve learnt how to swim and fight,

For what its worth.

What do I want with this life-streaked , woven into nature’s tapestry?

Here, little bird, come closer unlock the coded language that will show this mystery is more than a pyscho spieling diatribe of empty soliloquised solecisms

Dead eyed,

Heart stammers .

 Side by side a pack of soulless zombies.