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.
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.
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 *
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
Post traumatic disroder
Borderline personality disorder
obsessive compulsive disorder
attempts to get it right
a perfectionists manual in self destruction.
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 .
language-so i bleat instead of weep my tears.
The calm before the storm.
I break my fast musing over my odds of being crazier than the norm.
— Brain sensory overload — the cranium structure is deceiving in its form.
The third eye lazily flickers in a state of REM.
an attempt to channel my inner chakra.
I’ve resorted to stick-on Googly eyes to play the part of spiritualist guru, sipping on high tea, to awaken my inner rapture.
Dear Goddess Kali, can you save me from the howling winds?
The mooing cows spinning around me
moaning gutturally for their new fateful flight as fledgelings?
My Glasshouse shatters into a myriad of snow flaked, razor-sharp, jagged pieces.
unable to repair the damage.
Take a searing hot iron to my face to smooth out the grimace in my features.
Sacerdotal screams interrupt the night — another man stolen from his lullaby.
brazen in their efforts to destroy,
my favourite playlist titled: sweet dreams.
behind the thousands of words, I’ve ploughed through with oars
Where will I be?
Will I have sailed?
Will I capsize?
Will I have the ability to walk?
Will I be a cripple, dragging myself by the elbows under a storm pelted bleached , grainy beach?
The Temptations won’t knock
They will saunter in.
Oh, it’s to be expected.
I refuse to fall to my knees
swearing my allegiance to make another man’s family richer
Than see mine indicted.
I’d sooner sit on a floor, covered in colours of paint and corners lit with the smiles of my loves.
I’d sooner watch paint dry or read a screenplay loosely based on what I know about when life comes to rouse me with rough pushes or shoves.
Elements balance my kinetic,
complex feelings of despair.
Change comes with a promise.
Fear comes with very little solace.
Motion to a new position –
don’t cower from success
It might even suit your current attire and inner prowess.
My time to deliver.
Get my due.
For me and my few.
My kind words are still here and my support?
I have some to spare.
I won’t waste it on those who don’t reciprocate
The err is but their own.
Chosen to remain frozen-staring down a hall of, pale, mirrored self-reflection.
unable to see
they are not the only ones
in need of encouragement or care.
I swill down the remnants of this blessed day with a bitter tea.
I clamour to suppress my applause.
I catch out the dawn rising with a yawn unashamed ,gloriously
I’m no longer afraid to be the lunatic.
I’ve seen the powers of nature.
Forces of rage.
still, waters run deep.
This insanity is something I hold dear to me-
The great mother gave it to me-
I will set with the sun
It’s my duty to consummate all that is sacred.
Revised stream of consciousness — borderline poetry.
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.
rouge screen screams with a tremulous beep.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
Rebel against their reproductive nature.
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.
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.
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 —
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.
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, 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.
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.
Breath wanton to exhale.
*Just something I knocked up when I was in a bad head space a couple of months ago
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.
not even the one he now calls his true blood brother.
walls whisper inferior
by the son
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
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;
Devastation – pride miseducation
can be the only aftermath.
Girl weeps – reasoned with her heart – trouble found her passing inappropriate affection.
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.
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.
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
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.