October 2011
55 posts
1 tag
Dirty dirty stopout, in last night’s corset, She wandered between the trees, wide eyes And it’s not something in the water but the blood Making the shadow patterns so enchanting And the greens so soft and comforting. The air tastes fizzy, acidic to her Who doesn’t know whose air it Is any way. Those footfalls Were perfect, fated to be And her boots took on this Weightless...
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I wanted a chiffon blouse, A heavy perfume, Morning sunlight and dew, A few bars of quietest soundtrack.
I got an empty block of flats, Abandoned salt mines.
The collective experience tends to be more immediate than a single situation, in my mind and my writing. Pulling from a single source isn’t something I find entertaining or engaging.
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Some poems are fact And other ones are fiction. Mostly, lines are blurred.
This morning, while I was waiting for buses (as seems to be my constant condition- always waiting to be moved on to the next thing) I had an unusually brilliant idea for a story of all things. Because of this I might give NaNoWriMo a crack this year.
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Me and my runaway mouth With an icy sigh, Separate the sucrose sucrose syllables From the conversationalists; Don’t lie to those you like talking to.
Consonants caught in my teeth, I’m stumbling over myself In a rush from a house where “You talk loud and fast or you don’t talk at all”
Clockwork lungs, Doll-eyes, glassy, And mechanical hands That I talk an awful lot...
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amoralfictionalism-deactivated2 asked: I would comment--from time to time--if you're open to it, but I can't reply to your posts. Because you're not following me? ;)
I’d love more in-depth opinions of my writing, and criticisms. “Liking” things is all well and good but it’d be better to improve than to be appreciated.
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Paintwork
When you handed me a blurred setting Silver-platter-style I guessed that Today was mine and mine alone. I was wrong. The back seat, familiar friend, Became more and more the court Bench, the meeting room, the Witness stand. Mama, Papa, you seemed to play A game of controlling, marionette And baby-doll to your God complex, My limbs limp. Loudmouthed loudmouthed little girl Learned to sew herself...
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Aching fingers walked themselves Up and down my crumbling spine And I step outside for a fifth Cigarette break from socialising. Heavy breath was my thing In one fashion or another, like Fingers caught in fishnets and Hips that roll like waterfalls.
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You can’t keep a string of words around your neck, A handful of them safe inside your pocket, A rhyme at night by your bedside, Metaphor in your wallet.
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Laughing Girl, Laughing Girl, your bent-double outbursts hide you away from so many things. I should pull on your little puppet strings, upright and eye-level, but you dragged the ends away. You just had to see the show, didn’t you? You had to dance her steps and look for the joke, feel the funny side. We’re not two sides of a coin, all I can feel is your pull yet your eyes feel like...
I don’t write about love. Ever. I figure since other people feel they can do it then I’ll leave it to them.
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I’m not sure to whom my mouth belongs; An accidental slip of the tongue Has got me into trouble more times Than I have fingers, whine and wine Collaborate and conspire, creating the Target, sitting duck next to the superior.
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So I’ll stop taking the tablets And the friendly advice, dusted With sugar, stop going for walks Not by myself, stop the nights Out in hope and resign to coping With a bottle by myself, quit Pining for a hand, an ear, give Up the charitable disposition And take down the self-defence.
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Boy, panting, on a hardwood floor, You are not to be my evening. Fifteen minutes at best, by love, The fresh air is calling; dressed And then another cigarette and Tears and tears and I’ll hear you Offer something kind but the last Gift was short-lived and I’m tired Of windows into this morning.
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You open your mouth to smile And I have to hold back a whine- Your teeth all sit steady In a self-contained line But sinking into my shoulder, God that would be sublime.
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Clawed hands have always been the ones to hold mine, Ancient, rusted tight shut across my soft cold fingers. Pulled away from the roadside, the cars, headlights shining, And I’m pulled in line with the wrought iron fencing. There’s sugar on the floor and I’d no time to put socks on So each small pain underfoot is both sharp and sickly-sweet And as it tears its way steadily into...
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I stood under the hot water, washing sitting-room floor dirt from my hair. Repeating the patterns that had been traced, impatient hands replaced with fingers pulling away the memory marked in saline paints.
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Burning Phonebooks
Pride is not your weakness More a fleeting sense of doubt, And the frosted glass flowers Of the small hours are the Bouquet of non-existent Anniversary, early Winter nights curled up by Warm sentiments, flights of Fantasy echo in the Shape the hole makes.
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Walking between refridgerated coffins, Hands smelling of money, Secrets on my shoulders that I could anchor down so many with. A box of flesh three hours cold Radiates the guilt from my Stomach with all the force Old life can bring, I’m Lost in a cold plastic jungle, Ghost of an abbatoir ringing In my ears, like you.
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A change took place between the lights, Something took flight and I held in my palm The very echo of a souvenier given by A stale evening and something intangible. Pain, reaching along every pathway, the Lost art of healing echoes in your parked Car at the train station, volume up and Windows down. These stitches you tried to Apply were the things that remained, not the Words you tried to shove...
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Bury me in mornings And open the curtain To something I’ve never tried To run away from. Your mouth is an angry tear In the fabric of the evening Which I can’t sew shut.
I let decisions go So I’ve not got the guilt of control.
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Clouds part so quickly And I am bathed in cold. The sun was dissapointing, Or at least that’s what I’m told. It’s hidden soon again; How dare it be so bold
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Half-hour turned to three. I turned to pressing keys. I didn’t want to wake Anyone but me, Shift this numbing ache.
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There was something about the snow that really unnnerved me. It felt, at times, like a blanket, pasted over the foreground to cover up something more sinister. When I was old enough to know about murder I used to think it could be hiding a body, but then I learned the coating would melt unless the corpse was already cold.
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A cry of stone stirred me; Cold, harsh, Earth’s baby. We’d been wandering for hours so As much as we should like to try, There was no place left to go Where we could run and hide. Tap shoes tap shoes on the kitchen floor; I’ve the time to choose, but I know not what for. Slate-tiled roofs drew spirals in eyes So I could not stop staring. Perversion of nature, daring To be heard...
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Surely a sunrise Shouldn’t dictate my day, But pathetic fallacy gets in the way. Today’s was cold and grey.
Sleep seemed futile like every other night, And my worries of being a cliché were Stolen by the morning light, and the Vodka in my coffee didn’t hurt either.
Baby brickwork patterned the scene And a kitchen immaculate my seemingly Sparkling foreground. I could feel...
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I sat with a small cup of tea in my hands, cross-legged on the floor. The room was dark as the sun had set forever ago, and I just hadn’t the heart to shut the curtains. I was sat dead centre of the grey carpet, teapot by my left knee and phone by my right. My day had been glossy-paged, glazed over, gliding from place to place. I was consumed with the thoughts of tomorrow and now...
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There’s been something in the water From day one. You always were the fun- Ruiner, the one to break the magic. You had a flair for the dramatic that Was ever-present, always there.
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There was something stirring in the air, Slowly at first, a leaf over paving stones And the cars were driving by faster and Faster pulling warm breeze along faster And faster. He opened his pocket to look For a lighter and he lost the fight but found- A tighter fit. He lifted his arms and moved In his jacket. Stood on his toes and lifted his arms. Just a bit. The pavement was empty all morning...
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You got greedy, and exhausted everything I could have asked you about. Now there’s nothing left for me to ask. Perhaps (unintentionally) it’s my turn to be cold and distant, to be the one with the one-word answers that make you nauseous, to be the one with teeth in someone else’s neck, the one with the louder laugh.
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I’m giving you up, You bad habit. You never did seem to grasp it- The thought that life’s not always mutual, And sometimes a darkened city Is better than a home-town. You’re the scar tissue in my throat, The aftermath of aching bones, The worst kind of neutral. You’re a collective and the individual, You’re a type, and one person, Whom I found all too believable.
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There are very few people I can bear to look at for more than two minutes. Something about people just makes me so uncomfortable, the fact I can learn so much by just watching them terrifies me because hell, what can they see? I have found some exceptions to the rule.
”I don’t want to terrify you, but you are beautiful. I can honestly look at you for hours. You’re just...
1 tag
So I’ve set up another blog (MarmiteHeart) for reblogs and inspiration and pretty things and the such. Or something.
6 tags
A waltz-like time signature stirred me awake. Felt a very fitting start today. Pathetic fallacy the icing on the cake; A storm about to break.
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Good morning good morning Bright-and-early one-pee-em Swing my legs out of bed and pull them in again. I tried. Success. Get out of bed, and dressed, Amble down stairs, Pretend to try to eat. Prepare myself for the inevitable phonecall, Knocking on the door, Email. “We should talk more About why you’re so quiet.” Why? I tried it Last week and you fucked off to go See...
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Buy me a house and sketch in the furniture, shade in the table, paint on the bed. Give me a crayon background and watercolour windows, a floor to keep me anchored. Draw in each wall, the boundaries and lines, and I’ll obey the rules. Lead becomes law. The ages and dates that you pencil in the corner can be the ones I go by. You draw in the details. A stroke, a brush, we could give it some...
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Slapdash silly half-decisions can be read from a distance, in purples and reds and raised surface, in an averted glance or abrupt stop in talk. We all take it differently, some harder than others. Sometimes the parts are fine but the unit’s broken. Sometimes a faulty part makes it all fall to pieces.
7 tags
You’ve had the time to make amends, and let alone little boys- The world waits for no man. You can’t fuck me (over) again.
How would you guys feel about more spoken/more visual stuff being put up here? I did upload a recording a long while ago and it was pretty well received.
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Where did you all go? Was there a meeting that I missed? When I closed my eyes to kiss Did I miss the neon sign? Deaf to the air raid sirens That called evacuation, Cause of the hurricane That swept you all inside.
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Tiny frosty teeth to bite across my shoulders Tiny frosty fingers to trace along my hand
I am autumnussexual And hiemsromantic. An attraction to the cold, A perversion for the dark.
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Ode to my fucking toothache
Oh wisdom tooth, you hurt like a bitch, Why are you coming through? Oh wisdom tooth, oh wisdom tooth, Oh how I hate you.
Oh wisdom tooth, you loner, You push away my other teeth. Oh wisdom tooth, oh wisdom tooth, Why did you hide beneath?
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Tiny fingerprints trail along black, So rare we see when I held the handlebars, Took hold of the reins.
6 tags
We decided to take a walk through the woods near his. The trees were lit up by something I couldn’t see, but surely it wasn’t the sun. The smell of warm earth and clean air were almost invasive. My favourite perfume. I could feel the hot stones through my shoes, they had soaked up a day’s worth of sunshine. Our speed was somewhere between a march and a ramble but it didn’t really matter. We...
6 tags
I could see them from my bedroom, walking up my drive hand in hand. I held onto the windowsill for dear life and prayed that the net curtains wouldn’t betray me. They were smiling and laughing. Fuckers. The doorbell went three times. They knocked. Why would I answer? He brought her. The bastard. Once they’d laughed their way back up the drive and I lost sight of them I felt just as lost. I...
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A first, a second, I’m still not accustomed. I’ve a foul mouth and you’ve begun to take note that it shows, it shows, when I begin to get lost. My mouth starts running away with me. It takes a while for me to feel at home, it could be minutes or years but I live on a separate time scale. I’m sleeping over a thousand goodbyes I never managed to say; I never let myself. I’ve torn myself some...
