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Last Updated:
Sep 6, 2008

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Gender: Female
Status: In a Relationship
Age: 31
Sign: Scorpio

City: Cloud-land
State: Northeast
Country: UK

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Sunday, August 24, 2008

Untitled
Current mood: content
Category: Writing and Poetry

From one to another we float;

On words, on sighs,

On distance

Riding metaphors.

Unrequited wishes

Stagger through spaces

Belonging to ragged cracks

Forever dancing with

The probability of dust.

Chances are like nettles;

The allure of stinging edges

Tangles fingers;

Tumbles tongues into abysses

Full of deep, echo-silence.

Dreams imagine knitting;

Needles birth umbilical-scarves

With enough wish-strength

To hang us;

Or bridge the unending chasm

Of Life's barbed solitude

2:23 AM - 5 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

I AM
Current mood: savage
Category: Writing and Poetry

I am the sly shadow crawling sunshine moments away;

A lazy day interrupted by news down a crackling line;

The divine realisation that Life is in cahoots with Death;

That tortured last breath of Hope, calling home, all alone;

The glass of the mirror concealing the treacherous truth;

A fickle basket full of proof that Happilys swallow wishes whole;

That one perfect goal discarded on a whispery whim, for him;

The tired comma's back contemplating edges and empty lines;

That one time when the thrill of jumping coincides with winds;

The steady tinge of decay wrinkling nostrils in this today;

The slithery voice confusing internal choices into rash decisions;

The precision of a knife, used like a shout, to cower fearless life;

The monster with an angelic face pushing the hypodermic down;

A disguised clown with a bag full of laughs it's waiting to patiently drown;

That puppy so kicked it will willingling lick fingers painted with poison;

The mythical horizon where rainbows are the denizens fucking it up;

The sacred sip taken from Mozart's cup because of Temptation's rival;

The tribal genetic fault swimming extinction with every la petite mort;

And the unwary heart caught in the grip of love's cruel sickness;

The thickness of bonds gone wrong, their song, the ultimate weakness;

It's the fickleness of Fate, opening rusted gates, and dancing with this devil;

The hovel that is Heaven, the mistake that is God, and also this;

The random pourings of a wannabe poet too insignificant to matter.

Currently listening :
Black Market Music
By Placebo
Release date: 2001-05-08

6:34 AM - 8 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Sunday, August 10, 2008

A quiet pre-dawn emo-rant
Category: Writing and Poetry

A quiet pre-dawn emo-rant

Foolishly when we play with baskets, we lay all the eggs on top of each other, like delicate heads remembering a revolution. To us, that makes sense. Then, if we're feeling particularly reckless, we agitate all the issues until our skulls are full of freaky monsters with silver grins just waiting to sense a tremble along the strand.

We're not spiders though, more like flies with wasp qualities. Unintentionally hurting the very few we hold close. Our stings are warped. Maybe the shadows make it difficult? For we're always stinging ourselves the most. And, contrary to science, we still haven't built up sufficient resistance to just shrug them off like dandelion heads playing the seed-time game.

However, does it matter? We're writing these words just before dawn, the house is silent, the rooms are dead, the poltergeists we're supposed to marry aren't screwing with our heads. Just the heavy presence of assumptions are pulling the laughter lines south. Our mouths sometimes lose the art of 'smile', it's been a steady while, but it's building with invisible stones, and we're feeling totally alone.

Maybe it's our forever tangled hair, and the 'there' of another's letter-strokes? If we play the combs with enough risque beats, and we forget the neat whiskey trick of burning bridges just before dawn purely to conform with the 'us' we really are, will we shine? It could be divine. Or a messy disaster to repulse the floating super-ego master who never really wants to play.

Anyway, if fate has a face, we can lick it together (we've heard there's jam beneath the camouflage), whatever happens, the wasp-bitch part of us will get high and attempt to fly. It's a drug thing without that doctor, shooting down purple helicopters, and anchoring them to tomorrows not cowering beneath inpenetratable pink love-hearts.

I should have just kept haikuing I guess...

12:56 PM - 6 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Saturday, August 09, 2008

drunk on confusion
Current mood: okay
Category: Writing and Poetry

drunk on confusion

whenever this heavy confusion crown needs a polish

I miss the lightness of the halo I possessed at birth,

but it's lost somewhere between here and a foreign settee

and I've never been competent on my knees.

the Angel beneath the chip-shop sign is smiling

from a mouth shaped like an alluring flute-kiss,

his frozen wrists bleed glitter in an oblivious manner

as pigeons strut their voluptuous muses along Graffiti-lane.

the Beard-man decides to compliment the subtle way

my letters form into an enchanting label-sigh echo,

maybe if he acknowledges the whispering of the sea

my eyes will swallow-gulp this dream-tangled skyline?

in an alternative past, my artist mother is a Charcoal Alcoholic,

full of branches for my creative-less fingers to burn, especially

when the urge for smoke signals raises its prettily dramatic neck

above the trenches as all the silver devil-lovers happily slow dance.

but crows are still willing to salute my reckless chaos feet,

bare and incomplete within the subtleties of inspiration chains.

if I turn my ankle will you cushion the approaching surface

with words? will you be willing to fade my obscene obsession

with the tangled sharp edges I always colour Green?

Currently listening :
Grace
By Jeff Buckley
Release date: 1994-08-23

6:00 PM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Saturday, July 26, 2008

For A Branch
Current mood: blah
Category: Writing and Poetry

(a 'blah' half asleep pouring - it is, well, 'blah' ;)

For A Branch

be wary

dangling branch

summer's stubborn

interpretations

are tempting

autumn's whisper

the scarlet apple

still drugged

with potent symbolism

and synthetic

nonchalance

has lost its

letter-chains

f-u-c-k

has abandoned

the magic

u-c

and the fear that

wanders alphabets

is waiting

to chew

the roots

6:22 PM - 2 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

untitled bit of blah.
Current mood: frustrated
Category: Writing and Poetry

(Ah, 'tis a 'cheat' blog this time, I just realised I haven't stuck anything up for ages, so I'm using something I stuck in the forum the other day instead - and even that was technically a 'cheat'. This is really something I did a while ago, the original is a fair bit longer, so I 'fiddled' and cut it down to the required 250 words for the micro thread. I'm not sure what the heck I think of either version, if I'm honest ;)
(I can't write for toffee lately, I don't know what the bliddy hell is going on :/)

Untitled bit of blah.

She discovered the messy image between a copy of Romeo and Juliet. It fell to the floor with a delicate disregard of Shakespeare and tragedies. The pages it nestled against were smudged. A charcoal Rorschach test blended with sixteenth century expressions. Her eyes deciphered wings too broken too fly. A humourless smile scratched along her face, before folding in on itself.

The ragged piece of paper slunk against her polished black shoes. They were safe shoes, shoes to conform in. They served their purpose well. She flicked her foot impatiently, the image fell face down onto the sludgy brown carpet.

A bloated Blue Bottle droned between the rear of her head and the closed door. Summer music. Yeah. Perfect. The fly slumped itself onto the pages her fingers had half forgotten. She watched its iridescent body and eyelash legs skitter over the letters, its gluttonous mass consumed all but the capitalised R of the Romeo it finally came to rest over.

Maybe the heat had malevolent magic, or maybe some half hidden destructive streak took offence at the truth winking from the fly's consuming nature. Whatever forces were at work, the whole concept of life, and the inevitability of death, made the woman crunch the book closed. The fly, slaked on Summer's excesses, did not even attempt to save itself.

Just as he hadn't when the shadows decided to crawl in too close.

She picked up the drawing, her fingers caressed the image, then she ripped it into tiny pieces.

Currently listening :
Murder Ballads
By Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds
Release date: 1996-02-20

3:05 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, June 20, 2008

11pm
Current mood: content
Category: Writing and Poetry

(thank you Gaz and Nerys :)

whip-winds whistle
Hair into conjure-snakes
That sway through reeds.
The stolen scent of flowers
Nurtured by owners
Adept in green abuse unwary nostrils.

Fingers knot themselves with Time,
Doors grow restless of prison-frames.
They rattle esoteric discontent against the night.
Window panes regard an angry ocean-sky.
Dark clouds become brutish
Bruises clanging their blurred edges
Towards hostile siblings in thrall of discord.

There's a tension of agitation, and desperation.
An unblemished full moon being eaten
And regurgitated; filtered light
Tinges tense edges,
Shifts halos as minutes skitter past.
Moments of nothing, just clouds
Consuming this sky swollen with war.

And beneath it all;

An infatuated thought
Snuggles itself thorn-less

On sensory excess.

Currently listening :
Because of the Times
By Kings of Leon
Release date: 2007-04-03

12:56 AM - 13 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Monday, June 16, 2008

sticks and stones
Current mood: blah
Category: Writing and Poetry

sticks and stones...

She lies on the bathroom floor in the foetal position. Her eyes are closed. her naked skin has a blanket of goose bumps from the cold blue slate beneath her. She opens her eyes. Her thumb and forefinger pick at the black grout that holds the tiles in place. The ragged nails try to find some kind of flaw in the smooth line that runs from her fingers to the half open oak door. But it's perfect, not even a tiny grain of sand betrays it. She stops her search and becomes motionless. Her eyelids are heavy, it makes her whole body ache trying to keep them open, They drag and pull and resist. So she gives in. They close in victory.

may break my bones...

The razor is just above her, on the shelf next to the Paracetamols. They make good neighbours. One; sharp and sleek, masculine. The other; curved and crushable, feminine. Both very appealing. Her head says 'tablets', but her heart yearns for the romanticism of the razor. But pain has never been her thing. Part of the reason she needs to go. Life hurts and makes her ill, it stamps her down and tries to drown her, and she never learned to swim.

but names will never...

Doctors recite huge words about her and around her. Bi-polar, Major Depressive Disorder, Delusional Personality. And as these words mingle and mutate in the air, they create rain-clouds in her head. Rain clouds that need to explode. She tries pins, they don't work. They use needles, to bleed her and cure her and finally numb her. Disaster averted. Pressure lessens on the button in her head, seeking clouds.

hurt me...

The sun is hot. A butterfly floats over the fence and lands on the dirt path. It flaps its wings a few times, then stills. It is a Red Admiral. She admires it and thinks of pirates on the seas. She frowns. The ocean is where clouds are formed. She closes her eyes to block out the sky. If she keeps them shut long enough, the growing Cumulonimbus stalking the horizon should disappear.

Currently listening :
Black Market Music
By Placebo
Release date: 2001-05-08

11:34 PM - 6 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, May 23, 2008

Invoking Ghosts (rough draft)
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Writing and Poetry

Invoking Ghosts.

4am - and a birthday's done,

We're sitting on a verge,

You, me and Hair Girl

Eating triangles with no crusts.

Hair Girl's refusing the pleasure,

She's crying about curls lost

In a Baker's Desert, you laugh.

4am - and we're visiting the dead.

You're here instead of racing

The Sun's yawn at this

Precious unmoment of Dawn.

Blackbirds sing for the first Mourning,

Their gentle acts of welcome are

Lyrical fingers pulling the blanket

Universe's bike into verse.

4am - me, you, and Hair Girl knitting

With Daisies, you laugh as I fall

For a solitary Buttercup crown,

Smiling the confusion purple;

And I don't want to wake up.

You're whispering something secret,

A stream of stanzas against the

Thread I'm beginning to lose.
Something about triple Decker buses,

Unicorn wheels, reliving the dream

Of make believe Sense has packed on trees.

There's a shift along your grin-lines,

You're watching something

Me and Hair Girl cannot see.

A clock face with the minute hand

Seconds away from the shifting,

Then this agitation.

The silent Stars are shaking,

Indifferent Moon refuses

To refrain, or repeat the earnest

request you're speaking with

Eyes remembering that Death.

And now you're floored;

Shaking bones, and tongues,

And dreams too weak to exist

Under our belligerent Sun.

Your vapour-trail veins are open,

The dust of our histories keeps

Streaming away in grey.

Hair Girl's screaming into the neck

Of a bottle of Moonshine

She's too afraid to swallow,

And you're still on the floor,

And I'm dialling G-O-D into

The life machine that tangles

All our roots, and you're pointing

At these vivid blue boots on your feet;

Twitching Death, clicking and tricking

You back home, and I'm alone.

Wet cotton mocking a face,

And there's a crazy echo from Grace,

And Goodbyes too big to swallow.

It's just another day, the scratching ache

Of a fading dream is chasing

The shadows away; I wanted you to stay,

But the clock says 4-01,

And our brief, tangled moment

Is done.

Currently listening :
Black Market Music
By Placebo
Release date: 2001-05-08

9:01 AM - 10 Comments - 25 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Rabbit(meat)
Current mood: indifferent
Category: Writing and Poetry

I've become Rabbit
And my warren's full
Of lolling Fuck Offs
Lol-ing their fucking
Heads off.

I've become Rabbit(meat)
Unable to graffiti-fuck.

This Rabbit's fucked
And I don't give...

A fuck.

3:26 PM - 10 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment