Wither Strength

These memory-threads, they've seen it all.

With sheer relief I watch them fall.

These tresses teased, consuming time

Created an image that was not mine.

Felt myself wither with the plait of each curl

Replaced with conservatories, patios,pearls.

Lachrymose points of fossilized light

Now passive aggressive and weak in a fight.

Almost as if my spirit was there,

Split at the ends and bleached and threadbare.

Menfolk seem saddened, “I preferred it before”

-          Historically, long and loose signified whore.

We have now the Vogue bob, the post-divorce crop

Meaning strong and professional. It’s a visual full stop.

Which brings me to Samson. I read with fresh eyes

The rewritten truth behind legendary lies.

It could never be seen that Delilah had strength

Or that it diminished as her hair grew in length.

She is painted as harlot, as betrayer, as thief

For disabling a terrorist who fought with mules teeth.

He destroyed a temple, killed thousands of men

But Delilah’s the villain? Pah! Think again.

His weakness for women she clearly exploited,

Earned his trust, passed her time and feigned her enjoyment

Over time introducing new tastes to his diet,

Soya, mint, coriander; she urged him, “Just try it.”

These anaphrodisiacs soon did the trick

And he gaped in dismay at his treacherous dick

As limply it hung there, refusing to play.

Delilah masked joy, knew the wrong words to say;

“What’s wrong with you Sammy? Are you not a man?

I've seen palm dates bigger. You’re reputation’s a sham”

And cruelly she laughed to drive the cut deeper

And insert in his subconscious brain a long sleeper.

Watching him crumble as once more she spoke:

“Your technique is shoddy and your cum face a joke”.

Her mission completed, her own head threads shorn,

Disguised as a man she escaped with the dawn.

To protect his secret and bury his shame

He shaved his own head and passed her the blame.

As excuses for impotence (don’t come) but go

This one is dramatic; distracting; for show.

And sad it is too, that his gore-fest career

Was ended through self-induced rumour mill fear

And not, as you thought, by his shiny bald pate.

Perhaps now a few more of you can relate

To a parable apropos basing your ego

On something as fragile as hair or libido.

And now you should know what’s important instead

Is the beauty and joy that’s found inside your head.

Robbie (a work in progress)

Memories bright as morning bells.
Sights, sensations, sounds and smells.
Midnight joy perambulations
Worlds of parallel imaginations
Bluntness and friendship of truisms sort
Escaping each from the battles we fought.
Misapprehensions, impressions first wrong
Bound by the echoes of under bridge songs.
Cherry coke and watching washed in sodium twilight's spoof.
DANC and wheely-planking, Bulgakov, Marquez and Deerhoof.

TO BE CONTINUED

Hog Blop

So, this is not a poem.

I am breaking with my usual style to take part in a Blog Hop, nominated as I was by my delightful sister. You can find her musings on all things literary, triathlon and movie based at:

http://bookwormsandcofeemonsters.wordpress.com

This hop is all about writers and specifically, female writers. That's a broad genre. Who knows what you may follow by following the threads? Certainly not I, but I urge you to do just that. You may discover a new favourite.

And so to the exposition:

What Am I Working On/Writing?

I am (now, as ever) working on about five different poems of different types, for different purposes. I am trying to assemble something for the ManxLitFest Poetry Slam. I entered last year (and won! Yay!) with my poems No Apologies and Mystery of the Moon. One is most whimsical and the other is almost conversational in tone. I need to be able to show diversity and the performance has to be polished. I should add, the competition isn't until September. I don't want to give away too much about that just yet.
I am also working on a present for someone, which is taking longer than I thought it would and frustrating me. I keep having to remind myself that I can't force the muse. If someone figures out a way to do that, though, please let me know.
I am working on a dystopian series of poems set in Itsnotareal Town. The first few of these are already up on the blog, but more are required. The characters come to me in fits and starts, though. Oftentimes they are inspired by people I meet and are the result of traits amplified or amalgamated as required.
There are always a myriad of other rhymes and patterns going on in my head at any one time. This means that I must carry a book and pen at all times. Writing for me is compulsive. If inspiration hits and I cannot find anywhere to write I tremble, stutter and flush.
Yes. I am addicted to writing poetry.

How Does My Work/Writing Differ From Others Of Its Genre?

I'm not sure what genre I actually belong to.
Poetry is such a wide field and the variations on themes are massive. I tend to write for performance, which can mean that as printed word, the rhythm or pace are lost. I like to read other poets and found the communities on Google+ were really helpful, inspiring and supportive. When I finally found the courage to perform in public, I have found the same with the Isle of Man Poetry Society. Perhaps my difference is that I am somewhat confessional, honest, sometimes brutally. It is often preferable to write about false situations, things outside our own lives. Reflective poetry can so often become indulgent. I try to allow myself these indulgences, but balance them with poems about the world.
I think good poetry is honest poetry.
It's all about the feels.

Why Do I Write What I Do?
Did I just answer this above by accident? Maybe.
I write to clear my head. When I have strong feelings about something I find it rattles about in my head until I scrawl it over the page. If this comes out as lucid thought, so much the better. If not, I'll keep hold of it and try to channel it into something later. Some of the poems I write have been inspired by couplets I wrote 10+ years ago.
I'm a mother to a five year old child as well as a full time pharmaceutical dispenser. I adore my son and thoroughly believe that he keeps me on the straight and narrow. Without him I may well have run away and joined the circus, or ended up dead in a ditch somewhere. He is a great inspiration and a hell of a drain on my available writing time. Swings and roundabouts (are also things we enjoy).
Other times I write to escape. Some of the worlds my poems are based in are mirrors of this one. Sometimes they're allegorical.
I enjoy lucid dreaming on a fairly regular basis, as well as Alice in Wonderland Syndrome which affords me certain sensations and experiences impossible on the physical plane. The challenge is to translate these into a format that other people can share.
I'm still working on that.

How Does My Writing Process Work?

The time I have for writing is, as you can imagine, minimal.
I find myself staying up until silly-o-clock to complete things. It's usually a case of gestating ideas for a long time until they burst forth, fully-formed in phrasing and meter from my subconscious. When I work on something specifically, I am rarely as happy with the result and cannot help myself but pick and poke at the final result, as if it is a wound that I won't let heal.
Maybe the chaos is as important as the inspiration. Maybe the chaos is the inspiration.

Performance, however is something I have to prepare for thoroughly. It is as important as the words written, for this is how I convey my poems. For this, I lock myself in the toilet in the garage, where there is a mirror and perform to myself. It probably looks and sounds crazy. I am judging my performance and practicing. I try alternative stresses, look myself in the eye and try to separate from the image in the mirror. I found it a very good way to overcome stage fright. (yes, I suffer with it. Badly. My legs shake and will not stop. One day they will probably give way).
I would urge anyone performing poetry to do this, rather than recording yourself and watching it back. It's not as scary or off-putting as the sound of your own recorded voice.

Who's Next?

Well, the first person in my chain is Susan. She writes and suchlike over at :
http://inthevortexofthewhirl.blogspot.com/
as well as curating the 25 Awesome Poets and Me on Google+. She's supportive, wise and a wonderful person to have in your creative life. Just knowing that she's out there in the world makes me a more creative person. I keep promising her I'll be back and creating more often soon, and I WILL.

The last person I am sending you to is Fatma. Find her at:
http://www.fatmalatif.blogspot.com/
I love that she writes what she feels, her experiences, her angers, her desires. I love that she is eloquent in a way I can never be, spinning phrases and paragraphs that sweep me into her world completely. I don't follow her as closely as I should, which means I am regularly able to binge on her writing. A treat I allow myself gleefully.

It's supposed to be three women, but I am limiting myself to my favourites (outside of my sister who directed you here, obviously). I hope you've not found my ramblings too repetitive or dull. I can't wait to see who this hops to next.
Thanks for reading. Xxxx

7 Year Bitch

When did what we were give way
to what we have become?
Which straw broke the way back?
When did we stop having fun?
When did I start expecting your lies?
When did it stop hurting?
When did we stop kissing goodbye?
That I didn't notice's the worst thing.
We stopped looking in each other's eyes
for answers, hope and mischief.
We stopped sharing all our jokes and dreams.
We bemoaned our own damn business.
The time has come to bridges build
or burn them to the ground.
Our relationship is gathering dust
in Romance's Lost and Found.

Columbina

Fizzing, I lie here.
Desirous pulses pooling.
Body stubbornly not cooling.
I turn to prevent my indiscretion.
Auto-scolding for the situation.
Dreams refuse to come.
True though, that this too shall pass.
Unfairly I speak of this.
Words take flight.
"If only, if only..."
so longs the short night.
A cage is a cage no matter its gilt
And the bars hardest to break
Are the ones that I built.

Maughold

Discoveries of coal-glowing idealists,
Humour and admirable women.
Leit- motifs, themes and long term schemes.
Music and compliments.
Co-operative, comparative,
Compassionate co-reminiscence.
Youthly revenge tales of kettle urination
And lofty architecture of social innovation.
Fiery doom salvation in the shape of an artist's foot.
Delicious savoury smells and quiche,
A stunning spotlight shot was took.
Pumpkinhood to be avoided
Caused a ghostly swift depart.
To each and everyone who stayed
I send you gladness from the heart.

In TIAs

They call it a stroke, but a stroke's a caress,
A present borne through gentleness.
T'would be better to call it a bolt from the blue,
A malfunction of synapses- give it its due.
This burgalar of words.
This remover of movements.
Imprisoning souls in disconnected flesh.
Self-enforced censorship, unable to express.
The Orwellian Nightmare of frustra-lingua.
(feelings unnamed continue to exist)
Inside this less-than-lustrous figure
The personality refuses to cease and desist.
Surreal conversations
rebuild the connections
and help to recover the words.
It emerged to me
the best neuro-surgery
is performed in the theatre of the absurd.

Bis

Our Archduke's hard to pinpoint
But in rearview will come clear.
I'm watching repeats of the 20th
And foretelling the future in fear.
With the crash and the olympics
It's pricklingly familiar.
Persecution of strangers
Genocide and paedophilia.
We're making do and mending.
We're choosing heat or food.
There's a palpable discomfort
in the national mood.
We're policed and suspicious
with polarised media input.
The labour market's vicious
And available help's getting cut.
Can we collect Pandora's strays
before they run a-mock?
Or are the raptors swooping hard
and on this path we're locked?
We've forgotton the lessons we learned
And it's going to cost us dear.
I'm watching repeats of the 20th
And foretelling the future in fear.

Accidental

Malformed.
Miscreated.
Discombobulated.
Disconsolate.
Bereft.
Endeavours.
Enburdened.
Encapsulated.
Entropy.
Desolate.
Disinterested.
Dance.
Discovery.
Discography.
Divine.

The Dinner Ladies in the Chronic Canteen

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills"

Privy to knowledge that would make others squirm
We know how to be patient and when to be firm.
We sweat in the Summer and freeze in the Winter
but here is darkly comic. It's Irvine Welsh, not Pinter.
Our own peculiarities seem normal by comparison
to our regulars who haunt the place with dead eyes and abandonment.
Our unbecoming uniforms are shabby at their best
(and as there's nothing nice to say, I won't describe the rest).

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills".

For each and every script we cross, the most we can is done.
And amidst abuse, disease and death, that "thank you" is hard won.
We work to bones day in, day out and wake at four in the morning
from drug addled dreams from incidental exposure and professional doubts a-gnawing.
We face each day with optimism and a damn-strong caffiene crutch
to kick those clouding dreams away and whimsy into touch.
When an error costs a life we can't afford to drift along.
This is an "elementary service job"?
You couldn't be more wrong.

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills".

Eviscerator of Lions

Forever fancy-dressed
In costumes that hide in plain view.
Self-betraying underachiever
Charges forward with a smile on her face.
Sleeps a little. Dreams a lot.
Gazing from above without looking down.
Magnificent manipulative marbles.
A swift kick ensures compliance.
From afar she is elegant, alien, inscrutable.
From aside she is patchworked oversized body parts.
Allow her to run and she thrives.
In a limited pool she is surplus.
And culled.

A Beautiful Mind

As older I grow, the more that I know
and learnings I should share.
A pretty young face and adventurous tastes
can lead you anywhere.
But you must learn to say no. You reap what you sow
and the world is full of sharks.
When your looks start to fade and you can't on them trade
and you know you know nothing of quarks.
By all means enjoy the power of coy-
exploitation cuts both ways-
but use your brain more, it's your future for sure
and beauty is often a phase.
Learn a language, a trade, your brain marinade
in knowledge occid- and oriental,
so when you're short on coffers you've plenty of offers.
You'll be useful, not just ornamental.

Textured Echoes

I whisper words of long lost loves
and could-have-beens and never-was
and remind myself of times there were
when She was alive and I was her.

"Oh woe is me, stuck in a tree, away from thee, my tripadee"

When I received messages, letters and texts
and my wandering loins could assent or object.
When make up would sweat-run and clothing I'd doff.
Dancing and dancing in basements and lofts.

"I'm very, very, very, very close to loving you. All I need is your permission."

Wandering willful unburdened and faithless.
Thinner and fitter and sharper and shameless.
Giving false names and numbers to all the unchosen
and hickies and mono to the favoured unspoken.

"You could  never be a dog to me. Not something to be possessed but something wild that makes you grateful for the time you give me."

And though old echoes lift the curve when recalled to banish glum me,
None resonate with half the verve of
"I love you so much, Mummy".

Itsnotareal Town

Itsnotareal Town
was once a thriving centre
with market-bustle busy-ness
and off-season in the Winter.
A quaint and happy tourist trap.
A pleasant place to live.
But the puppet masters scrapped all that
and another role did give.
Through cuts and trims to grants and funds
and the odd outright veto.
Less transport links and fewer jobs-
it's not a place to go.
The residents all grind along
but no one seems to leave.
This is because it's an experiment
from which there's no reprieve.
The shop staff, cleaners, business suits,
The dossers on the street,
they're to-a-man nuts, they're fruity loops,
they march to a different beat.
Each living their own delusion,
some reprogrammed to believe
that where they are isn't prison,
that they're free to up and leave.
Oblivious that each drama
is an engineered attack,
so They can adjust the drugs in the water
until they no longer fight back.
And scattered among are the "care staff"
to keep a gazeful watch
and make sure that they stay on Their path
and don't just wander off.
Suspecting the truth is still better for Them;
justifying its purpose-
to round up the crazies, the para and then
to quell their rebellious murmurs.

Mango Kisses

Four words to describe what you are to me
Are: butterflies; sufficient; strong and synchronicity.
Knowing and accepting. As solid as the sea.
Scary-scared as much as I am. Ultimately free.
Knowing me and finding you makes sense in all the right ways.
But this much darkness multiplied may only leave us both crazed.
It's risky to adore you, does this way lie more pain?
but just being in your presence throws my caution to the rain.
Calming and unnerving, your subdermal inhalations
see more than I would ever show in normal situations.
I know this dreary outlook is not born but miscreated.
How did you end up like me? What miseries were fated?
I want to be myself with you, the one I always was.
You give be back my dignity, you give me back my buzz.
Knowing it's requited is a new challenge to face.
It's usually a mystery. It's usually a race.
Am I prepared for this connection?
This can't be yet more misdirection
But is madness apace?
Apace? Afoot! I've lost my words!
No more emanuensis,
but me again. I've found myself,
a clumsy, care-full priestess.
I love the smell of morning-you,
of you in cogitation.
I love the way you hold your face, your love of information.
I want to know your everything,
I want to let you know me.
But will this knowledge burn us both?
Or will it set us both free?

Diary Entry - 25th November 2007

Found a flower 29th October. A red carnation, on Claudio's way back from a baptism in Milan. Today, the 25th of November- it is still as fresh as the day we found it. At first we thought it was quite sinister. But, then Claudio realised it was so well preaerved for the simple and totally logical reason that it was frozen.
That kitchen is so cold it is a joke.
Domestic economy through the very nature of poverty- the very opposite of tragedy!

Paris 2

I relearned what it is like to be thirteen years old
And carefully ignored my heart-shaped gaping bleeding hole.
I'm free to roam the world, I'm free to up and run away.
But now there is no "to" and so I go wheree're I may.
A drifting soul, a poltergeist, a harpy, a banshee.
All terminal romantics. All terminally me.
My time of self-exile has passed
I came to mend my fractured heart.
Above its shards I stand aghast.
Detached, dejectedly.

Reformed Character

I think on lessons from regrets,
But pride and anger interject.
It's still too soon to take it back.
Despite maturity's honesty and hindsight's facts.
Knowledge is different from acceptance
and I'm blinded by my past intentions.
Malicious memories burst unbidden
To mind's forefront in crystal vision.
I squirm and squawk to off-key song
And guiltily know it. I was wrong.
How to put these things to bed,
Without time machine and kind things said.
And to seek those out to fix myself
Through closure is ego without stealth.
Moreover, they've all far moved on.
The hurt I caused is long, long gone.
Instead I carry their wounds within
And now seek virtue in place of sin.
I've imposed laws on supporating sores
From wallowing in filth with no just cause.
I've fenced my mind and gated my heart
And principled actions were a good place to start.
But self repair is reverse engineering
And I've left-handed hammers to fix the whole thing.
And I left the instrutions on a bus somewhere.
And I'm starting from a state of piss poor repair.
Challenge I like and challenged I am.
That's the best I can say.
But there's no deadlines or measures.
I just give a damn.
And I'm taking it day by day.

Lena; Jezebel; Amanda; Mail

The mass debates that circulate
On beauty, form and fuzz
Revolve, it seems, on lost esteem
And a bitchy, mean-girl buzz.
Too thin, too fat, too white, too black,
Too natural, too damn plastic.
Comments typed by trolls and beasts
Are cutting and sarcastic.
Don't know 'bout you, but I'm all appalled out.
The drama's made me weary.
There are too many things to scream about
And too few that make me cheery.
A body's a body's a body's a body.
Don't dictate forms and means.
A choice is a choice is a choice is a choice.
Mind your own behind the scenes.
Each of us have our own tastes.
It makes the world amazing.
And beauty is subjective
So stop the rants. Go raving.
Open your eyes, your mind and your heart
Let some fresh delight in.
You'll never know what you could be
Without the shameful spiting.
You get back what you give times three.
That much I know is true.
So give out love. It multiplies
And comes right on back to you.

Dreamtime

I dreamed I swam down Tynwald Street
Upon a cloud of milk.
I smiled and waved to passers-by,
to mongers of all ilk.
I front-crawled over tiny men
who ran away in fear
and rained liquorice blackcurrants
on the Pearl Girl by Vermeer.
Tethered dogs all tipped their hats
and offered me their pipes.
I laughed to see the bird ballet
in Nora Batty tights.
I stopped outside the milliner
to joke with a singing saw
but treading milk makes butter
and I fell onto the floor.
My greasy coating sparked a thought,
I jumped into the sea
and butterflew myself away
to Elysium's blossomed lea.

Three Times A Lady

Here she comes, ringing the constants.
Holding the world in her manically proprietous glare,
anticipating offence,
with perpetually raised eyebrows.
She purses her lips.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Her world view skewed by rules and numbers.
Attempt to alter a single thing
and she will slay you.
Her disappointment is her most powerful weapon.
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"
Treat her with deference
"Thank you, Miss"
Fulfill your obligations. Timely. Polite.
She rewards you by relaxing
and connecting as much as she can.
"Are they all here?"
Count them 3 times.
"Are they all here?"
Count them 3 times.
"Are they all here?"
Count them 3 times.

Watch her shuffle away,
into the chaotic and treacherous world.
"Thank you, goodbye."
"Thank you, goodbye."
"Thank you, goodbye."

Lamb Appassionata

I had another of those conversations.
The ones that start with,
"Can I just have a word?"
and end with both parties disconsolate,
discombobulated,
sad and suspicious.
To have grown in such a way;
My gnarled roots, buds snipped before blooming;
have left me with bonsai faith.
A scale model of expectations.
1: disapppointment.
I am advised to choose the path of self respect.
To embrace short term discomfort,
to drink from the goblet of a life regained.
And to do all of this before my sweetness fades.
"It's not a question of can't or won't,
but of who is willing to makes the necessary sacrifices to achieve"
Sacrifices?
My body is long gone.
I am reclaiming my mind.
Dignity and joy are not far behind.
My advisor, martyred on the road of good intentions.
Now tells me it was all long suffering mistakes.
A warning, with urgency imparted.
I will not be your lamb.

"It is better to die standing than live forever on your knees"

The Poison Toad

The poison toad squats
as a mucilaginous spite-pat
over his ever-diminishing domain.
Occasionally he lumbers in
oozing bullious wheedles
claiming favours he is not owed.
Then releases false missives
to damage the truthful.

The drought is coming, toad-man.

The drought is coming.

The Great Flood

This place is awash
and for once it's not metaphorical.
Unsympathetic observers  remark that
it's hardly a world class disaster
whilst panicked mongers barricade doors
and recreate Cnut.
It is most certainly not safe to go into the water.
The spectacle draws folk from afar,
more so than official events.
Is this just street drama
in the theatre of the absurd?

Rum Goings On

Once upon a rum soaked night
The boy with scars external
Met the girl with scars internal.
Her asbestos heart was set alight.
The scars began to fade.

They shared a quiet privacy
Public personas shed like skins
Intimate darkness lets light begin
A moment stolen in the dawn
Her tarnished soul was saved.

The first in years to know her past.
Midnight black and blue regrets
With all the memories he forgets
The die of loss is long since cast.
With sorrow this road's paved.

Once upon some rum soaked laughter
The girl with scars internal
loved the boy with scars external.
They shared a happy ever after
Brief but pure and sweetly grave.

Malcontented Walrus Man

Somehow he oozes free
from a car designed for a being
a fraction of his mass.
Ego-swollen, he appears to have made
an inescapable life jacket of his self importance.
His tiny, malice-filled head and disproportionately scrawny neck
are the knot on his body's balloon.
He patronises women
while imagining them naked.
Leering at their turned backs.
Sycophantic to their faces.
Bullying and deceitful
he counts tears and anguish as conquests.
I wonder, will he ever taste his own medicine?
Chaos and finger-pointing, gossip and harrasssment.
He does not deserve compassion.

Tuba Weasel

It is a testament to psychiatry
and a chip on her lumpy shoulders
that she is still alive.
Once so sensible by profession
now a narcissistic hysteric.
Her potato face over-condimented
with all-too-ready tears.
I dread to hear her wheedle,
to see her drunken-spider hand.
I understand her banishment.
I wonder if she'll feel relief
the day she finally gets her way.
Or if she'll feel only regret
at having worked so hard at something
inevitable.

18th Century Man

He is jarring against
the concrete, high street, 60% viscose, quick fix, app twisted backdrop.
He swims into focus-
rough hands, soft eyes, timeless face.
Canvas trousers and half tucked shirt.
Kindly, undistracted, universally caring.
His portal is behind an unremarkable, once well painted, brown gate.
I wonder if he notices when he emerges into this era?
He doesn't seem to.
I wonder is it a portal of the body or the mind?
His bicycle and mother are well tended.
His auburn thatch is not.
Without a single note of irony,
he whistles.

I wonder.
Is it a portal of the body or the mind?

Call To Arms

Every day I read the news with growing trepidation.

It’s regression on a massive scale. The end of civilisation.

We’re not punishing those that caused this mess with lies, with greed, with ego.

But blaming folk who’ve nothing done and warring with nations we don’t know.

What year is this? Who’s in control? Where is Lady Justice?

She’s bound and gagged in a divan bed. Ransomed for the fame of her captress.

Of equal weight (or so we’re told) to celebrities, diets and twerking.

The blood on her sword is only her own so clearly, this system’s not working.

The children that need us the most,

Tragically fall through the ‘net

And children are taken when good parents seek help and hysterical healthcare objects.

Open your eyes and ignore the damned press! They have profits to make, don’t you see?

Horrors that happen go unreported and affect us – that’s you - and it’s me.

I do not believe it is really so hard to lay aside neighbourly spite

And just keep an eye out, get involved and speak up if something just doesn’t seem right.

Notice the pensioned! They are people too and their stories are going untold.

As we focus on disposable incomes of youth and deny our own growing old.

I don’t have the answers. I’m not the Messiah (or even a naughty boy),

I am just one person, sick of the nonsense and sick of acting coy.

I’m not asking for money, or a signed petition, or change in far flung lands.

I’m saying your community needs you before it ends up in God-knows-whose hands.

Get involved. Take an interest. Speak up! Go out!

Disenfranchisement is dead.

Earnestness is the future!

And without it?

Total extinction instead.

Recipe for Disaster

A handful of sugar.
A penny of salt.
A pinch for your thoughts,
your light and your faults.
A tight squeeze. A light squeeze.
Freshly squeezed orange
and you.
We squeezed into my single bed:
room enough for two.
But only room for one
in my heart and in my head.

Freshers Love

You tongue your way to my pleasure.

Fist claws cotton.

Breath escapes.

The film plays on -

Unwatched.

Sunlight plays on your spine.

Life continues below.

Our world is now.

If only I could remember your name.

Clown.

Just one more clown in his circus you are.
Such a public mockery.
You are a tool in his all-consuming self-love.
Unwilling to face the one way, blackhole nature of it all.
You stand in painted smile.
The audience watch clutching breath
for him to pull out the chair.
The ringmaster owns your eyes and time.
Are you so blinded by footlights
that you can truly call this
astounding self-degradation
love?

Just one more clown in his circus you are.
Watch the pretty girls lead the horses away.
The spectacle is leaving town.

Lazy Dreveries

I blow chains of momentary beauty
But they cannot capture the moments with you.
Watching the world hurry past
I saunter through thoughts idle and unworried.
I know that you will still be as imperfect
as the day you lent me your coat in the rain.
The old dog smell of wet leather
still warm from your body.
In death our flaws are in perfect perspective.
Who cares that you were always late?
now that you are.
 

06/04/04

As a teardrop I fall for you.
Melancholic. Mesmerised.
So far, so fast, so frail I fall.
Shattered before I crushed.
A stolen heartless kiss -
That thoughtless thief of trust.

Pools of blue that overflow.
Tissue peppered cheeks.
The condiments of grief.
I smile through gritted teeth.
And love love as my foe.

Hiding

Long sleeves. Long legs.
These lines are too telling.
I wish I could explain
how this pain helps that pain.
But language is limited.

20/03/2010 Dear Gio (but not for Gio)

Surrounded by vices as strange as sliced toast
Interacting with many half-living, half-ghost.
Some glowing brightly, some dulled by life's blade,
but everyone wants something from you, I'm afraid.
Some want your body, some want your mind
Some of them only want you to be kind.
The best are the ones who want you to be you
and the ones who just want you to smile.
The ones who will paint you with custard and glue
To away a fun little while.
Who'll help you survive, help you to say no,
teach you things about Glasgow you never would know.
Ride bikes with you, share with you, get you a job.
To share a good joke with, to share with a sob.
To drive one way round Nottingham, eight or nine times (!)
and hypnotise randoms with powers of rhyme.
A gallery cafe, a man in a dress
and all of the time at Paisley Road West.
The long walk home never seemed so long
when walking at five forty-five
And shiny posh bars never seemed so wrong.
You'd rather be seen in a dive.
And if you find these friends my boy, hold them tight.
They're rarer then wormholes, more precious than light
and all of the time that together you'd have
would be sacred, remembered, occasionally mad
but thoroughly lived - and that's the whole point.
In life's murky waters, I urge you: anoint!
Your life may transport you to a Dear Green Place
of culture, catastrophe, darkness and grace
and then, maybe then, you will make friends like these,
my long lost and ever-beloved Weegies.

Per Luciana Zapparoli - L'Anniversario D'Oro.

This

I drew this for my mother-in-law on the occasion of my in-laws' 50th wedding anniversary.

It is an image of her on her wedding day.

The "50 anni" on the top right is a dream, not even imagined to her on her wedding day.

All the things listed on the top left are the things that came to pass in their life together - the things she could have forseen: Children, love, problems, work, happiness, hard times, tears, grandchildren, friends, dreams.

The road she is walking is moving her from the past to the future.

The roots under her feet are the roots of their strong relationship, the things that have made their relationship work: Love; Family; Strength; Experience; Luck; Hope; Patience; Determination; Sacrifice; Humour; Morality; the Church; Propriety; Life Education; Faith (and faithfulness - the word is the same in Italian)

I know my sketching skills leave a lot to be desired, but hey. The idea was there, just not the technical ability. Perhaps with practice this is something I can work on.

14/10/13

I feel I am just waking up
from 10 years in Van Winkle dust.
Head is clearing, footsteps lighter.
Horizons wide and vision brighter.
Emotional ballast I've unburdened.
Old grievances I feel I've pardoned.
Not that I'll forget, of course,
But from that me I'm now divorced.

Is this me now growing up?
Or just a midlife crisis?
It's not too young, my half-full cup,
I'll probably die of bronchitis!
Those days we can't choose but to see,
when antibiotics don't work
because no company wants to fund
research with no glamorous perk.

I know what I want and how to get it.
All I need now is time.
And a canyon of work, of which I'm not afeared.
My life will be Reason from Rhyme.

Christmas 2002

Once there were three:
The magic number-
3 witches; 3 wishes; 3 wise men.
Maiden runs away; goes to see a crone.
The witch of the East
My, my - how she's grown.
They smile and compare notes
but will scars tell the whole story?

Then there were four.
Ugly; clunky; boxed.
4 sides. 4 corners. 4 angles.
Parallels everywhere.

There are no witches in mathematics.
Only mother's apples pi.

The Mermaid and The Sloth

Come and meet some friends of mine,
we'll go to where they stay
with toasting glasses held aloft
and witty repartee.
I'm sure we'll have a lovely time -
they're very welcoming.
They are the Mermaid and the Sloth
to them ourselves we'll bring.
Please don't mind their way with words.
Their oft-referenced archaic verse
is harmless at the very worst.
With intelligence they're cursed.
The Mermaid and the Sloth.

Mary Poppins

Idyllic, but my brain won't SHUT UP!

He Says, She Says

He says I'm not the me I was,
That I have changed irreparably.
He says we argue all the time.
Ironically, I disagree.
He says he looks at others now
And admits it's hungrily.
He says that there is nothing wrong,
then dredges fights long-dead to me.
He says he wants his favourite food;
My single staple kedgeree.

I says he spends no time with me.
I've substituted him because
we spend our evenings silently.
He is not moved by beat or rhyme
or language - aural gold to me.
I know I've changed, but badly? How?
It's all improvements I can see.
Does someone always end up wrong?
Or is it plainly sad to see
That Jude is our saint-patronly.

Dispensary Blues

I am sick of helping the sick
And getting nothing in return.
No sick pay, no thanks.
Just above minimum wage I earn.
I am sick of hearing how things will improve
As another friend's hours get cut or removed.
I am sick of the blame and the lawsuits I risk
Because of mis-prescribed medicines that do not exist.
The lack of support and unbearable pressure
When every day things just get worse and not better.
Vocations unvalued and talents deterred
instead of encouraged. Profits preferred.
Insomnia's nightmares curse all those that care.
Long term dispensers in this firm are rare.

Speaker Celebrity

Three years of ridding myself of my rage
left me bellaputrescent and old for my age.
I appear to you now as a mere wizened spectre;
A wrinkled and cynical regret collector.
My most squalid and heartbroken version of self.
Insurmountable walls built on negative wealth.
Don't judge me on all of my confident bluster.
The truth is so human, severely lacklustre.
The best metaphor is that I am a pearl;
A wist-wasteful woman in guise of a girl.
Layers of glamour, a heart made of sh**;
My place in this world an uncomfortable fit.
Now hollow of eye, of cheek and of heart
I fantasise daily of ways to depart
and romanticise leaving no remnant behind;
Of wiping all memories of me from all minds.
Don't get me wrong, it's not my own demise
that's driving me now - I'm no suicide.
I want retrospectively not to exist.
I would never have chosen a life such as this,
knowing now what I know. If I knew then
that my life would be guided by follies of men
so selfish and cold they can't even admit
when they've lied. Would I want it? Not in a fit!
They tell me that if I pretend long enough
-at happiness, love and all of that stuff-
that one day I'll wake up and I'll feel content
walking this finite and f***** firmament.
They tell me that life isn't really so bad,
that I am environmentally sad,
that all will improve, given hope, given time.
"It's just circumstantial. Try going outside."
So I straighten my face and strengthen my defense
And once more construct my perfected pretence -
That I'm choosing to live, I've the world on a plate.
That I'm not just a selfish and boring ingrate.
And who knows what will be in the days still to come?
Not me, if I freak, chicken out and just run.
Now I bid you good day, tip my hat, flash a smile
and invite you to wander this path for a while
and keep walking until we emerge in the sun.
For my life in the shadows is near enough done.

Surely?

17/02/08 The Unit

Hang ups fall of in The Basement.
Woven webs hang fallen girls.
Pricey silence and finite liberty.
Safety in networking.
Too tangled to drop
Politics. No peace.
Never released.
To fall is freedom. To land, death.
Drop - Stumble - Trip - Tumble
Care full of the key
Whole
A turned ankle. A twisted cheek
Bruised blush and a greying glow.
Disco damaged discs.
Ribs and wrists resist.
Curiosity provokes.
Cowardice persists.
Is there anything behind those eyes anymore?

Life as a Legal Drug Dealer

Daily I hunch as a pensive Paolo
Upon the stool of derailed dreams.
Bathing in burning garlic fumes
and the stench of chip fat
long since past its best.
Squinting at the scores on miracle cures
purporting to prolong a painful life.
Apothecary's emanuensis.
Tightrope ballerina between
The Junky
and
The Medicated.
I paddle in their suffering,
bailing out water where I can.
These dosette boats only float for so long.
When they finally drown
I step out.
And carefully dry the skin between my toes.

Roundhouse, London, 12/07/2013

I steamed and spun one London night,
As trains did long ago.
Euphoria; experimental;
Honesty and woe.
My facial vines of eyeliner
mystified the wasted
and a one-off song from Palmer's tongue
set straight the rag-most-hated.
Unexpected overwhelm
and floodgates rattled open.
Lost and then the Bed Song
un-numbed my heart so broken.
The gift she gave - an awesome show.
An unguarded performance.
The gift I took - the strength to glow
and keep on moving forwards.

Lorrainespotting

Choose existence. Choose to talk to your firiends. Choose to get the fuck on with it, even if it means you'll have bad dreams. Choose to give affection to those who deserve it. Choose to tell the others to fuck off. Choose to ignore paranoia. Choose to dance. Choose laughter and 6AM eternal.Choose reality. Choose yourself. Choose to remember the choices you have made. Choose not to regret. Choose hope over nostalgia. Choose everything. Choose to be fabulous.

Choose Lorraine.

Return from Sonar

The signs above my head read thusly:
It is 18 degrees C.
It is 4:42 AM
It is prohibited to smoke.
I must wear a seat-belt.
To my right, Americans who are in a pissed off mood with each other.
To my left, the speedy retreat of the Spanish countryside and the lights of Barcelona.
It is now 17 degrees C.
It is now 4:44 AM.
I still can't smoke.
I've taking my seat-belt off.
I am listening to E talking and contemplating my joyful life.
My arse is getting numb.
Bloody rock hard coach seats.
And me with no padding.
My mouth is as dry as a badger and twice as furry.
It is 17 degrees C.
It is 4:47 AM
I really want a fag now.
Fiddling with seat-belt instead.