Thursday, 29 December 2011

A Different Kind of Fix

What a state things are!

Continuum of sound filling the space all around, it could be perpetual darkness for the dumb but the blind are washed with a radiant revelry. It is in a land of fire and ice that the heart mends itself carefully and gently. Delicate precision of stitching could be found in the colours of a sunset, more beautiful than you'd see in a city.

Feeling for something new, softest felt brushes fingertips lightly. It is coarse in places but smooth too, after years of use being kept in a box. It's whispered the most wonderful ideas get kept hidden away in their too - that's what keeps it so soft and new.

A messy, unkempt mind.

The tree of life spread her roots so very deep and productively to ensure a solid foundation for which to flourish. Still, with time the leaves should fall and parts should die and disconnect. Should they get second life with reattachment later? Or is that even possible? Philosopher's wrote in some lunacy tongue and made it sound so appealing to Sanity's right mind.

Silk of ivory touches skin, mixed with an olive tone. They mesh together and find peace for the night with each others arms wrapped tightly. It was all in her mind of course, but phantom warmth is still found.

At least the tiles are clean. So it is time to write in great detail.

This clear liquid continues to pour, as a part of the sound continuum, and it untangles knots and removes the dirt. Fade away in this time and take no surprises as an unholy blessing.

"I am so sad since you went away"

I could not envision this for the end of a calendar. I really believe a part of me thought things would change, and maybe that is what is most painful of all. Maybe that is what makes optimism my best friend and greatest enemy. Thought is after all, only thought. Working for what, that is what I consider now. Empty as ever, I'm a glass however you want me. I'm meant to go back there but there's nothing here that makes a convincing argument (especially not the fairy king, who from way back when discussed matters of the court in such a personal fashion it almost seemed distressingly indecent). Full of flaws that will continue to repeat themselves under new disguises. I am full of so many holes that crack at the edges and create new ones. I wonder now when I forgot to feel the lingering guilt and chronic stabbing that should follow from these terrible blows. 'Give away all for free and be open'; that is one conclusion. Drink those drinks you can stand, play your favourite song, sit and (sometimes) live. It is such a tiresome business to pretend you feel full of life. This is a reflection, if you will.

We can blame so much on everything else for the sake of vanity, pride or fear. The mundane grows in our minds to become a heavy weight that should burden our shoulders. A shackle on the red raw wrists you own. Challenge, passion and enjoyment - is that not what we should take on and carry with our very minds and hands. Take your shut-up heart and consent to what you are feeling. If it may not be controlled, must we embrace what we are feeling (even if we hate to admit to it). Do we become ill of character to not accept, yet just as ill if we do? Goodbye to now.

I'll sit and watch the lights for one last night, just as they are, in mesmerising pattern. For after all, what is normal?

This place created here is healing but so bad for me, at times. A wrong tool, to make a wrong fix. I run away and the distance can be great. So I must talk to all who make yourselves known or do not wish to speak aloud for being here, now. Thank you for this, I realise I do not say it often enough. You are the brightest of starlings. Remember just how wonderful you are, often.

"I'm supposed to feel better, this madness supposed to end, I am cold tonight. I am cold tonight. I am cold, tonight."

Monday, 12 December 2011

Stay on My Side Tonight

We've been running so long our feet will just not touch the ground.

Christmas is meant to make you want to spend the time with the people you love and who just so very carefully return that too. Take care, dear darling. Wait till you're ready for the world.

Lights are flashing all around. Beautiful reds, greens and golds. They'll flash silver with the snow. Piano to fill a space in the background that's already been absorbed by magical spices and scents. Warm up by a fire, or even near the oven. Fill your heart with apple cinnamon and carefully wrap your gifts. Place them by a sparkling tree and stand back to admire the grandeur.

But you've known this scene a hundred times over.

In conversation: expectation to wish of all the warm things, but the reality is that I'll surprise you without love.

In writing this where do you go? The truth does not set you free.

"You do what you can, and when you can. No one can fault you for that."

Amid everything there are some things that we can hold on to.
Though spare a moment to consider that sometimes that grip may be loose.
This does not feel quite right.

Sit and endure the silence. With all the colours it can be just want, you need.

At least in all this there is a piano by the snow.

There is gold in your heart.

Friday, 25 November 2011

Face to Face on High Places

Rushing so frequently by and by - the people pass and notice nothing. No stopping in a crowd to spot a worried grimace or glittering tear forming in the corner of an eye. But those who only stop for beauty make sure it is not tragic first. They don't realise what they miss out on - though it isn't truly missing when it is choosing. This blank acceptance within society is a pillar block to towering democracy.

Learn to live with a kind girl. Who gets up out of bed, makes the tea and sits quietly with books. She remembers what to take to work and is considerate of what the day may need. Reliable and dependable, once too known as organised. Knowing her way around the house is second nature. Every nook and cranny has something hidden and somehow she knows what is in every single one. In study she could be absorbed, reciting all the minute details of her cases. This girl likes to fill the house with delicious scents and warmth, so it is welcoming should someone stop by. Fill conversation with talk of theories - even the most bizarre and crazy. She'll paint everything with colour, even if it is only available with black and white. Kindness is less expectant than most realise. Sometimes all this girl wants is to go out on the town. Curl up with the cat in the evening and enjoy every minute. It's hard to tell when she's quiet what she feels, without realising her face is grey. Turn a light on too quick and she'll sneeze - promise! She will repair your clothes and wounds without batting an eyelash. This girl wants to know everything about the geography of the world. Love given freely and laughter carelessly frittered away in the air, just like the glitter that seems to fill every room in the house (and cover her face). Guilt follows her. She will sacrifice herself for anything and all, even to give into a darkness she knows is evil. Which she believes can make her so very weak. She finds it hard telling others if she's having a bad day. This girl won't believe things to be firmly true unless you tell her without a flicker of doubt, she can't deny honesty. She prefers to live in another reality. If this girl had it her way she'd wish to have never tasted such bitterness, but more so wish that on all others. This girl would make you believe you knew everything about her, then leave you completely unsure.

She is so very deeply tired.

Those to lift and hold her so, take her to soft surroundings and lay her down gently. Wager that she shouldn't wish to wake from a tragic slumber that left her so whole. She thanks them with her heart always, and will try to tell them when possible.

This girl doesn't want to dissolve in the rain, though it pours and makes it hard for her to make sense of direction.

She wants to face the world again. Maybe.

Sunday, 20 November 2011

While Mortals Sleep

Delicately we carve out the details on how we wish to shape our lives. We're taking these tiny steps, one after another. Looking up slowly and turning away when we catch the eye of the smile greeting your own weary stare. Radiance is still too much to bare. You can always laugh with a hollow tune. There will forever be rain on the horizon because drought leads to pain. The cracks in the skin of the earth will be slowly healed, given the chance. Throw the water on too quickly, watch the freeze-thaw set in and sending you back to room 101. Does this mean we are trying? Working for something more than we ever dreamt the darkness would deliver. Up in the clouds, not caring for the dangers the sun presents (even though we are secretly willing to burn). I remember not to question the journey of others.

I heard there was this ideal, something to do with staying and never leaving. But we are only on borrowed time - all the doctors know that. You can see it in their eyes. Getting so tiresome of explaining the meaning of feelings so you can diagnose with paper and pen.
What if the blade slips and we cut out the good parts without meaning to? Does that make us foolish or simply human? If you do not recall them as 'good' then surely you have missed nothing at all.

Let's dance amongst the stars, they'll be distant at first but as you welcome them in they grow ever closer.

"O, thou art fairer than the evening's air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars,
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter,
When he'd appear'd to hapless Semele,
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms,
And none but thou shalt be my paramour"

Can you hold my hand, just not too tightly?
Remain on your mind.
Take something old and make it incredibly relevant.
It has hypophrenia written all over, and with so memory does improve greatly.
Would you like to know a secret?

Darling, you.

Thursday, 10 November 2011


Wanting a hole to form in the middle of the ground by my feet and swallow me whole. That way it doesn't have to burn away in my mind. It's a slow process, it slowly curls and expands, like when paper burns in the harth. You give in but not completely, because of the fear.

Longing that this would all end tonight. Gently and soundly, to drown so eloquently by letting the water creep in and take hold. It is warm to the skin over the bones, paint it red.

Crossing the vast skies and forests in a mind that sets them alight in passing. All behind is burnt to the very core. There is no rebirth here. I can not cross oceans now, they have dried up. All else seems to fall away.

Sat on the floor, it started out by staring at the sky but now have been transported somewhere totally different and the surface has disappeared from beneath you. Literal voice is lost but screaming, screaming, screaming echos mindfully. Can you find me here? Even in silence?

If only you could see me inside.
Only striving to be so very 'lovely'.
What have I done now?

Sunday, 6 November 2011

Cease to Begin

Watching a screen that plays on the flat surface in the corner of the room.
Tilt your head and the line becomes horizontal.
The horizon is in no mind but has weight heavily rested on the surface meeting the sea.
Friends they are, but will the strength stand the test of time under stranger's pressures?
The weight waits for no one, but everyone else stands still with anticipation.
Eyes watchful, glowing and searching.

Sometimes it is time to get away, far away.
Staying right where you are.
(Tucked under the covers)
(Hidden in the park)
(Sat in the window bay)
(Walking through falling leaves)
(Sip in the dim glow of emerald lamps with golden lace)
Sometimes you want it alone or together.
Sometimes is only sometimes.

Fireworks were my muse.
Even when the rain poured you could see their flare and colour.
Magic in darkness, illuminations also known as 'revolution'.
Favourite eve.

Wheezy and bedraggled.
Boxes marked for this and that.
Bottles for sleeping.

Hazy nights spent in a fever.
"File this, answer that."
Waterfalls in the night and just needing to be held down.
Silent and silver, sliding so smoothly.
Never understand anything.

And the screen repeats:
(Oh babe, I will always be waiting on you.)
(Oh babe, I will always be waiting on you.)
(Oh babe, I will always be waiting on you.)

Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Grey Matters

Like a sketch cartoon.

Standing on a little hill. Black lines that curve white. Let's play pretend and colour it green and say there's grass blowing in the breeze. Hills are always a little windy. There's a grey figure there, holding an umbrella unsure if the sky will rain. How long is unsure. It's grey as everyday. No clouds, just bland expanse. So instead standing and waiting is the only option. Watch birds flying away, somewhere warm and exotic - South. What was left here was none of our business. Coming and going. Answering phones and taking messages. How do you fill your day?

There still. Waving a little white flag, 'see me, see me'. As the birds pass over. They seem to take no notice. 'Little bird why do you fly away, take me with you.' Grabbed by talon and floating in a moonlit sky. Feet dangle and there is no fear for life. Mr James' said it was like walking in the air, and was right. Just feel the cool on your face and it's like a long awaited breath. Opening eyes. Sun coming up. Trees filled with orange flowers and red fruits. White mountains and vineyards further than you can make out. Imagination gone wild and leaked into reality. 'Leave me here, where it's beautiful and the land can shine - life can now be so magical. I remember a life once like this in a photograph.'

Fallen from the sky and landed softly on heels. It was good for a time but it couldn't be sustained. Flowers have to die and seasons make the mountains grow old. The fruits fell and rotted in the ground that turned hard and cold. Rain falls and washes away all the colour, again. Water colours are so unreliable. The paint box was out of empathy. 'Everything I touch turns to ruin', sleep tonight and forget the taste of tragedy. Back to a line drawing of black curving white.

The figure awoke unawares. Climbed to the top of a hill and stood with an umbrella, was it going to rain today?

Bringing mess into the patterns of other lives, how do you apologise for that? How to repair the damage and continue on in making improvements for the future so it 'doesn't happen again'. The truth is, of course it will happen again. There's no time limit on disaster and no exact science that can explain chaos theory. Mathematics tries so hard. No determined explanations for the chemical imbalances that make things crazy, "chan eil mi gu math idir". We're living in a world that is not our own but there will always be mystery, cruelty, beauty and sorrow in that. Just left here to die in a dying place. If you're aiming too high they say you'll land among the stars but you still need oxygen to breathe. Without that where do you go to. Some people can speak with their eyes. Some with their lips and others by their actions. When none of these seem to work how do I say 'I'm so very deeply sorry'? Can you?

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

So Tonight That I Might See

As gently as it came it went.
We lay staring at that ceiling for hours pretending we were both asleep and that the morning would never come.

You were drunk, I was maybe a little too.
Stumbling down the street, holding hands to and fro.
The street lamp outside intruded on the room, so we shut the curtains tight.
Even in the dark we knew the colour of each other's iris.
We could hear a car speed past outside and felt safe under the covers.
Then rain started to fall. It became our background music and we had to whisper a little louder just to be heard.
So cold at first, from the tips of our noses to touching toes.
I could smell your skin, indescribable to anyone from me.
You turned me round and wrapped me in your heat.
Close to your heart. Even closer to you.
We fell together as lips softly became one,
I stopped thinking, I'm pretty sure you did too.
It had been such a crazy time.
You knew this and when you got the chance whispered, "Everything's not lost" in gentle tones.
Over and over.
You covered my hands and together, we were.
Time was counted in breaths and grew heavy in the air.
You could taste the scent of candles filling the room.
In the morning you said 'good morning, love', and not in a secret whisper.
You wanted to wake me up to see you.
Messy bed hair and dozy smiles.
Rolled back to your side of the bed, kissed in dawn's light.
What a wonderful way to wake.

Then we snuck you out the front door.

As gently as it had come it had gone.
And I knew nothing in the world could change how this night had played out.

I'll never want to forget this.

Sunday, 2 October 2011

Limbo, Panto

Heart palpitations. Shakes filling the space between the floor and tiles. You feel it in your hands first. The sensation of deprivation sinking in, lassoing the ropes around your arteries and double knot, pulled tight. Control taken. Pathetic fallacy impossible, so the imagination takes over. Thunderstorms and lightning. The combination that makes you do things once thought to be on the brink of something else. She makes me beg, forces flexibility, performance to be perfect. Screams and shrieking. You forget that you belong to anywhere, let alone to anyone. Wonder at the scale of everything. Selfish. Always wrong. You never know honesty, but it silently keeps punching. Constantly playing defence. One breath is different from the next, the change of pace is unbearable. Break the surface and let me into the world you're all in, it seems so much less confusing. Yet horribly real all the same. Tears pour but the sudden relief turns to burning, "you are pathetic, your weakness is disgusting." Over and over I listen to her. Feeling buried alive in the sanctuary that was sleep. They just keep on falling over and over. Hands make no combat. Can't fight the inevitable. The tracks are never straight, it is suddenly calm. Dizzy and sick.

Feeling insane. It's all over as quickly as it seemingly began, it's so temporary. No one believes you're being real. Are real. That's what makes the crazy, crazy. The irony personified shrieks with laughter, as they hurt and pain. Sick and dizzy.

We are so many tiny pieces.

Thursday, 22 September 2011


red leaves are falling on the ground. on closer inspection i found them to be dragon scales. the chance for adventure existed. furrow into undergrowth and discover black cats ready to pounce. using your red shield you can watch out for enemies. a bottle of phoenix tears for your war wounds. you reached the end of the garden where decadent secrets lay, the jewel of the garden's heart bestowed to your eyes, ears and graces.

i cracked like a twig and told of the inner sanctum. i didn't draw eyes on the cartoon because i heard they were the keyhole to the soul. blank dolly with a puppet smile. there's no stopping a trip to feigned simpatico now.

red scales for shields can't save me there.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

Tamer Animals

With meaning lost there is little more than emaciated form.
Wandering into a found place that is also lost.

Come and watch the butterflies sing and we shall dance with the dragonflies under an orange haze. We will sip tulip tea and parade in the bountiful garden. The procession will always run to schedule with fantastic vigour. We have been granted knowledge that the real fairies hide by the waterfalls made at riverbank. Sparkling water turns to glitter in the air. We should run to shallower shores to befriend all manner of wonderful beings. Magic leaves a blessed mark on any living soul, after all. Eyes can widen at the sight of such magnificent evenings, flutter in the dusky heat and close in aura of peace. We could sit for hours in this private oasis.

Hiding behind images and twisting the truth, I shook at its core. I bend a life time so far into a shape more manageable to handle. It is cold and empty there. No friendly strangers to lighten your load or broaden your mind. Casting my spell and you would believe it is all part of story time. Sit quietly on the carpet and clutch your cushions tighter. Listen just so that little more carefully, catch me out. We're in the dead garden where life ran from long ago. No fires to kick start rebirth here.

Turn(ed) into a monster.
Can crazy run in the family?

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

A Creature I Don't Know

Do you see through the conspiracies of the midnight horizon?
Into the means and ways of tiny mechanical workings?
Behind the foundations of a society built on padded walls and one-way glass?

Do you see truth in what you hold?
'Fire up the engine, sonny.'

Take all the coals you dig and throw them at your life, desperately, keep the fire burning strong.
Shackled by judgement and expectation. Time as 'chains'. Bolted to the spot, grinding to the core. Little holes of precision - practice always made perfect. Repeating little axioms to pass the day. Whispering ghosts talk of mind demons (creatures of the night - little do you understand how they'll haunt your dreams). Reality is waking and walking as a nightmarish revenant. Throw away your dictum, words are no use when voices are locked inside golden lockets. Tumble head first down the stairs, miss them when your gone. Put your claws into the rug and sink down deeper.

Notice how windows don't show the world when it's dark.
All the irony in smoke of burning life plans.
All the irony in certainty of uncertain futures.

In pieces all over the floor, broken and sure to be mended wrong.
"Oh darling, look at this mess you've made."
Will we ever recover?

Friday, 12 August 2011


This is much too late. To my darling, Cinnamon Brown, who was so very kind to give me Mich's Story Time Blogger Medal - I really don't deserve any kind of awards for this mess I leave you. Thank you so much, it is high time I finally shared with you all.

The only way I come back here is by 'out of sight, out of mind'.

You are all so lovely to me.

I wrote little of this piece a long time ago and it was the right opportunity to finish it.
It isn't much, but it was something.

The words had played out all they could conjure. The Man held then in his arms for the very last time before gently laying them out on to the ground, where they were left as he turned his back to go. Motionless; just as words ought to be when out of use. The Man has been left with something of nothing, new words will come just as the seasons come to pass too. Soon things will change. An Old Man told of how it would.

It is a stern time of year for the Writer. He works his fingers to the core, bone exposed but work produced in unison. The Writer doesn't want to forget this time. Not one single word in even the most insignificant utterance. He understands the power that lies in length, structure and mannerism. He knows he's giving away something so very important - even if he cannot quite put his finger on it just yet. The days stayed longer and finally the lunar cycle was near to it's full circle. This was the Writer's favourite sight to see. Then, he knew how.

When history repeats itself, it can be for many aspects of life. So, it should be of little surprise to hear how soon the life lead by the Writer became a mirror image of the pen stroke to his pages. It should have been of little concern that he was locked away in the tops of the house for many hours of passing days. The room had skylight enough, should he choose to continue his work at any hour. Had it not been for the way his skin seemed to change to an almost paper thin translucency and his fingers of spindles with ink and no feather, none of the townsfolk would have batted a lash. On the rare occasion that he should leave his state to sit by the river, the children playing nearby so happily had sworn more than once to seen him lay his pen by his side and compose in a most fluent script with but the tip of his fore finger. Where there is no knowledge, fear creeps into the Living's hearts. An Old Man had noted how it was a transformation only possible under the seduction of an inspiring moon.

The year grew and the mind of effortlessly. It was now important that the Storyteller should come to town and meet with the Writer. There were lines to be learnt and morals to be explained. This was the trade and the only way to keep a living. But this year the Writer grew agitated, it was after all his masterwork. Why should the Storyteller fall so far behind? So the Writer packed up all his worldly possessions, said goodbye to the places he had so long haunted and set out himself. He told of his new year's tale wherever he went, and the Living took heart. They wept at his sadness, rejoiced in his beauty and learnt at his lament. It was a simple truth he had revealed.

Soon the Man knew he had to leave his words behind and become one with the places in which he came. As this was done, Life caught up with the Man and he aged. He wanders the land on foot no longer, only by book, where his words have been written a thousand times over. The Old Man had written too carefully, he shall not be the first, nor the last. This is magic older than much of all we have come to know to exist. The Writer was the Living. The day he meets Death is the day never-ever ceases to exist.
The Living don't want to forget. Words always mean something, even after they are gone.
The Living are love in a literal form. Words are love in a physical form.

(Just as I don't want to forget to love you)

I nominate Lilly, Haze, Bella, Heather, Peri, Barry and Margg.

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

Collapse Into Now

Are you coming soon? It is all about to start. The dusk is lifted on an open stage -

"I'll wait forever and a day" and falling in love with that day you said that, to me.

Two travellers, are they leaving or going? We question motives whether it be aloud or deep inside. There is so much to see and to discover, for our own - despite those having found it before. The river is ever new, so why can't our own eyes be too. A mandolin sings serenades of sweetness and wraps an embrace. "She was such a sweet girl, so gentle in her way". We mourn for the victims of past, present and future. There are so many, we cannot know all their names. The sombre piano enters now and reminds you in reverberating resonance. You are left sat still, slightly slumped, with your shoulders lower - the chip, a heavy weight. It is a visible change the eye can see. Cello of Wisdom plays now and holds your hand like Daddy did no matter how grown up you got. Constantly there and hum drum to the rhythm this path takes you on. Despite the eerie violin harmonium you continue to walk forward. You imagine yourself in a forest and the breeze of sound comes and goes as quickly as it were here. The sudden a cappella of the backing chorus are leaves crunching and twigs cracking. Then the mighty drum swoops in and whisks you away, your knight in shining armour has come. Pandemonium ensues but it always dies away with the slow pianos. Their marriage of sound is sometimes happy. His in contentment, hers shared but they all say the sorrow can be heard in her captivating scale. She is only shades of blue.

Do you ever see so much more colour in sound as there is in the rainbow?

We do our bit, that's meant to be enough. (It never is). Like on the day you said so long ago.
('These things I say are just traces of something')

The invisible band played you out on the deserted stage.
Not ready, not ready, not ready.

Thursday, 14 July 2011

Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

We're standing on the tops of the highest peaks, dangerously snow capped. They are phreatic when the ancients talk of the God's anger. Mountainous rage. We're in wait of the beacon call. A signal only outrun by winter or eagle wail. Together.

Black isn't really black. It is speckled with whites and grey; misleading. The first lie of the day. Crumpled sheets and gentle breath. Staring out to the audience, after the show stopper. Breath caught and sound erased. It's as though you can stare into empty spaces, even if skins are still touching. Never so soft but smooth and scented. Who is prey? Make me loose and ready. Feathers from speckles, is it not just dusty air? We use amelioration to make everything just so. Even words are lying to us in the 21st century, as in decades before. The second lie of the afternoon. The transformation may happen at any light, but the hour must be steady. Fluttering lids in a fable. The continuation of feigning sleep to see your skin. I've lost the clocks and so have you - the sun is misleading in the summer time, which twelve ticking have we reached? No lie just apathy. Let's act as if it was a parallel and all that happens here will stay locked in my necklace. We can breathe together that way. Denial, the third strike - out.
I'll disarm you once more, my answer of tiny shreds. Teach carnal knowledge and harbour monstrous thoughts. I don't care about the universe. I just want your skin on mine. I want to study your anatomy and memorise every curve and rib. I want to know the soft spots and where gives way to amazing. The setting doesn't matter but you being there does. I just want this.
Monster. (You) keep on dropping little bombs, and the crumbling ruins continually take the hits. What happens when there is nothing left to be destroyed?
Then falling, falling with my own version of Yr, stuck all over my vision. Every turn and all direction. The haven's secrets unravel.

So, I'm standing on this mountain. The winds are whipping. The sky is clear but dark. I have no clue how I got here. All I can feel is your eyes looking into this star gazer's far off stare. Waiting alone.

Please let me open my eyes now.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Aimed For Night

"Late last night you looked me in the eyes and said it might be time to go back."

It's hope, fluttering and a little too fragile to stand in the full glare of the malicious sun, but it is there. A butterfly of so many colours, brilliant in how they collide and blur. You're somewhat heady but that's okay because you seem to know the route to follow. The knowledge is stored deep inside your heart and soul. There's light in the tunnel - filling all the dark spaces so you can see the near ancient brick work, tiny cracks, covered with moss. Time to ponder how much work was put into this structure, you can't help but feel mighty passion. Time to realise how much of life has passed. You may be dressed down and drab but the charm of the light tickles your face and sparkling, you are. The knots that bound your wrist as scars well, they seem to fade, and loosen their long standing hold. You've been given today to be everything. It feels too good to be true but we'll revel in the glory of it. Feel invincible and forget the neverlasting. Hooked by the notion of forever, and those little words.

Getting ready to take a step forward, just one tiny and slow movement. There are exceptional circumstances playing in the favour of happiness. Fortunes of tarot have chance to change. No one really understands what they are. Taking a herbal sip away from calamity. Chaos forced back into Pandora's hands. Serenity lending you her smile. No longer feeling placid but just the right amount of warm. You're floating and for once you do not have to know why or where. I don't want to let you down.

The sun is shining even in the night. The mind is quiet.
"Take my hand, walk me around this mess."

2008, I was getting lost in the way it was. Smile like this again, someday.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Lucky Shiner

I promise this in so many ways, only to you.

I had a secret dream.
I woke up and acted secretly different since. Dysania found me, again.

Why is it always the birds that get so much recognition? Let us dive deep under the water and explore to the coldest and darkest corner. Where light and colour do not share the same room, and oxygen does not exist. Yet in these places, some old and forgotten circumstance means existence is made easy. Then surface and walk into the shallower shores. The light is glittering, bright, fresh. Does it sting your eyes? Shall we blame that on the water instead. The sand sticks to your skin but you only feel the warmth it wraps on to your feet. Nature gives you shoes to walk her paths. Does she want us to win here? The big games are harder here but always seeming to be worth 'something or another'. The theory of actuality is one we all know deep inside ourselves, you have seen it quoted to you by your people on your worst days. We are taking in the advice given, perhaps in one ear and out the other. Lasting impressions never were your strongest point but that does not mean you will be forgotten.
I find myself asking thousands of questions, but never speaking them aloud. I will be in my little world. The quiet one, not quite yet ready for what the world has on offer. Continuously falling. Terror in waking.

I am dying to tell you but they say that once you tell a secret it could not possibly come true.

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Twice Reflected Sun

I used to have this theory on moments. It cursed their existence and doubted those that took them by the hand. Maybe it was waking up to sunshine eyes or is there a hole in the net that gloomy clouds have cast over me. A change of heart. Living in these dying moments is what makes everything or anything seem that little more sweet. Catching petals from falling blossom. Raindrops on eyelashes. The softness of feathers against your fingertips. I see why people choose to live in their death. Let us be soft and delicate. Carefree and wild. Fragile and concerned. Embracing and ready. A unique design that does not have to encourage us to feel all at once. Participation may find love; beautiful gardens to wander about all day, a dusty book turning out to be the greatest read of your life, inspired photography from years ago taking you into the unfamiliar, warm tea after the coldest day, incredible sound to lose and find every answer in, the feel of the most unruly wind in your hair, poetry speaking to you like no other, rosy cheeks and radiant smiles.

I used to scorn at the wake of light. Sometimes I still do.

Maybe the use of past tense is still relevant for me. Perhaps I am not yet done talking about love. Contrary to what I have led myself to believe. I love the idea, and that's the hardest eventuality to let go of. I'm using love as an excuse, a tactic of denial.

I should have posted this in higher spirits, I failed to.
This is no time to fall apart. Is there anybody else?

Monday, 16 May 2011

Through Low Lights and Trees

Everything is new and shiny. It all needs to remain so pristine. Us humans, we are messy. We make things messy too. So easy to lose but not to find. Everything is happening at once.

So I would love to write something beautiful, and to know that it came from nothing but the thin air of imagination. No connection, tie or strung meaning. Oh would it not be wonderful to know that memory, the songs of childhood or situations of happenstance had not a care in the world and refrained from the piece of writing I laid before you. That, living through mistakes and darkness was not the core to my twisty soul. But in these admissions I do give myself to you. Though beware, it may not be absolute. The river has not quite yet burst the floodplain yet. I use no comma as I do not intend for it to occur. I'll let you in because you are so special. I would love to once write of a metaphorical importance and know it is not the personification of one I may have pitied/rejoiced/missed/loved/sorrowed. Will I ever cease to be in limbo? Break the solace of ambivalence? Live. I would just love to write for the sake of writing. For you.

"Can you hold me like you held someone, you shouldn't have let go?"

Monday, 25 April 2011

We Lost Ourselves and Found Our Way to This

A tethered kite; did no hand think that all it wanted was to fly away?
Please, please just take me to Lullaby Bay.
The gentle breeze so soft on my face. Feathers of purity. Innocence. Childhood imagination, the kind that still inhabits my mind, sometimes.
Do you see the beautiful ships, the sails full and strong? Instantly ready to carry you away. Take you where troubles do not abide. Let's take the ride alone and all enclosed at once. For in our first step, we join those in want of recovery. They are together. The vikings had such honourable death beds.

Take a trip where they roam freely. Where sound does not have to mean a thing. Specifics are of no importance. Where apathy, comes as a welcome relief not a sin of rule or regulation. There's no need to know where you are going. No time to pretend you care. That's where she walks and I'm longing to follow her.

The place turned my insides out, illuminating light to bones and filling the voids. Chasing the space over crevasses and keeping heads held high over the dizzy plummet. Knowingly awaiting the lonely hours after you go. Absence tears flesh wounds, giving way to oozing punishment, the sign of a job well done and all that is left; a guilt ridden skeleton. Did she do it all for me? Or was it my undoing to idly agree and complete the jumbled jigsaw that Beauty so wanted me to piece together?

We see others looking lost and feel guilty knowing we're not alone. Jealous that their pain could be greater than our own. How to speak words teeming with heartfelt sentiment from a muscle of stone. Becoming statuesque; stood still, with a beating heart. Yearning for more. Waiting for an eternity to end, no words to pass barren lips. Cold to the touch, through Insanity's inflicted illness. Innocent evil, accused of a guilty verdict once again.

Who does the fighting anymore? It'd just be like praising St. Jude.
I'm in pursuit of; "what did I do?"
Repetition inevitable, as if it is a formula to the answer.

I want to go where the rain falls fantastic.
I need to feel something take over. The rain on my near bones.
The sun will shine low there and despite this, you'll keep me close.

A kite with a tethered string. You caught it. Pulled me back down. Why?
Today, I am sad. Fall back into the lullaby.

Close your eyes and whisper. It's not that far, by the boats with their sails.
I want to live in a house on the hill side. Enclosed and secret.
We'll have bone china for the teapot and cups full of green tea, the plates left always empty, more pretty as bare bone.
Take me to Hushabye Mountain.

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Broken Dreams Club

The sun is rising on the curtain's side. Outside all is stirring from a slumber so peaceful. Perpetual darkness fills the introverted canvas. She turns, almost in slow motion to the coming of the windstorm. Is it dancing by Night or in Day's shadow? How it is to wonder and to weep at the insistence of Beauty and her terrifying charm. Sweet is the seductress that caused all this twisted anguish. What the trance represents may never be known. At least not to the experts. Nor the ones who care too deeply. The sounds of birds, it's not bird song. It is their call. It's time to go with them, soar higher than ever before. Be light as a feather. Climb aboard and feel the wind on your face. The first breath of real fresh air, inhaling deeply. A sigh, eyes closed. This is what freedom must really feel like. Making wishes on the scales. Put little people to bed. This dream is way past their bed time. She's waking up to green eyes. The crinkle of a tired smile. Filling the room, pressing at the edges of the blueprint, her heart too? An embrace for the evening turns into a morning acquaintance. Manners or love. They were one in the same at that very moment. He sees the honey in the cascades from the blinds, while she sees a starry sky with clouds circling, threatening to block out their beaming smiles. He's pointing out the flaws, in an attempt to glorify imperfection. Hands clasped so tightly. Reiterating the importance. The harp that infers feelings of the heart playing a gentle melody. Constantly on the verge of an unidentified, abrupt impasse. Too soon the morning was over.

Waking up from the dream was the first moment sleep took a hold on. Red tension. Marks made. Gripped so tightly, it would be sure to never let go. Tentative steps. Where I'm treading, I'd love the time not to exist. They'll fly away together. Willing love to die. Sitting for hours in silent stare. I daren't give you the sublime satisfaction. How, is cunning.

You broke me.

Saturday, 2 April 2011


I've been lost in forever. Found to rapture at skies. Everything rhetorical. No strength left to climb these mountains. Teary-eyed.

"Limbs parallel, we stood so long, we fell."

Do I wish I wasn't real?

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Versatile Heart

It's beyond everything that I should be so lucky as to be nominated for an award. Especially by two very special followers in one day. Thank you to Athena and to Lottie for this nomination of 'The Versatile Blogger' Award. You two really are so sweet for this. I shall not forget it.

"The Rules:
1. Thank the person who loved you enough to bestow this gift
2. Share seven things about yourself.
3. Bestow this honor onto 10 newly discovered or followed bloggers who are fantastic in some way.
4. Drop by and let your ten new friends know you admire them.
Okay so here we go!"

Seven things?
1. I have loads of unburnt candles dotted around my room. I know I should burn them but I'm convinced that they are doing a perfectly good job of scenting the room without actually having to be burnt. My absolute favourite is sweet pear lily. It does for smell what the sun does for summer.

2. I am an irritatingly fast reader. It would be good to slow down, but I just find I can't stop once I get going. However, when it comes to people's names I struggle massively. Torn by not wanting to pronounce the name wrong but also wanting to seem impersonal. Which is slightly ironic as my own name isn't that easy to say. Whenever I meet someone new, or we had a new teacher in class the same line is rolled out; "It's Gaelic, pronounced like 'marry', as in a wedding."

3. I like to travel. Whether it is going across the world and back or simply taking a bus journey. Walking is always a good choice for clearing my head. Actually, usually my favourite part of the day is on the bus to and from the city.

4. My mp3 player is filled up with an eclectic mix of music, but I always find that solo piano pieces are mysteriously on repeat the most. I always want to put musical solos and showstoppers on there but resisting the temptation not to sing along out loud or weep at their emotive stories is too hard!

5. I consider myself as boring and more often than not a failure. This is very well reflected in these facts so far. Questions are far easier to answer. When I started writing this post I was convinced I couldn't do it. I hope there's maybe some personality in this post. Usually I seem to come across as whimsically lost and only capable of imagery.

6. I have had a job in retail for what seems like forever now. This year I got voted, by my co-workers, as 'Mrs Customer Service'. There's a little trophy and everything. I think I'm still in shock! At work it is actually in my contract for certain aesthetically pleasing customs. Such as flip flops to be worn in the summer (which I really don't like having to do) and big crazy hair and glitter worn on VIP nights. The picture on my profile is a bit misleading as my hair is naturally ginger and bird's nest like (i.e. curly). Typical Scottish heritage.

7. I like small, feminine tattoos and I'd really like to get one. But I'm a little too scared! A permanent mark needs much consideration. I'd want a little song bird, with a star overhead. It represents my training and freedom. The star, a reminder of the light. Maybe an anchor, that's totally my Dad. Or a tiny heart. To remind me of courage. I've liked this for a while (from TattooDesignIdea).

10 lovely people (in no particular order):
1. Revoltra - I'll follow her wherever she goes. She is so real and honest in her writing. Please do take a look.

2. Eva - the Snap-Thought project she's set up is really inspiring and more people should definitely see what it's all about.

3. Lucy - what she writes, you will relate to instantly.

4. Barry - no doubt nominated before, he knows how inspiring I find his many, many, many blogs. You won't be disappointed where the links take you. He is infinitely kind.

5. Lazzenia - her pictures are so beautiful, you'll wish you'd been there to see the moment captured.

6. Joanna - you'll be lost in a new kind of beauty.

7. Anon. - solace has never filled some one's words so fully.

8. Helen - I appreciate having her as a follower so much. I hope you'll find out why she's so special too.

9. Margg. - an expert in definition, eloquent in her production and far too humble.

10. Grey - rhetoric is plentiful here.

** I'd also really like to thank Peri for just being wonderful. All the time :)
But there are so many more of you to discover!

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Cruel Sister

There are hours of existence and times of mutterings. Nothing is a space that fills the majority. Less about numbers. More about matters.

There was a hole, empty entirety. No writing came. Till now when seeking propriety, was summed up as a game.

A sum of unrelated relativity ensued. Back to the global language, Mathematics. The one barely passed. The formula relates to issues. So it's okay to bounce back. Shall I take you to where I wrote on walls and all over paper books? The place is not that welcoming, but full of eager hooks. This is confidential, propriety to the personal and overwhelming in nature. Read as far as you wish.

I can hear wind chimes, can you hear them too?
There is dust everywhere. This place has become so ancient.
Faint humming, what is that tune?
Much work to be done. No time for lament.

The handbook mentioned something about Easter.
A flash of pink and white before a fall to the floor;
is this how the seasons weep?
Oh where are you winter, season to adore.

Girls in frocks and boys with ankle socks,
A chilling reminder of the body come to surface,
Clocks hit the hours of playing in study,
The irony one of magnificent surplus.

Give up the rules, but follow the barriers.
Doth I be there, dancing in houses.

Welcome me home with open arms.
It's somewhere over the rainbow.

Poetry written as evening lights wither,
The faint chime of wind heard;
Are we to stand and deliver?

Was it remembered by the river, the memories of us. The sound of laughter held in the waterfall thud. Pity to try so hard. Plausible for the break after the get togethers. Passion, gone. Impossible to break tradition.

As blue skies are fading the ink will turn black,
Simpatico hits Carr's words,
A subtle knack to a plan of attack?

Inní mér syngur vitleysyngur, that is what was sung. And so the rhythm of life was strangled again. Twisted by a rope and strung up by the whisper. Manic is loud. Deadly is quiet.

Once heard what was read,
Twice lost what was said,
And na'more be lead.

O dear one, blue skies are fading.
Bells in the night?

Fuck it, it is all one big bowl of purge.
She's one meanie relative.
Metaphorical and yet so, so real.

Do knives seem crazy now?

So you can take a step back.
Hit 'x''x''x' and go.
I appreciate you being here,
I thought I'd let you know.

There are no knights in shining armour and I'd prefer not to be rescued.

Monday, 14 March 2011

Foiled Again?

I looked out and considered all things irrelevant. How do we even begin to consider conclusions?

It's the familiar feeling again. They tell me it is bad to let it in but it won't stop.

"It's like you've been put on mute. People can see you but they just cannot hear you."

Thursday, 10 March 2011

The Broken Wave

It was impossible to ignore thought of twisted concept and backwards logic. If flowers grow in perverse chronology we would be witness to their transformation of wilt to life to pre-existence. That is more bearable than knowing their beauty will die. If having the chance of rebirth were possible, for flowers, do you think they'd take it? Instead of being a new character each year. One for the gardener to contend with fiercely, "You must grow and blossom, so you will be perfect!" Take these additives, oh those vitamins are proven, if we spray that on you will look more radiant, less beaten down. The few small sacrifices. Without pain there is no beauty. What were they beaten down by? Why it was the gardeners of cause. The relentless. Speaking of all faults as a norm. With that awareness you are knowledgeable but ultimately cursed. We stood there and witnessed the most silent argument!

Images of knives, but you do not want to hear that one. Your curiosity may get the better of you, so we leave imagination to become your enemy. Mention the topic and you go wild. You'll have no limits, it is boundless. They could be in intrinsic dance, swirling overhead, the flash of danger catches the light. Now and again. They could be taking action. Slice, cut, chop, slash. Ouch? The wallpaper would never unpeel with age but instead slowly retreat. Overcome by the memory of its Jury bound life. The slow and painful process begins. Pushing you further and further away but being left always in the dirt room's presence. Instead of whispering 'please don't say it', it's okay to shout it out loud. In your face. Making you aware. It is the topic you most want to avoid, evident by materialistic conversation. But that is okay, I'm not really aware of anything you're saying anyway. Did I gasp in the wrong part of conversation? That should be evidence enough. Covered in injuries. What's your favourite number? I hate the notion of rugs. Dendrochronology would become a sham.

If the waves could wave but not crash. When they said hello we'd take the chance to return the favour. When they say goodbye - well when would that ever happen! Imagine the denial, you oxymoron.

Have you ever woken up crying?