Sunday, 30 January 2011


Chorus at the ready, script marked 'absentees' of the scene. How they play the part, so 'exquisitly absent' indeed. The actors all concerned to play their parts perfectly, to have the director's echos was simply not worth it, this time. Go go go. It is time for motion, give devotion and no. Choose instead to be swallowed by the ocean. The simplicity of the back stage hands was laid bare. The whisper's rose. It blossomed by sound. Soon raucous mavericks were to disobey cooperation and the chorus left silently out the back door, the director standing aghast. The Fairy King was unable to see the truth behind the lies and punished harshly. How he should take your wings and leave you flightless! Burn them in front of you, much as poetry has been churlishly accustomed as a form of fuel. It will keep cold hearts warm, now by the means of 'modern method'. Communication was only possible by the plea of a rhythm, sinister in its announcement. Ratta-Tat-Tap. They are all in need of a good education. Juliet knows the part but burning effigy may lead her to act out of character. Her death. They say it was "temporary" - you know what they are implying. The flowers wilt in their frustration. There will be no beauty in the garden today. Petals fall one by one, not with the traditional question. The Queen's House of Cards will fall and I may make my way to that tea party uninterrupted, by my clumsy steps. How we should laugh in the beauty of the garden today, with Molly! Birds are everywhere. Won't the cat be happy. You arrive.

The plastic torn off. Hands scrapping for, what? Scrawls were the only means to tame the wolves. They fought with instant precision because they were you. The Gypsy's magic ball smashed and all were left unaware. Trust was lost. Hope to, what? To write with oration was taught half hearted. Ghosts are everywhere. They were once memories but now are forgotten or may not be placed. Distortion of shape, not in the least disconcerting. They were screaming. They were howling. They were, me?

"The show must go on!"

No! I simply won't abide by the rule book you slam down before me. You cannot expect me to simply obey and have no uprising returned? Who is this 'I'? What does she think she is anyway? Oh, Molly I do emplore you so to stay at a standstill. I've had full recollections, why snap that away from me with the shutters? The windows can stay dark I swear but let me recall.

The stage hands are getting to be too much. Make them quiet, quiet. The main event is about to start. Less you rucus mavericks. Can't you see silence is trying to become your friend? It is too much and the Fairy King has come to lay down HIS rule book. Heavens, what are we to do now. Cast your eyes down! We become rhetorical in his presense. Whatever should happen now is hardly a mystery. They can wait and see. The scawl of fire makes the writing seem bareable - burn me to the audience. The chorus are still doing a wonderful job! Make us fly by means of pen and paper, Fairy King. Black and white of logic better than the cheerless green. Then so we arrive at sombre and we ask ourselves; what does colour have to do with anything?
"From life there should be the invention of the Lord Fire but so to it should be born. What came first the destroyer or the life? For they are circular to each birth."

Your rule book decrees my attendence there - how shall you make that happen? Words fail me.

Let us not meet by the pond - it too obvious. Fear of the King will drive us elsewhere as we long for chaste childhood in his presence. It's nickname taken as 'home'. Nothing moved there. The little girl in the pink pinstripes lost on her way to the Hatter's tea party. There is too much, too much. Especially without the sound of nature. Apologies.

Peter Pan's latest lost member.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

Still Life

This is a post that I wasn't originally going to publish, but I am guessing it is quite important.

I have to write this now because the ephemeral nature of a blog is typically not good for someone who clearly needs constant reminding. After spending the majority of these days asleep - looking at the calendar it says something about it being Wednesday which means I can't remember anything between now and walking down a long road to catch a bus on Sunday. I woke up with clear vision. No oblique or colourless vision just straight and clear at my very badly painted ceiling. I found myself thinking I was years before but just as old. Everything and nothing has changed. I was all full of brimming merriment. I had wonderful things to say - I still do. I could feel the claws of a smile smudging on to my face. That laugh. Yes, it was back. Uncontrollable and joyous laughter. I thought about all of the memories - because I could! I want to call them. I have all these stories and I have things to tell you about my day. I want to hear about your day. Tell me what it was like on your holiday, what films have you seen recently - would you recommend them? My goodness, I haven't been out for that long! It was as if it was every night - on the clock - just like when we used to call and not have a care in the world and every worry all the same. We were concerned about the completely insignificant but so seemingly important, then. I would have a thousand questions to ask you! Life was moving. I remembered music, dancing and the conversations we'd have sat up all night. I remember the beauty of Soviets and how important it was, maybe is?
It made me sorry because it was then I realised everything I must be putting everyone through. It's as if I'm seeing it all for the first time. Why was it that I couldn't remember anything? What had I done to them? And why was there glue where the blinds connected to the window sill? I just knew that calling wasn't okay. There were barriers. Sleep was going to be my only way back down but I wouldn't let it, I told myself not to let it go. To try and hold on to it for just a few more hours. I fought for this, and you wouldn't understand that. Please don't tell me you 'do'. I don't understand how I can smile while composing this, but I think it's some kind of sign. I don't want meals out, I definitely don't want you to spoil green tea with the murky subject of minds. Guess work is not fit for stability. Gah, this doesn't make any sense and I know it. It's easier to lie.
So that is why I am here now. Writing this to apologise to you. My phone battery is mainly removed now and much else is a reminder of life I don't seem to fit into. But don't lie to me, you haven't all been trying to contact me constantly. Right now we can both know that. When I hear your conversations through the walls directly about me or see the looks in your eyes, I get that you would rather not. I doubt I would. Understand instead. I don't want to "talk". I won't. I am not "ill". I can't be. I don't know what I want though so it would be useless asking me. Don't put your blames on me and don't tell me you are scared; I won't remember and I don't want that to hurt you. I can be direct now but I would usually just say nothing. There are so many other things I want to say but I have other things I need to do while I can see with all this beautiful colour. It's never going to be my deserving turn to be selfish 'but', when you've forgotten who this is: For all my love, I am sorry that you have to know this person.

"Oh, these times are hard, yeah they're making us crazy."

Sunday, 23 January 2011

On My Way to Absence

What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?

Your words are too much, let me mine instead.

Now they'll see. The loss was near great, personality led astray. Crazy was somehow construed as 'beautiful'. Stop pointing blame at love and devotion, and stop using those as the delicious remedy. Fingers locked together mean something till they've fallen cold. That lock was there for a reason. Control was required, you didn't give that. You'll say all these nothings when you have read this, yes I know you are. Be pragmatic. They might be the ghosts of another story but they are not the Devil's spoke of this malady. Promises for you cannot be empty.

What did I do?

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

The Fool

How is there a street thunder clap on a day like today? It would be a darling thing to be in a mist all the chaos and noise, to long for it. Habits have returned and with that the headline is branded! However, we are unable to establish that as the case for court, something more concrete is vital. We shall never prove 'not guilty!'. Not really. Confuse, entertain and suppress the jury, that is what we must do. Suffocate them on their own upheld conventions and twist their previous conceptions. There is too much, too much. Sunlight. It dazzles and betrays. The darkness; kind in it's secretive nature. He lay with me but understood to not push boundaries. He said sweet nothings to me, but kept me. Here. Surprising. No one does that now, how could that be? I think I was afraid. I think I may have shown my persona.
The Mad perseveres.
I become five in uniform and much older in bed.
I play the part at the outing but;
Wish to be drunk instead.
I cannot find logic where it can't possibly exist.
Yet, it is sweet to find mutterings in the dank of this abyss.
My head talks in constant poetry, sometimes iambic.
Yet, when the pen meets the page there is nothing left to rhyme with.

That half rhyme hints at disjointed, corrupt words. I cannot use the perfect word for it represents too much else. Psychological, philosophical or emotional? Poetry reflects on life and significance of structure. Remember, remember form, language and structure. Repetition of those swam in my head, no wonder the official paper was left empty! How I should long for the dread, dread, dread. Dripping cold water; it hits the same spot. Spring is coming, soon we'll see the true lover's knot. Today won't be the same, and it will be forgot. So I leave you with this, with out encore, the jury said that they'd pass judgement later, in this case they knew they'd found a failure.

Matt Allen Photography is beautiful.

Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Other People's Problems

I have a severe dislike for the days in which I wake up as me. They always turn out to be the worst.

Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Do you Want the Truth or Something Beautiful?

Finalised alignment, stitching close as can be. Pattern looks to be complete. All is admired and appreciated. Years long and great. If planning took months then production puts the boastful in their place. Music spun it's intoxicating web of provocative motion and hum. Fairies dance in their melodic fashion unaware of all, especially the jealousy on the wisps of tailcoats of those whom wish tomorrow never came. Time of beauty and passion was discovered behind the unlocked bedroom door. The reality that of denial and inane immorality. Rebels to that of propriety, aptly introduced by political imbalance of a society seen to use a system once deemed 'free and fair'. We speak in assonance. The cause of wrongs hidden by passing of two houses. Candles throb their in their delicacy of hypnotic trance. The forest would be silent at this time of night. You would long to be part of that. One with all and everything. Though were not made that way. Time does not exist now in the way that was once intended. The fire of delusion strikes again and we are made 'ill' by our lack of order, conveniently named 'disorder' too. A recurring theme in the ironic light of darkness. The trees will be stripped bare, sorrows bleeding from the saplings eyes for it's noble brother or sister. Nothing is something if it amounts to everything. Is this all a special affect to arouse and stir? To inspire or to sow the seeds of dire doubt? Insecurities left, right and center. You've got 23 minutes to go, write your heart out. The stitching had secretly unraveled. I've got heavy. My truth. I should add that colours are fading. I won't tell.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

If It Was You

There's a giant suitcase on my bed. There's no strength left in my arms to remove it. We can't break broken. I'll sleep round it, like I have for a while. Now on the monologue we need a sizeable garden, not hard to maintain. We need a bigger kitchen than the current one. Wait really. These random acts of kindness are short and few. How does someone that doesn't know you at all seem to think they can connect on a deeper level. You don't know me. You've heard about me. If it was you, what would you do? It's two very different things, a bathroom and an en-suite. Decisions, decisions, decisions. I have this little wish that mobile phones had never been invented or the generation I'm taking part in didn't possess this innate ability to get up and go. How would you react? But I haven't rubbed the right lamp yet, sorry Aladdin. This is semi-interaction. I'm yet to let myself publish anything more fitting of this nature. This isn't all about a broken heart.

Where does the good go?