Monday, 21 February 2011

Baby's Angry

So we'll turn to the corner and look for answers there instead.

Thursday, 17 February 2011

And the Pioneer Saboteurs

The beauty of her back, turned on us all.

I was never good enough for you. Hide and seek can be the official game. We're keeping focused through a rosy haze. Count backwards as though ironically pointing your hands at Time's inaccuracy, (you'll make the clocks jealous if you carry on like this).
Is that how they all live, we wonder. Yet they obviously don't realise it, we conclude.

I know the best hiding place ever - you won't find it, even if you say you see the blink of eyelashes, the quick inhale of concealed breath and the sudden silt falling in the air, heady, like secrets.

Why do I want to be lost when it seemed to be getting back on track?
Was one nonsuccessive conversation with you all it took so send me spiraling?
Was it the work of a subject curriculum, that proved too much for us, meaning me, to bare?
No you're making excuses and you know it.

So selfish! So undeserving! S0-don't say it.
I'm so disgusting. Too late.

Your smiles, I feel them all over your embrace. Encompassed. Surrounding. It is a mystery how they fill you up and you pass them through your eyes to saddened ones. Please don't meet me for your soft lips on mine again, I never deserved it.

Do you feel like just sleeping forever?
I am scared.

Monday, 14 February 2011


Hide me, steal me, covet me, spoil me, destroy me, unwrap me. Elegantly tie me up with a bow and present me to your crowd. I promise to follow the checklist. I will skip the steps that make me laugh and carefully tread round those that I like to make them last the longest. Whom will save us now?

I will take the pen and write it all down in a letter - too long for us to read. Then post it anyway and watch the postman sigh and grieve. We shall take a little stroll and open the door to your surprise. Joy and thoughts of wonder hidden behind closed, trembling eyes. We were unmoving but travelled. A thousand miles and more. Further to the boundaries, of seaside Beauty's shore. Stay hidden in the house of sense and jumbled talks. Where revealed sentiments live and clocks do not ensure. Take heed. Unfinished.

I keep writing what you ask. Tick, tick, tick. All the tasks are done. More hoops to come. Trained and obedient till the time comes.

No, no the rhyme is stupid and forgotten. Make me fuller, show you. When did ugly sides grow to the physical and final article? Cliff hanger.

Politeness over understanding. The party was over before it began. Ha ha, we write in pen to make it permanent, take that pencil and snap it in two. A spine is just the same. Delicate, fragile - mandatory. We are on stilts, our shakes precarious to the life around us. Let us escape, choking and trapped is the current situation and it will not do. I shall take you with me no matter what they say.

Grace has been lost. Smiling is unnatural. Balance knocked over and fell head first. No hands are waiting to catch you here. This is not the delightful masterpiece of allegory you wished for.
There was a high of lightning. That's right, no pain in striking. We are running in the night.

Secrets for the wicked shall live on forevermore!

Monday, 7 February 2011

Fitz and the Dizzy Spells

We are running - look there you go a head. All that can be heard admist the gentle roar of the sea is trickling laughter. It is great and fills the space entirely. I see the wind pick you up and it is almost as if you are flying. No, sailing. That's it. Look at you go. You're spinning away. Carried by a momentum unknown to anyone but yourself. The sand seems to part itself in your quake. Receiving you with all known graces. It was just warm enough for the wind not to run chills down our arms and so your clothes are spiralling. They tug in all directions but don't disway you from your course. The ribbons in your hair dance carelessly. Colours are not to be discerned as the sun refracts and light spills everywhere. There are orange, yellow, purple, blue, pinks laced and intertwined all around us. The horizon is a perfect batik where the sky kisses the sea. We see their embrace so clearly in this late evening hour. It was almost as if this place had been untouched, if it weren't for the reminents of little sand-made castles. Their turrets slowly crumbling in the lapping, soft tide. Oh, look at you soar. The two should not meet but it is indeed a delicate and magnificent view to behold. Your hair is shining, long and billowing. It is dark against the surrounding scenery, but is somehow not out of place. Balanced by the serenity. A picture perfect photograph. You stop, as if in thought. Turn and stretch out your hand. I see your face as if for the first time. This little girl has rosey cheeks from endless laughter and a crinkle already forming at the corners of her eyes. Her eyebrow quirked, is this mischeif or impatience? The cherry lips are, of course, tracing the outlines of a smile. Her hand shakes a little.

The piano halts.
Oh, if only to take her hand and merely to be so merry. Should it be so frightfully austere?

Thursday, 3 February 2011

Speaking Softly in the Dark

Today glimpses of trees' elegant fingers stretching out towards the sky, to what many construe to be freedom, were caught in passing. Held and treasured. Till that it was, they fell. Down, down. They lay there - how is this so? Skeletons of our history. Bare. That is not right. Your calling was up not down. How dare they take away your destiny with their planning of futures. But you whisper and tell me it's all fine. Soothed and nostalgic we continue on. Their victorious blades. Your downfall was literal. Your leaves will never flourish and you will not give bountiful shade to the space you inhabit. The sun can not reach as it comes to greet you. So we shall weep, be selfish, for whom are we to really understand your loss. I wish to know you and open your door. You let me in sometimes, it'd be foolish to ask of you more.
An illusionist's staircase. Houdini's most fascinating. The buttons fade and trip over one another. I would maybe wish to wake from this paradoxical sleep, one day. The recurring nightmare of not opening the door you all shout and kick for me to embrace; let me more. Please just let me your arms. On consideration later; do not. Keep me beneath, for above the waves would be too worthy. I go nightly, the 'witching hour' beckons. There is always to much to say and so little space for it to be elegantly considered. Infatuation with what comes next makes the beat drum on.