Monday, 3 December 2012

Put Your Sad Down

Composing so many letters. Each so categorical and special to different persons. Let's write for the perspective of forever ago. Straining minds for the tiniest details, was it polka dots or hearts on that dress? How did the lights twinkle so well, was it the gentle breeze swaying them in the summer's hazy eve? The widest smile on her face, it was cast downwards - too afraid to show it to the room. The most sincere moments of our lives spent in explicable time, too much to put into words but too momentary to display the emotion.

Let us ignore that we're completely out of season. That it's cold outside. You take steps on the pavement that little bit more delicately. You cannot help but appreciate some of the beauty that comes to life in the frozen spell of this time of year. We light candles to scent the room, to give us the best light. Despite what the rules say. This all settles us in and we feel at home, at last.

Do you see that silhouette? The one accented by the delicate hips on spindly legs? Her hair you know is long, but it is tied and held to one side. Dark eyes and rouge. She holds the room with her laugh. She is eloquence, personified. Yet humble and happy.

There's a lump in my throat. My eyes are hot. I can't take anything now without fear of giving the game away. Can't steal away five minutes on my own without questions pointed at the intention. I've seen life die.

Should wish these words to be so old, and to have lost their meaning. Yet they still haven't. They linger, in a most intrusively persistent way. Frustrating. Still walking through woods, in denial by choice, of the dangers that lurk.

The search party is out, torches in front. Breath hung heavy in the air. Stick close together, don't get lost in this frosty dark. The snow is gone by morning after all, but it's this early morn we need concern ourselves with. I've seen life on the verge. At the brink, then snatched back from that effectual boundary. Admit it though, sometimes you're a little in love with the way things are. You don't want to give this up, not really. You wouldn't know a life without it. How could you begin to cope then?

Is this all there is?
These hateful thoughts. I don't want to regret anymore moments that are lost.

Effervescent spirits, flying this time of year. You think you haven't seen them, though you have. They are the dazzling lights on your Christmas tree. As I sit in the room and watch it flicker and twinkle, all natural light gone a while ago. It's 3am and there's nothing but us and the continual flashing. The rhythm is soothing and consistent, something you relish as it's unfamiliar. Trying your best to focus on that, instead of the eternal feeling of failure. Wanting things to be just as perfect as they were only months before, because they still are and will remain, but dear darling, you knew you couldn't skip certain steps for long. Terrified as hell and I don't know how to tell you that. This is not about love, it's a different story entirely.

Don't worry darling, I'm right here, really.
I should wish this away, especially soon and that's a promise.
I shouldn't just wish it, I'll tell it.
Standing from a cliff face, a tall building, a plane door, the top of the world and beyond.
I'll shout it.
"Go away, go away, go away!"
Then maybe all I'll have left is my friend Silence and overflowing happiness. Radiating golden, like a contented sun.
For that's all I was once, happy. I think. If so, I think I really want that back again.
Tell her she wrote these words, she needs to know that under it all she really knows what she wants in spite of everything. It won't be easy but that's the point. You don't just walk out of the tunnel into the light. There's lessons to be learnt. This, we believe, is the empowerment of love. Winter is magic.

I'd forgotten how good a smile felt til you came around. Nothing could have prepared me for that. A ghost for so long. Stranger in an old town. Close your eyes and embrace the air filling your lungs. Listen for higher sounds. The ones that are hidden in the Wind's whistle. Enjoy the secret smiles and games you see everyday happening all around you when you walk from A to B. We are in love with secrets, apparently. There's a new story and the world doesn't have to end today, or any other day. Could this be a mania, if so it'll just make things more beautiful, according to some. Don't let this be temporary, just for once let me get my way.

Tell me something wonderful, because I know you are for starters.

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Everything All The Time

Ice chains can melt in the sun. Time is misunderstood. Stars are under an awful lot of pressure. Weak but strong balances between phsyical and mental. Silence is often feared, wrongly. Faces misconstrude. Rainbows have too many hopes pinned on them. Running taps on the bath, flood the kitchen. Blood in the kitchen. Temptation isn't the evil one. Gold blackens. Stare at the screen too long and you're eyes will go square. Mascara runs races down rouge tracks. External perfection, unstable inner construction. Lost what's yours, it doesn't come back the same. Thoughts streaming continuously. Sometimes on loop. Jealousy for birds flying. Not knowing how to say those words, then they just slip out. Secret smiles. The sink will never be empty, but the glass is by half. Have you been naughty or nice? Pulling a gun on an innocent. To stay or to go. Deeply sad about the death of flowers. Eyes aren't always watching you, maybe. Breakdown. Fickle by nature. Small dreams. Bodies saying no are definitely saying yes. Buried underwater. Not being able to understand where the afternoon has gone. Train journeys going somewhere to nowhere. Can't quite get the date right all day. If the wind blows, and you're pulling that face. When your heart hammers. In two minds. How connected you are to your pet. Sadder than you should wish anyone else to ever have to feel a pinch of. Sky scrapers are still persistent in attempts of an affair with the sky, whatever would the horizon say, if the sun and moon should agree to tell! The feel of rain, smell of sunshine and the sounds of snow. Sitting down and being uncomfortably aware of every bone and joint in your body, until you no longer feel like there's skin on your bones anymore. The shower memories. Angry at the state of affairs, or the state fullstop. Everything maybe. Lightning bolts on the ceiling. Spiders in the sink. Longing. So many people and the panic. Feeling the wind through your hair. Accused nature sometimes of lies, but humans helped cover it up. On fire! On fire! If it doesn't taste disgusting it won't make you better. The tipping point. Counting ceiling tiles, just for stability. Stairs creaking. Postcards arrive late, the meaning is sometimes lost. Reading sadness in someone else's eyes. Jigsaw puzzles are tricksters. There's always something to celebrate. Sooner or later, you'll wake up. Life is too short for any of this kind of nonsense.

Life's too short. Too bad. Too this, too that. Loosing minds and worrying about clocks instead of time - what's that all about. We're so now, it's past. Waiting. Waiting for what? Tick tock, tick tock.

"It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on."
W. H. Auden

I've heard your heart beat, and now I'm awake and alive. I'm alive. 

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

Busy Doing Nothing

(To set the scene: Making a nest up high and settling in. Tucking more feathers around, we're not giving up on this baby. Not to the coldest winter. Safe now.)

Decide to go out into the world, cast off from the shore and see where the winds carry your sails. They say there's an opportunity out there for all of us, we just need to keep our nets well maintained.

Trading liquid gold. Honey, so sweet for the soul. Tempestuous without the old Latin to pain the conscious thought. We were left ingrained with Radix Malorum est Cupiditas. So we make promises to conduct different kinds of lives.

With you we are lost then found.

Should we be so lucky to be a cloth, drying on a line. Taken in when we're ready and used when useful. Rarely blowing away in the wind. However, should this occur chances would suggest another may make use of you. Though kindness is only optional and varies widely.

Hundreds together at once, in dingy yellowing lights. Damaging your head, in time with the morning after. Falling asleep, even when what is taking place all around is so very important, so much of all the time.

You made an 'apple for a thought' tree. You wanted it decorated. But there's no beautiful minds left when they're riddled with heavy thoughts. Treading water constantly, because drowning would mean everything was easy. Healthy bones, but not in mind. That's what thoughts you were after, after all. Proving mental just for awareness. Contested issues.

(Ending the scene: From ground, the wall is steep and perilous. A warning sign that this isn't the way to go. A sheer face that is unforgiving. Just like you were. I'm all patchwork and moving forward now, trying at least. But you've still left deep cracks in the photo frame, right over where the smile used to beam. Years gone from one conversation to the next, that's how the control sets in. This is all in denial of course, nothing could possibly be your fault. Sometimes.)

But dearest love, this is so murky and ill.
There is warmth in body and love in heart. Love in all you see. These streets are so adventurous, a world waiting out there. Beaches for our footprints and rocks for scrambling hands. Trees for climbing, caves for secrets and wishes. Hands for holding. Sunsets for the idea of forever, or until the sun refuses to one day rise from night's slumber. This is a beginning, I promise. One day it'll be learnt that we can stain something beautiful in beginning, middle and end. It may have taken awhile to reach here, but the focus is that it starts now. Honey light bathing all of us in each golden tomorrow.

Thursday, 6 September 2012

The Lion's Roar

Contagious. Is that all we are, really? Infectious through laughter, spreading our fingertips electricity, endemic turning deadly from final goodbyes. Enduring all we can, immune or becoming so. Thought we'd left this place, but the disease is rooted deep. Surprise! It returns just to spoil you being so smiley. But that familiar music. She still thinks there's bad blood in her veins. In trouble for such a terrible attendance track record.

We're all just part of one giant landscape. The trees, mountains, rivers and weather - they are the real players. Even wild animals are only used for sound effects. Building tension, can you hear that ferocious sound? Forest fires spread fast as the lightning that born them. The vines that will bind you together, watch them less than you observe the love in your arms. She cannot help thinking of that warm, silky water. Ground swelling and expanding only to throw out the rejected innards it was given centuries before. Not a fan of death and after a while the treasured bodies it holds weigh too heavy. The air seems so light and welcoming. Those wood choppers are the mean critics, the grave diggers are more sympathetic.

She's building a home with him. There's a house built from love and they're going to stay there. Everyone's welcome, but it's visiting hours only.

Not faced the silence alone, but you can't hold her together. But time for something so much sweeter.
Each little pocket contains a secret. Kept in the palm of warmed hands. Sewn together for safe keeping. Each patch brought together so very tenderly. Soon a quilt has formed. Eclectic, by no real design. It teaches a valuable lesson too - how to keep you so very comforted and loved. How to spend a life with you so delicately and easily. How to love and be loved. It says most of all that there's hope after everything, after all.
Put a secret in your pocket and you'll know I'll always love you.

Ages past and we are none the wiser. Yet, like the undeterred moth, we carry on looking for rays of light to cast out our shadowy doubts. In being optimistic, it's a sure sign you were pessimistic in the first place. So we're glass half empty most of the time. At least that's how we see it as the liquid pours so silvery down our throats. It's going to cause you the pains of the world tomorrow, but all you care about is tonight.

Tonight. Tonight. Tonight.

Looking so serene, watching sunsets. Faces lit by a blood red sky. Purple hues to flood the previously chalky clouds. Seem so absent. Thinking there's a wrong. Maybe there is, but ambivalent daydreams seem so innocent to place the blame on. Left hating pocket watches forever more. Hands so cold. You should have worn a jumper and socks. That space that's stared out. Grey that's alive with fluorescent shapes and images. Even when not discernible, they are scary.

That moment, the one that's savoured still. Can't shake it, can question it. This future is how it is and it will never be changed for anyone else.

That great way the room looks lived in. Messy and yet so still it seems untouched. Not an empty place. It's filled with emotion. Love and safety. This is our place. The windows can tell you stories of rain and sunshine. The panes can recall just how cold the snow felt and how scarily close the fog got to spoiling a view. Thunder left it quaking in the wooden frames. Cherry grain never looked so alive from all the lifetimes it had to tell.

It's been awhile, hasn't it.

Thursday, 24 May 2012

A Million Miles Out

They all assume that this must mean that. Perhaps we're just tricksters afterall.

Wind and shadows. They intwined the air together. Sharing an existence. Swept up fallen leaves and gave them a breath. Lost in a moment of confused time. Not themselves.

One last bow before the curtains close. Little red cape and we're sticking to the track.
Enjoy the show as this all falls apart. Sat in seats, a long time coming. So many reasons for you to stay away. 

Wood protection, the safest place it seems. There's a window to the soul and the frame knows how deceptive the glass can be. The night can explore freely and the girl on the side of the glass could see it all unfold. She'd only need to really look deeper. Into the back of the cave. What was lurking there, what animal was hiding. Deep, down and under the surface. The water is rippled and there's an odd silent sound. Bubbles are trickling about skin and lightly ascending. They say keep looking up but soon the sun's on your skin. A brilliant presence to contend with, you'll lose. The heat is basking and this is your opportunity to close your eyes. Too much light is too much an uneven match for those eyelids. Soon you are burning. Left for dead and fallen asleep. A trance that only the humidity could have caused. Leaves rustle and the ground crunches beneath your feet. It's suddenly so cold and melting in the last of your hand warmth. Snowy innocence. Pure till death do us part, but the books ruined this sentiment. There's always a drop or two of blood, just know where to look for it. Don't forget to not look, that's when you find it. Make a deal or two. Is this so unfamiliar? The girl sees a skeleton face looking back on her. Too much time passed.

All of these places, and no where to breathe. Afraid, no.

I never thought I'd asked much of you.

Statues covered in ivy. They look ancient and impressive. A structure intact, a place to remember. An unusual site. Look a little closer, see the cracks. Guess that it's all about to fall apart, someone will not be around. Forget them.

Trundle down an empty street. With an old feel. Some consider it nostalgic, but the past was left behind and those visions make the journey lonesome. Whisk us away, like those day dreams suggest. Real dreams are never so kind. Stray from your path, the track leading you home.

Meet the wolves and let them devour you. In the woods anything could happen. They're coming.

"But I am gone. I am not there."

There's a pool on the floor and it gleams evil in the moonlight. No one was left to notice the day changing to night. Not when unseeing eyes have fallen to the floor. A bold red has tainted an innocence. Cover it up over time - yet you now know it is there. You keep this secret. Don't harm others. The devil will dance to rejoice this stain, you just signed your contract.

"Little girl, where's your head?"

Get out, get out, while you can.

Friday, 4 May 2012

Warning Promises

When it is so very cold in the night. Not from the radiator under performing.

It's not sleep when it is like being lost in smog. The sights seen, some of the worst. Choke on the air. It's a silent maid, and iron prison. Talk about those memories without pity. Fairly impossible. Describe them for the sake of it. Concern all over your features. Etched into your skin, the cracks form and the wrinkles show. The way they describe them, lines you'd want to change. Don't show your age. Don't let on that you are getting older. Yet they are what makes me want to trust you. Makes you seem messy. Makes you more human. We'll take the tone of vague and then you won't worry so much.

So void of emotion. Where did that smile come from? Inquisitive, not critical. Keep the air so light and free. When did so many become so ugly to one another? Not understanding, but knowing perfectly well at the same time. It's tricky. Keep things ticking over, the alarm will go off anyway.

Unexpected phone calls. That anxiety kicks in, even when it's those you love. Why did you have to ruin conversation for us?

Beauty died and someone took that place. Irresponsible and reckless. Made to believe it's an everlasting state, but instead gone so long ago. In this knowledge some get angry. Dance to another time, when she was kind and graced all she touched. Not this evil twist that the sister came in and evolved the concept to.

Singing in the store. It sounds very pretty. You hear the lyrics and cry a little. Begging in tune. "This happens to all of us". Don't say it's true.  How can I prove to still love you, dear? No one else. "I've held up the door for every stranger with a promise".

Mountains of a mysterical nature. A haze of many colours that surrounds and glitters. Lost in a trance, what a sight to behold.

Fall from that into a nightmare, screaming but no one else in the house wakes. These are terrors, and hard to explain.

Where do we draw the line at experience? A lot is mistaken for it. Some call it a 'fanciful imagination'. They don't understand a mind like that. The way the owner is tricked. Control centre over thrown. Actions aren't faults, no instead consequences. It doesn't read like a picture book. Not a photo album that shows the happy times and secret smiles. There is so much more under the surface. "This is far beyond your years". The new liar, the writer. Yet that doesn't mean you can dive down and explore. We are private and so seemingly peaceful.

Quite nervous.
Fingers that won't lie still. Company the worst.

You say it's a mess, that it's all in my head. Made it sound like it's make believe. I loved the denial you handed to me on a silver platter. Something not to be tasted, not deserved. Not that way.

Stumble round the drunken trees. Careful to not hit them, they'll hold you close. Can't stand it. Off bounds, with no warning sign. You keep your reasons for staying away and I'll just accept them. No questions asked. Erased me.

I should write a piece of inspiration. Drawn from notes that strum well together. Conjured ideas that spill over the screen. Moving and destroying, a lavaesque design. It may be fake, but it might seem real. Then again, who could tell? Not even the writer. Lost a style that was deemed unique. When did it get off the page and walk out?

Started to wonder if even the birds see flight as freedom. More of a chore? Leave when the winter air arrives and promise to start up a life elsewhere, for a while. Constantly leaving. Do they even have a sense of home? Rise up and leave this place, "they looked like saints".

Want and wishing are a lost form. For the moment, that is now. I'm quite fine, you don't think so. Let's end hopeful. Please, please, please.

In all of this, hear from me soon (fingers crossed, the lucky kind!). Will you smell so different now?

"Just sing little darlin', sing with me."

Thursday, 26 April 2012

The Destruction of Small Ideas

"O where are you going?"

So tired and hurting. Writing things that are nonsensical and magic. They don't heal but are a form of temporary escape. They're never finished. Ideas cut short. The knife draws blood and panic sets in for the latter skin. A way out for a little while, or so. I've been going mad lately. These are memories.

Shall we play a game? Hide and seek in the garden. Weaving in and out of every rose bush, wary of the thorns. A small space to seem alone in, yet the cards will plague minds. Deal a future or two. Peering through the leaves, spying for an eyelash. Mind racing, you're eliminating the possibilities. Where to go? Where they'd be? Stopped in thought. The roses, so beautiful. Colours of all kind blossomed all around. Perfect. Then the rain came. It sprinkles on petals and sits on leaves. Makes them alive.

I wish I was a feather. To be so very delicate. Lighter than the idiom and able to drift away. Perfect enough to land on the water and float away. Elegantly so, as if planned. Innocent from all sins and worldly matters. Lucky enough to have seen such great sights and to have stayed so close to someone beautiful and warm. So tiny. To be a feather is so far from human. To be so far from that; my heart wishes this wholly.

Once wrote on pages about how loneliness must enjoy to ensnare the company of those feeling his call. A company so miserable. "Only to make us as sad will cure his misery". Cover you in oil, drench your soul. Burning to create a light, the kind that lets you see the flaws, not the beautiful dancers.

Nobody had to do this, they wanted to. Acceptance is a key. It's found but not used because we are so fickle. "I don't want to forget to love you."

Take a little sail boat and cast out the white sheets. They should be buffed by the wind and feel bruised, but alive. A feeling so understood it should be sad, but instead the cold wind makes us numb. The water swashes beneath the wood. Makes the surface sway and we concentrate on keeping balance. There's no room for anything else.

Black is everywhere. Some call it a classic design, others say it is mourning. They're buying it to wear to weddings and the staff don't understand. The bursts of colour, too bright, too bold. I'm so very tired of thinking of all things, it makes me too awake for sleep. I am no good for anything. My heart is black.

Not struggling. Coping. Not. I miss forever ago. When was happy? Afraid.

Don't let me in the water alone.

The little jigsaw is a mess and maybe some of the pieces are missing. Started on the edges but the corners don't add up add up. The hiding place is lost and your partner will never find you. The roses were completed because beauty is essential. We need to see something pretty if nothing else is working. Wish you so much happiness. 'Take Care' is not said enough, whilst 'Love' is frittered away. Crazy diamonds refract all the light in you and it's confusing to know which direction to follow in. The rainbow, a fake beauty.

Cure some misery to create another. Can't control today.

Sunday, 8 April 2012


"Oh, dear darling. No one believes you."

Everyone thinks it's someone else. That's not fair. How do you always get away with this? Over and over. You are a trick to be fooled by.

There was time spent together. It was spent not watching a clock, though that's a white lie. Not for the first time. When we did not know each other. Again a white lie, I never knew you.

There's many stains. They were a paint we made that coloured a picture in our minds. Carefree we let the residue drip from the soft brushes and on to our fingers. The tumbling drop rolls with an intent motion. Covering lines and creating roads. Places to travel. Used to escaping in the water as it removed those tracks for a while. The water so warm and silky, too inviting.

There are invisible scars you made. You were so sweet and she was falling into trust. You had this brilliant innocence which made it so evil when it turned out you shot with poisoned tips. A doll for your shelf. Picked up and used by a master. You said to that dolly that she was so lovely he couldn't help it, powerless before her. Little did she know your charm was a disguise. Placing your hands on her throat, tender till the marks formed. You knew it well. A plan of misconception. But who was left missing you?

Mass lack of control again and I'm almost afraid to be in the water alone.

A strange and hazy mist. An illusion of the road in front of you. It blinds you at the worse times and you swerve to avoid that tree. The one that anchored you in place and you thought you could trust. It grew in you. You. And so did you. Don't forget you, too. You broke me. I promised to love better but I forgot how to. So my heart is black, just like you said. Always right about everything.

Why are you miles away? It should be good. A way to keep away from your voice. The one I find hard to forget. The one I expect to hear on the phone. Telling me what's what and dictating the way I'm going to grovel the next day when I'm feeling worthless. A destructive force and focus to break strength. You did have impeccable timing.

Is this an end? Everything is so fragile.
It is coming and I am going nowhere.

I miss you, Cruelty.

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

See The Good

Hands tremble.

Suspended in a space that is not familiar. Writhing in a frozen state. From above bodies look less contorted than they felt. That is surely what the mind does: contortion. Watching the walls as the colour drains away, like water down a drain - but does not pirouette as gracefully. Not even there enough to ask if that was night or me?

Debar the stars from a sky once so clear. Now is forbidden.

Hear what the weather has to say. When it is sad it rains, or sunny for happiness. Simply displayed child emotions. Reverse that, rain for pain and sun for vengance. Though it is such a strange suggestion to see through. Children keep secrets, and often too well. The change of subject was mundane in itself. So too, the days will be to pass.

Not ready. Not ready.

It is all so dark, but the sun beams come through the curtains. Spiralling light hits the bed and refuses to leave the floundered and pleading. Then the water refuses to offer amity and instead reminds you of the old intimacy, where it drowned your skin in silky warmth too good to give up. Buried secrets. Pacts broken, as you start to remember.

You once said you saw me. Now I'm not so sure.

The written word is something so continually powerful. Impossible to understand how something so damning can be so beautiful and those so gentle hide such terrible sadness. Much has changed over the past two years. Though not much gets said, as truthfully as maybe it should be, what appears here is sometimes healing. It's a promise to you, who is here now, that I will not shy from this place totally. So when distance is great or nothing makes sense: I love you.

This is an extract from one of my written diaries, I think it was about all of you:
"I should tell you one thousand times over: of something warm and wonderfully light. That should sit in your chest and fill you with joy. That didn't need a specific day or time of year. It could fill more space than you could see, as each room you'd enter would fill so quickly and silently, unknowing to untided and excited feeling. What a surprise that should be. May I once hope to fill this in your mind and heart, but shall I be too far away by metaphoric distance to really fulfill that promise. Should this happen you can remember of all things mentioned by those who really do exhibit kindness from their being, and you should always remember these people over time, as they probably will never stop loving you."

Very shaken still.

Friday, 16 March 2012

How Strange, Innocence

Using music as a bandage, it wraps around my wrists and mind. It eases the troublesome tirade of a fickle onslaught.

At the ball. There's an incredibly high ceiling, it holds intricate patterns and seemingly impossible artwork. Blood, sweat and tears. With a firm grip, a fantastic chandelier is poised right over the centre of the room, the Architect really wanted to get that part alone right. The floor is marble, of course. It it a mix of triangular perfection, in shades of ecru, peru and with a delicate lining of russet. The light seems to come from everywhere, but the room still remains dim. At the right there is a spiralling grand staircase. To the left the platform for the band. A piano adorns the space greedily, but as it casts out such wonderful sound the other instruments play nicely. The tables have fabulous centrepieces, deep rouge roses, mixed with their innocently white counterpart. There are diamonds on the petals and it's so beautiful because no weight hangs heavy on them. Wink in the candlelight. The chairs are plush, with velvet smooth covers. The satin is so soft on the table surface. Next to cutlery that's polished perfection, sharp and accurately placed. Name cards were done individually, the writing suits the theme. The staff, know when to appear and when to disappear back into the walls. Discretion is key.
A hand takes you and spins you onto the floor. Though it is dizzy for a second or so, the room stops twirling. A slow dance, where hands fit on waists and snugly into a partner's free hand. One hand up high, and placing it perfectly there means eyes will definitely meet. Moving to a beat, different from the one strummed in the left. Hearts adjust to a rhythm and become lost. If it all stopped now there would be a confusion. Rested heads on shoulders. The only smell is a faint perfume, so familiar. Slow movements. Gentle. We were dancing to keep breathing.
"You don't need me, but you won't leave me."

Once again, let's take a moment to clear out the paper from our desks. Spring cleaning. Flower pruning. I guess you were going to make me do this all along. All it would have taken was the truth. No one says that out aloud anymore, for pity's sake. We should be so lucky. Stop pretending. You were no parachute after all. Terrible, falling, down. Watered down versions of the truth.

Looking up to that highly placed hand, sort of ready to say the words.
No one is there. Cruel dream.

Saturday, 10 March 2012

Burst Apart

Open your eyes and see dark. Not 'the' dark. Just an empty void that has no matter. It is endless because, us humans, we will never reach the edge. A creation that we are little players in, take away the word mighty because fear was instilled in our hearts long ago. A shape with an unknown design. The philosophers could go mad over it, and indulge their unquiet, restless minds. How many true types of fool are there?

We spend a lot of time looking at the sky, even wanting to be a bird for the day. Spreading some feathers, which individually are dangerously delicate, then going higher - toward that sun! (A metaphor that is long since worn out). It is so strange that a matter of browns and yellows could be come so distinct and radiant. Where eagles fly in the west.

Out beyond that there is so much more. So much glittering space. Full of things the clever ones try to understand. The darkest night during the longest day. Then a burning intensity. We look for those supernovas as an amazing sight. A star's funeral getting to be such an enlightening experience, for some. Instead that burning brightness just before the end is like one final chance to be remembered. One final thing that they were damn good at. For there are you are looking at a valley of stars. A beautiful picture of something quite unearthly. It is so unusual it is captivating and wonderful. A lot like quite a few of you round here. Gone in a second.

Take away that horrible complex array of feelings. Just for one day. Okay, a few hours. Smile, again.

What a mess! This is not artwork.
"Be good or be gone."

Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Little Hell

Twirling ribbon between fingers. Sometimes string. The intricate patterns create something that is distinctly unusual and an 'alternative' for a few hours. The way it twists so quickly, with delicate finesse. There is no matter with the colour, the focus is all in the never ending webs. Though should the activity be carried out in the daylight, you may notice the shades, how they seem to pale the more feverishly the fabric moves. Always pulling, testing the strength, but never so much as to make it break. One false move and, snap! That analogy for controlling your life is all too fragile to risk. It's a figurative representation, and the literal steps are forever unanticipated (no matter what one man says). But we cannot help the barbaric curiosity that the analogue infers. That nefarious manifest, lying deep in the subtly your question, "what if?". Though the tone might suggest us humans tend to present that phrase as more of a statement. We think we know so much.

"It's keeping me alive."

How do you describe your heart beat; Does it pound? Flutter? Do you lie down in the dark of night and hear a faint pulse? When you are so very proud, does it hammer louder than the mountainous workers finding diamonds in the peaks? Should it dance and tap in a rhythm that you can share with another? Is it a quick succession or does it softly murmur, unsure of what lies a head. Though affected, they keep us alive - most of the time.

To be tiny. Hiding a box, safe and hidden away from it all. The bones of you and how they fit together. Tracing fingers down your spine and feel every kink. The hollow times.

"It was toxic."

Though what is clear is that we get ourselves into some awful situations, traps or emotional webs. Your friends might suggest those settings were poisoned, in repetition of what you said yourself. If 'it was doomed from the start'. However, on latter self evaluation it becomes all the more likely that the venom belongs to us. Our own damned skin. Killing roses in a beautiful garden. It is a shame for everyone else. But the one that commits the crime should not be allowed to cry. Hair falling out all over the place, deserving no shoulder. Fainting in the shower. Hours lost to falling rain. Feeling the cold while sat in front of the fire. You cannot truly get what you do not merit. Though then it is rightful and just to consider that time killed those roses too. Let them wilt and die because it would not let those special nights last forever.

"It is time to go, dear darling."

There's a traveller in the distance and she does not know where she is going to be. There's no home laid out for her, because she keeps being forgotten, almost left behind. If gone now, would it be a while before anyone took notice. That was more of a statement than question.

Almost, finally.

I want there to be fireworks. I want to run into the dark, only to have it filled up by this magical light that burns so fiercely. To look in awe at the scene created around me. The way we all placed rugs and blankets under the trees and huddled round a fire. Switching sides to avoid the smoke, but also to huddle together. We would lie back as the sky grew darker and watch the twinkling lights swaying gently in the trees. That slight whistle became the night's chime. Then we would try and light candles. It looked so beautiful. A fairy grotto. Keeping warm, staying close and hearing the secrets we did not know we had. Our lips knew when to speak and when to hold their tongues. That delicate balance in listening to those you care about. We created our own safety and magic. It was golden.

We are so much older, now.

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Castaways and Cutouts

It takes time but in it I let my mind drift. How the softness of silk comes to being. It is not only the material itself but the care in the construction that are so telling to the smoothness then felt by skin untold.

However, there is a lack of caring for the hearts held on my sleeve. It should be a shame.
All I find myself doing is shutting my eyes, or leaving them to haze in another light, and drifting to another past. It is too far, to look out the windows; for what is outside could come in. In theory, inside the cocoon we should be safe, warm and sound. When I am lost, it is the only time I really feel found.

Poisoning sweet words and lullaby chorus by tomorrow not being any kinder. Though, as if stuck, I keep singing the song each night. I find myself wondering if I am punishing myself on purpose by doing this? It's something that I cannot show on my skin's surface and therefore there is some comfort that other's will not have to see the stain left behind. The Secret Sisters knew what this all meant and will continue to show.

There is this stinging desire to go away. Just somewhere for no specifics - to give it meaning would taint the escapism. But experience teaches that no matter how great the distance, the thoughts will be the same.

I can see ahead but this does not dissipate the black clouds that swell. In this full melody all that can stop the shaking and choking is a comforting envelope of safety. Warmth to save the chilling bones. Ebb the sobs. Salty, they roll down each cheek to only be swept up by soft finger tips softly, softly. Gentle, take the hair that falls and covers vision, tuck it behind an ear. Lift that chin and expect to gaze upon eyes. The silken touch convinces that all is not as hard as it seems to be. You steady yourself and take in the comfort. It is time. Yet, when I lift my head, an empty room before me.

There is so much more to this. Wear the tokens that represent more than words. It is not only lovely, it is bittersweet. Secrets are catching.

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

Look At What The Light Did Now

If each tear that fell carried a message in the centre, what would it contain?

Hammer hard on the darker notes. They are woody and deep, such rich noise. I've heard the piano played so intimately, but never for me. I do not believe it could be for someone else when played with such passion. It is a secret shared between the player and the keys. They tell of great stories and terrible deeds. The background of a thousand lives, played out in the concert hall. A singer is just a translator, stepping in to provide a version of words that could only scratch the surface of emotion that is drummed by slender fingers. Creation.

"It's okay to not be okay." They'll still fix you up for home.

The jocoserious attitude you take makes life confusing for those that are barely taking their first steps off the ladder rungs. Must you be so pious.

Let us stray from the fires which burn and instead bask in the smoke above. Too often burning passion is all part of the conversation when really it's an emotion that has a sporadic existence. Who needs a spark, when there is opportunity to look instead at how the fog in the air twists into shapes of beings. Mocking the future as it does so, may it also offer some insight. For hundreds of years many look to find out their futures but this curiosity dies as quickly as the answer is found. Fortune tellers must remain anonymous when giving their news, that way they may hide away as easily as they were found. Fuck the cookies which talk of wisdom, it's nothing more than typewriter gibberish.

So many back words are said before and during the heat of the moment. But you're so forgetful of them in the aftermath. Please don't forget what was said, if you do, there will never be any change - because you thrive on a future being unpredictable (make it so). When it is hard to know where to begin the cards offer titles that give subplot to the conversation. Fall in and out of denotation or subliminal desire. That message you have to accept: we may just never know.

How lucky the smog is to disappear at will. You should wish to spread so thin so as not to really be. Perennial translucency. It is the face you cannot really remember but left bitter song in your mouth that has achieved this entirely. In spite of this, I have learnt that it does not matter where you leave to, the thoughts are just the same. Nor does it matter how well you tidy your life, play the games or partake in all the day's activities. That presentation of a nicer version of what you are, it won't work - there are many fixed ideas. I wonder if we passed the tipping point before we even knew where and what it was. Maybe it has always been too late.

We have to say those painful messages. We have to talk, before you wake up different again.

Tuesday, 31 January 2012

Gracious Tide, Take Me Home

Dreams of miniature fragility. An intensity unknown without true understanding. Twisted minds that weed out the weaker hearts. It takes more than sheer moral to get through the day.

It was such a lazy afternoon. Woozy air and frayed on details that didn't have to contribute. Slightly oxymoronic perhaps, but (guilty) welcomed relief.

Go and do little good. Take that advice how you please, but on small observation those that make it optimistic are the hopeful and few. When cynicism seems to rule from the heart, over having been learnt from childhood lessons and time, that is when we should worry. Now correct me where I am wrong, if I do say I believe some of us have been worrying an awfully long time already. Is karma coming?

Taking buckets and spades; adventure calls! Make towering features to impress yourself. Sit in the sand having crafted your vehicle. Shells and old treasures are the controls to take you forth. Travelling to wherever the sea should take you - it is said freedom fills those sails. The wind is always honest with its news coming from the far and wide. Often wishing western shores, where the lanterns shine as they lift their light to the sky. Settle on the water and disappear home.

How should you say more when they ask the kids to write essays solely based on so much suffering and death? When we should not wish to choose our days feeling sad but must spend the morning writing of disaster.

New people from other shores, they would understand in another language, if only it could have been explained at the beginning. You have a thousand keys and one lock - how to find meaning when it could be from only one reality.

Looking to become those dreams you have had, the scariest possibility of all. Especially when they are so far removed from sensible concepts thought up in right minds. Measure the difference, day by day.

Waiting to wake up from a dark time. Though you realise your eyes are open and nothing will change now. It is a happy year for happy people. Measure this difference, day by day. Grow distance.

Monday, 16 January 2012

Open Door

Do you ever just run, and not stop? Keep going and make the distance very great. Before that, did you tell them you were going? Leaving so abruptly, you hardly could pause for a thought or two. Cause a stir and don't turn your head to see the spin.

Arrest me with your mind and undress me with your eyes. Remind me that it is weakness that brought me here but then beg me for confidence. Let bodies twist and turn, become one in the dusk and two in the morning. The moon doesn't wait for romance, such as the mood won't care for lit candles.

Do you read, see, hear, talk and know things like this but yet sit there and wonder why you haven't gone? There's a reason why. But when you can't place that reason, all that's left to decide is why you haven't gone yet. If I am wired again, this time you won't be there to hold me down and ask me what I'm doing. I'm taking glue with scratched hands and trying to stick the wounds shut tight. Fix up. But hard not to grab a bottle and pour out tears by the unit. So much unnecessary mess!

Crush the kindred spirit, it'll still remain in pieces. The parent child.
There's a black pool calling out for the last of my love, and that is gladly given. Whatever left, not dried up.

Should we chose to read things back with clear vision on the cards, will we like what we see? Silence should take you as a willing prisoner.

"Everything ends."

Write a note, screw it up and throw it out.
Leave unnoticed.

Saturday, 7 January 2012

Give Up The Ghost

When I was little my Papa would try and drive through the night, so we could enjoy the next whole day waiting for us. I'd be sat in the back of the car and buckled in tight. The streetlamps would flash past and when we'd come to a long tunnel it was as if the sound had been sucked out of the world. It was always a long way and I never made the distinction between being awake and having fallen into a dream. I saw the bridges come and go, just as we passed the lights every few seconds. And as we'd get away from the city haze soon the stars would flood the sky and the darker blues would compete to fill my vision, here and there. But I'd never felt scared or confused. Worried about where I was heading. Because of 'we'. With someone keeping me in mind and who had carefully lodged me in their heart on first sight years before. Partly because I knew nothing really of evil and a world out there (really outside of my younger years), but I felt safe. What a homely feeling that is. This feeling is always consistent but not constant. You know it is there, without actually acknowledging it. It'll creep up on you when you least expect, want or need it to. Though it is not always welcome, as time moves forward change makes the past real and in that old, warm familiar feeling becomes locked.

I gave away all and kissed my heart goodbye, for an indefinite time of return. May it's journey remain golden, as a body is left broken. The hardest phone call after the longest night. I can't tell you how I sat and choked on words I'd missed out when it was dark outside and the house was sleeping. Rocking back and forth, so slowly in a place once known for comfort. Apologies flying by the ceiling, looking for gratification of redeeming bad deeds. Exactly what you need to have the pain go away now taboo. The irony of only wanting that. Remembered an old safety, a warmth like a little match inside me struck and I held on to it. But it burnt out too quick and I was only reminded of how alone I am.

So day to day things are changing and events are happening but there is no connection felt. I'll smile, laugh and spin round holding your hand but you can't take away the cold inside. The tears that keep falling every night. The painful reminders that come every time denial pulls me back towards his delicious graces. A stab in the dark. Now things have changed she says that the obvious way is forward and on to new horizons. Well no, because that's not right. Too hollow and empty for that. You shall not try to understand this because we are all different. You used anger to shake me, and hurt me so. I sat wishing it wouldn't stop, in spite of the pain it reminds me of you.

It's as if I stood, not so elegantly, on an ancient rug: moth-bitten and with it's rich colours faded, it had once been so new. Trying to find a sense or balance, regain some purpose or any other. Some trickster came along, without magician's skill, and pulled it out from clean under me. We (audience included) are waiting for me to slam to the ground, but I won't leave running. It just hasn't hit me yet. The audience won't get their melodious laughter quite yet. Just as eagerly looking for some tears to fall. Admit everything no one can can see how time stands still, except in torturous habit should it choose to proceed maliciously slow. I am wishing for you to be so very happy, always. But I never saw it coming.