Tag Archives: Creative writing

the misfit chapelier fou

So putting fingers to type form is easy all the time right?

WRONG!

In my case it’s been a turbulant  few days   ahem.. years. The daily stresses and grind of this ‘dog eat dog world’ and self medicating started to have a severely negative impact on my health. To those on here who have stuck by me, THANK YOU, for accepting that my creativity and mental health slides on a crazy spectrum -up and down. And to the side. It even does a knightly horse jump on the board when it feels the desire to do so.

To finally find middle ground, and the inner confidence to write even just a few words is a blessing. And a relief for me.

It’s hard to have a passion for a new venture in writing and not have some expectations that it’s going to be well received. Something that isn’t just my thoughts or my attempts at ‘borderline  poetry’  or ‘in yer face poetry’ 😉 ,rants, spoken word.

I didn’t know….

No, I didn’t believe I had it me!

This music venture to write song and album reviews and do interviews is a genuine lurrve of mine. I didn’t know I could use my degree/ skills/ personality 😉  to write about and learn how to write about Music in a journalistic style.

Update on me doing my Masters in Creative writing. I did one year. I had one year left to complete it and due to Life, divorce, mental health issues, personality flaws -Ha ha! -I had to defer.

I am still  really proud of myself because I do have a post graduate certificate /degree in the Arts and Humanities!

Not a distinction like I wanted but a high  merit is good enough.

YES! It all counts.

I’m on twitter like many of us. I see some of you are on there too. I follow a page called #realisticpoetry. They are great at giving word or visual prompts to help stimulate the creative fruits de mer. lol

Forget about seafood.

Here’s a similar picture they used  to prompt folk like me and maybe you to challenge ourselves to write  a small poem. Here is mine; short (not like me) and sweet (like me) Lol

Hands unique yet held in unity,

Bonds unbroken by the nature of our true soul’s desire.

\Performed in tongues Expressed by Humanity.

Written by me. 

TO view the picture prompt link is here – Realistic Poetry Community

We never know what we are capable of until we try.

I’ll leave you with a song, by Chapelier fou- literal translation – Madhatter  that makes me feel at one with nature. It’s not chanty or New agey. It’s just super cool. A song compromising of animal sounds just epitomizes the word ‘kewl’ . I’m always happiest listening to birds chirruping and watching them  flying in the sky.

I’ll speak more of it soon.I’ve been listening to it since it came out on my hype machine feed in December 2017. I will  write something to give it justice to how it makes me feel.  It’s hauntingly melodic. Swingy and probably what Mary Poppins would approve of. Just a spoon full of good music makes the misfits madder than a hatter.

All the best people I know are beautiful misfits. 😉

Ciao!

If you are looking for some new music to wrap your ears around , feel free to listen to one of my playlists


 

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These willowy thoughts

My blog (that I share) has always been about ‘keeping it  real’ and being authentic to myself. I never started out my blog  think ing – YO This is the shizzle- (as my mate Lou says). And  then expand my blog to include other passions and interests on Art, mental health, politics, ideas, poetry. I’ve started writing what I’ve ahem.. coined  borderline poetry or IN-YER face poetry , done a couple of  open mic nights  and delved into  recorded spoken word projects and film projects .

I wrote/write about the shit going on  in my head. I t was and still is a way to get all the crap sifting around my head out and into the written form. It’s a creative outlet.

I call this method of writing ‘Write to recover’ -I often us stream of consciousness techniques. I try not to overthink what I type.

I believe in the quote..

The truth is stranger than fiction

Mark Twain

I don’t know about any of you..

But I’ve lived a long and colorful life (I’m not  bitter, I wear my heart on my sleeve )

I’m just trying  to do what I need do to get by.

Music is a  full time love of mine. I want to get into music journalism. I want to write about album reviews and singles.

I have the opportunity to know something many dope and creativists (creative people). who have so much to share. I get the opportunity to do interviews.

I am passionate about interviewing all artists – painters, D’J.’s, film/documentary enthusiasts/ photographers – any one passionate about being creative.

It is as a bonus if they are aware of mental health issues. Cos we all should be by now. We need to start coming together as a community.

I believe being creative helps improve our mental sense of wellbeing.

No one is perfect. Don’t knock yourself for getting through and surviving

Here is my thought for the day

If someone is going to treat you like crap. Replace their Ass. Especially if they fall into the non -fam category. Don’t give up on your fam, folks.

Daisy/ GOATS2BDazee/Natasha Bodley

Devil’s Sunshine

DAILY MUSING

Devils sunshine

in promised hope of the sublime

intertwines with my veins.

She will rock me into the seventh min dynasty

Riding on the seventh wave.

The bars of gold pulsing liquid molten around my corpse.

Dear lord , can you save me  from this devil ?

She goes by the name of my Sultan

To rhyme eloquently

I try not;

Fore mere words in visual

This

My daily bosom

This is all I’ve got.

* inspiration for musing listening to this song and listening to a friend mess about with his KORG VOLCA SAMPLER

featured image photo credit domugraphic on Twitter

Love Cartel didn’t end well

sails set -flappers on deck- bags packed ready to dance with le mistral –

Prepare for signs of cursive scurvy , unorthodox rats.

a canary and a dove destined for a new type of island style

Known by the name king Louis of swing.

Roots.

Start over.

Allegiance to the flag

Pledge to acquiesce to the captain of this ship

He – the cardinal son.

She- Scarlett wife , tresses of a bedheader installs a navigation Wicca app aura .

Puritans on the other side of the reminisce  -wont flock in God’s pinitation no more.

Men blemished from wearing rosacea glasses,

They don’t mind if their ladies flesh is pricked by a stranger.

Possessive is not a prerequisite to all nature.

If she hustled away every coin for her current despicable appearance,

Would his fists mangle into the renegade degenerate?

He ,sitting on a cracked pavement, sipping beer 9% proof distilled hops poison

The brain canters away with a wild neigh, a hurdle jump to late to plummet off the mezzanine ?

Money talks .

Yes, your majesty,

The Queens face-discordant in all apparitions injects a dose of annus miribilis.

Scarlett wife Disorderly conduct causes a head to head, bollocks to a curtesy,

Sight convinces the reality of her hand gripping onto a can of mace.

No!

Artistic expression insists on splashfuls of colour of cans .

Expressive language told in graffiti.

Stand back — look at the words staring at you on the attack

What is respect ?

No dictionary to hand. Examples pour out without definition.

Pleasantries, thank you , cups of tea, good nights, mechanical nav app claiming

Quickest reroute to I love you,

Is it posse of homies fist bumping in homage to the lionized mane with blue blood paw

Together-slumber in king size

Flesh remains languorous to the swirl prints of human touch-

Mistaken identity chickens both fear to lose more feathers

Life division — soul mates obliterated by differences in decorum ethics.

Always the sophisticate — the crowd whispers nectar grains of gossip behind whimsical fans.

She is the fallen angel , notorious for the malaise in her head,

 she brings out the rapture of Yorkshire cows that hide udders with a noo noo ,

lactose free

Milked by onions far future veiled tears and a survival credits demeanor .

The pair adore the honeyed bee with cotton blue eyes –

the enigma who keeps their fates sealed in bondage

Arrange one another like a book end seeking outwards ,

a common agenda arise

Pleiades siren sisters heard mewing departing with the breath of dawn

tangerine hues , salmon pinks,

Creative muse leads the joint pair to rip at each other until both are mere bits of itty bitty jagged ,torn up pieces.

No clean break.

Wind takes a pile of their stake

Love ?

People fall out of love everyday.

Better opportunities appear in the sky line at sun

Save but for this,

Passion misaligned enough to impart a spiritual kiss.

Scarlet answers to his tonic inflections — atonement persists every other day.

White noise.

Static.

Erratic.

Chaotic.

Despotic

Erotic

heinous tumor clots the mind by a sprinkle of a spell hypnotic

The poltergeist won’t make a proposal with a smudging kiss -so dreadfully emphatic!

Compromise to exercise the practice of sabili.

Feverish tug of war discourse breaks out in lieu of discordant decibels strung out on opiate sentences.-

Night terrors channel the unblemished one onto hang mans cliff, one foot away she is from tumbling to the state of alone.

How can we humans get it so wrong for so long?

Hearts motivation is seeking for a state of a rose petal bed sensation

Yearn that the fleeting soul mate would over estimate his worth.

Indeed change his own faith perhaps even his fate.

No frown lines

Don’t mean no problems.

equality determined by duvet covered up underscores

Old Ben ticks a version of rock.

seize a raconteur to reveal a mandatory position of bondage-alternating positions to top-

Knowledge of new positions verbalized in consumption — a crescendo of orgamsic crowning

Don’t you think it’s fascinating we can live in cramped states and boxed ticks?

Fairies move out appalled by love birds sudden screaming in Tourettes tics

Strangers bound by vows and contracts have perfunctory sentiments ,

Know her soul — possess her ,emancipate her from well coined ferry man ferrying crowds over the river of sty.

she needs the force of a Minotaur-

Amygdala explosion — irrational welts to a few tossers , no burial for those who disrespect a generous gender-life givers-vessels for the lucky few

Respect is a two way street.

A part can disappear to a sudden gasp of disappointment clad in veil-hidden-

Though some part still exposes her skin announcing she’s prepared to paint a mural — decipher their own teasing ,high hopes for their Art.

He needs a stability, no hand palms lined with haphazard crosses-

Nor to the cosmos antagonizing the make up of her spirited sum

We – love is what ? a dessert homemade , multiple attempts to attain the taste of perfection

To understand the the meaning behind the effect of not giving a shit about garlic breathe.

We fall in love-

we fall out

We love-

we don’t love

Love shouldn’t have a contract of pre determined conditions.

Feisty souls-what will happen when they reach past there 30th mile stone?

All blasphemous bathe in water infected with parasites of bloody rouge delighted to succeed leeching on a new host — a corruption life draining feed

is this enough to see them through the next phase-a turnstile or direction that doesn’t rewire an IQ test

emotional intelligence — hear her lilted accent

Manipulations, guilt — disappointment-

She commands brutal truth in — communication

Not the bullshit that she is the get down momma.

Big up her soul — she won’t trust words wrapped in silk feathers made by the wife of the bent over farmer.

Troubled is this state of terrain .

life epiphany moments can unify a bond lost to an inventory of savage materialitisic scum

The body is infected

Damn woman, screwed up everything from the moment she puffed out a perfect Oh breathe , the day at her party of existence.

Which way to go?

Look at the neighbors garden — all flowers and herbs cultivated with hands green hue glow.

Tender, patience — imagine a perfect relationship.

It’s easy to forget the good times when Cerebus wakes up-

dodging three eyeballs — accumulate by the sense e of fear-causing blood to boil in heinous state of haemorrhage.

Reminisce the spaces with laughter , moments of frisson, an out line of a future that didn’t appear another gilded prison.

Vow to be a sensual, thought after action man

Vow to be a lady who will cite and recite her promise .

re read the words spoken amount attuned bird chirping,

Above an audience not hidden by a curtain-breaking down every wall.

They recite their vows

Explore the true meaning,

Speak them out loud

Reconnect – her proposal to fight for their future far from the hostile terrain cartel.

Indulgent woolgatherer

Let us sit here for a second , right here on top of this lush hill.

Pause, for a moment and think about life and what we want to do – explore how we feel.

Lie down ,sprawl out  our arms and legs like star fish and gaze up into the sky.

Cloud gazing- can you see we reflect one of those red dwarf stars, we can see at nigh?

Let’s see what we can find in our future  before the clouds pass along.

They move far too quickly, our imagination needs to be strong.

We don’t always have to live in the ghetto.

We could pack up  our bags and travel the world , live hand to mouth with a  more energetic flow.

Learn different languages, eat fine food, dive off cliffs into  the ocean – wanting to live and win.

The reason very much different to how you wanted to end it on Hollin’s lane on the island of ‘Gyve inn’.

Second by second is passing us by.

We could get a move  on – leave all this materialistic waste lying  just here.

We just take ourselves and book a flight to anywhere -all we need is our combined heart and minds to see things more clear.

Bah!

Bah!

Bah!

Bah!

Bah!

What a great game. You do an excellent impression of a sheep, mon cherie.

Okay my turn ……

Arms prop up on elbows, Blonde curls and a mouth seemingly dipped in honey,

looks at the man and those bee sting lips are guarded by  all seeing drones.

What is the matter, my little sparrow?

You look at me with such warrant arrest,like we have only just met – you look straight past me like I am not even here.  Of course we can stay in touch with our loved ones  and take our cellphones.

‘I have a game”, says she, eyes dark, exposing true twinkling  stars.

The man forgets to breathe his head fully intoxicated like he has spent the day tumbling out of various bars.

“Walk over to those sheep – there! and I will tell you then what it is you next have to do.”

Slightly fazed but not wanting to show it – he heaves himself up and approaches the sheep with a hesitant  brazenness-

“Erm well – hello to you and ewe.”

He turns around to listen to the next part of his task.

His little buttercup opens her mouth , urging him  on to stroke the sheep.

Hesitatingly, he laughs when he starts to pet one and it lets out a great bleep.

Laughter emanates from  the couple, meets in the air, merge -dancing cheek to cheek -finally a caress.

The lady starts to announce she has something she would like to address.

Obligingly, the man will hear anything she wishes to confess.

“It’s all very romantic this talk of living a better life.

‘I can see it happening  -‘

‘Yes, I can see this happening. Me standing next to you  – I would love to be your wife.”

The man continues to stroke the sheep ,looks at the tufts falling away in his hands , looks down in horror.

Lady continues –

“if you were as half as good at taking action than talking like you are the  confirmed lead in every conceived theatre production of tomorrow…

I look around and see trees but alas, no money.

It’s all very well to sit and fantasise with you, when it is bright and sunny.

Well, I see a  much truer future with you – you have such a skill,indulging on your feet.- even if you are slightly heady and staggering.

I foresee a better  future for us -one with more purpose – by all means  continue with  these notions  of yours- not in  part but as a  full time career  in wool gathering.”

*TRYING TO INCREASE MY VOCABULARY*

Definitions forwoolgathering

  1. indulgence in idle fancies and in daydreaming;absentmindedness: His woolgathering was ahandicap in school.

  2. gathering of the tufts of wool shed by sheepand caught on bushes.

DICTIONARY.COM

Force of drole

*writing to recover-writing to remember who I am. Writing and shrugging of the insults of so called friends/family

DROLE-this  world is a part of my repertoire

 seek it out

I  observe the stars bluster out a cosmic sigh

sun ushered in to greet me and says to me high

sunshine deflated-slips behind

coy eyelashes flicker

an  elusive goodbye

landscape sightings report the sun’s trickery

it can’t  revolve above or  under the  sky

Planet earth is cookie cut

flattened into shape

dictated to — its norm of a lay by

infinite  stutters unlace La Luna

part ways

  left heartbroken

creating ripples across water

Oft blurred.

 wanton to view her beguiling manner this eve

Don’t watch this space

It leaves room for an innuendo

genre style-

budgie budgets cos it’s an indie myna on the fly by

Gutted cos this  reads across as a novice  flatulently  windy

Lost confidence in his nature.

Stole a spirit

it wasn’t even mine

Finale parts the legs of barbie inbred s  in-laws.

Cheap cheap

underwear-blatantly reveals the remnants of a hookah   smoky blows

secreting a house ablaze

brush off an ashen doll-

pasteurized

vended  as Cindy.

Quality remains third degree sightless

to the echelons taken over in a hazed quantity;

I think I died.

I have imposter syndrome

These words dictate I’m a genuine illiterate.

Forgive me for attempting to write

I forgot about that critter sitting amongst its fellow mate-the 5 10 midget

Oi ‘Arry Potter quick diversion tactic-start finding the golden   quidditch

DAISY LIFE UPDATE

Life has been and life has not been. I’m still here. No amount of suicide attempts or general mismanagement of my health and life has worked. No grave filled. I’m alive! I’m divorced. I matter. I can. Miss being on here.

Kooky heart

Oh how did this happen to me
The girl from some other foreign city?
Wiley enough to make a plan
Cunning and soft of heart -all my eggs bled before the start of labour
Before the sun came up.
It hid her pain, all the clots of her smiles.
She would coocoo again
for her soul was of one who couldn’t quit even when they told her she was dead.

Easter roe

Hey ho – It’s Easter

My mad has turned into glad

Easter hunt with Bee leading the front

Check out the daily song

Start a debate if you think its wrong.

The lyrics touch my heart and make me smile -two of my favourite effects of Life.

Wanna cry, wanna laugh
Wanna give all I have
I’m so grateful
I can fight through the pain
‘Cause I fight in your name
You’re my shelter
I’m so grateful for you

[Verse 1: Chance the Rapper]
For my house, for my home
For my chair, for your throne
For your love, for your mercy and grace
For a job or a dub or a odd or a slug
Or a bone or whatever you say
Hop in the whip and turn the heat up
Turn that seat hotter than a teacup
Please tell the car to turn the beat up
Evergreen Plaza, had the black Santa
Coconuts across the street, get my CD’s up
Shout out [?]
Used to buy my snow cones, pay ya back tomorrow
Every time I go home, hear a bunch of sorrows
Grass is always muddy at the other party
Drive down to Blue Island for that flavor
Where they ain’t scared to say the name of the Savior
Oh, we got some healing, got some blessings, got some favors
We got some gifts, we on the list for good behavior

Give you whatever you want
Ain’t that what the family for?
All I know, all I want
Be around the family more
Be there whenever you want
You know what the family for?
All I know, all I want
Be around the family more

My cousins not soft, one skippin’ frosh off
One finally grew up, cut the block off and cut his locks off
One of ’em passing all her classes, Now pass the hot sauce
Never become one of those knockoffs that rather not talk
I know I look just look my auntie, (love my auntie)
I’ma keep it funky, talk too much like Donkey
On my back like monkey (love my auntie)
On my line like laundry, she keep it a hundred
I’m the biggest brother, biggest cousin, big ol’ nigga big folks
Just hit my jack like Peter Pan, that shit don’t never get old
They introduce some evidence, my homie might never get home

That’s why we screamin’ “Fuck the president” like Marilyn Monroe

 

YAY I’VE WRITTEN SOMETHING

Sabali wabi sabi

Does it need to be said ?

Because the Media makes you think your make up is inappropriate

If you are horrified to ask Google for mental health support.

You know I’m hear to tell it — (once )’for a cause not for an applause’

To avoid the pariah of your mind.

Who you are is important for your wellbeing

Beautiful you are because of your malaise.

Its about what you think

A unique template for peace of mind.

Alone-thoughts are you,

And yours together.

Others’ opinions must dance alone with their shadows.

Fathoming the world is relative to your state

Your kind.

Diagrams and graphic diagnostics aren’t “normal”

Natural ?!

Necessary?

Merely for inferences and academic utterances.

Your Beauty is personified by playful events racing around your head.

Love it like you love…

…another human

Beings

Those who have numbers and words yet can’t calculate when there’s enough unsaid.

Needs are experiences.

Feelings are needs…

Interpret the world through the vessel of your spirited Self .

When skies hang drably

Do you dazzle because you can see a scattered horizon of hope — as a possibility ?

When the Others tether connections

Tumble into an abyss —

Can you see their limits ?

Step back.

Allow them to be.

Is your world subject to scrutiny because of how you interpret human nature?

Do you deviate from society’s accusations of what is the trending status quo?

What if the box you live in is… outside?

What if you build a bridge?

Bearing a cross

Over to acceptable taboos ?

Breath prescribed by an arched smile.

Diagnose yourself Beautiful- because of your laments .

Before time becomes an absolute Obsession

Forecasting the outcome to the finale to the play of ‘This is your Life’.

Take moments to repose.

Free yourself from the expectation

To be your career,

To win over the Marvel comic genderless hero.

Deprecate your expectations to finance your inner Happiness resources.

This entity is inside your realm of Consciousness — restless

Trodden and stamped into a standing pose.

Moments of reflection pace

Forwards then backwards

Misunderstood

Are you what you want to be?

Can you begin a journey if you don’t understand where you are at?

Certainly living up to some other lifer’s calculation should…

Pause your being into a statuesque introspection.

To dismiss your guttural instincts will unravel you at the seams— out-thread you out of your very own mind.

Success comes from mapping out your own directions.

Hopeful-to wake up to another day of understanding ‘This is your Life’.

Your ability to comprehend, foreshadows your failed attempts to claw out of the darkest pit.

Sounds of the ocean lap to your melody.

Nothing that you feel about Today

Can conceive the trembling murmurs cut off from the guillotine of your Sanity.

In all of your figurements…are you determined to act out your suicide because you fear your inability to state your arousel ?

Who you are

Is that wrong?

Thoughts pre empt if everything is filled in with Leftism

Resist apologising

Dismiss you have the good view!

Change your world

Thoughtfully

Refuse every thing

That threatens your Passions —

That provokes beta beatings whistling out of tune.

Precious notions find a sense of disambiguation before the matter resolves itself.

Do you tell others to respond to what you fail to question?

Where is the perversity in watching the death of your inner Flinch — to conclude this delusion ?

What if you won’t be the canvas that contains an abstract spectrum fading you out of very own Self ?

Look on at those who shrink into their frames bled of every shade of hues

Is this what you want?

(Image sourced from SHADOWPLAY DESIGN )

 

Naive sex worker

*A character I’m working on for some project in the future*

 

Take me to a place where being penniless is the land of the free.

Pennies should only be  sought after a valued thought.

Lift my skirt higher?

Do you really think I can get that low?

I’m too shy to go all Billy bass

to consider blowing some dude in  his family  car-

in the hope of getting a lyrical limbo.

Or…am I ?

credit cards maxed

I hope you get it now.

Yeah…

that’s what I think I would say to the first punter.

I’D MUG HIM..

..SHOOT HIM,

Do time for…

Take your filthy hands off

Do you get it now?

This  life is awry.

KIDSRUS

They get  to fuck with

MO  MONEY

NO FUSS

Debauchable.

Confession -Don’t tell a soul.

If I ever became a whore

I’d make a kiss the most expense price on my list.

You know, tongues.

French kissing?

Snogging.

Oinkism.

Romance is dead.

 WE ALL WANT BE LOVED

Obviously we all we want to…

be wanted.

Kissing is the height of  mind altering spooning.

Lack of kisses & cuddles  can make a  nirvana or dypstopia of…

unfixed abodes

Hearts in denial of their poverty.

 Two weeks to wait for  my interview.

Oooooh wee!

As long as my holy sunshine is safe.

whatever happens….

shhhh…….

I will see some other side.

Smile, my blue eyed Mommy.

No throwing sand on a cardboard box

…just yet.

Still have  a few tears to battle out.

I do have a decent amount of  self respect.

Where do all the good people go?

Do they become bad?

Be strong little one!

We grow from jungle roots and a paradise  nigh off the setting sun

we clap in silence for nature —  our divine protector —

Namaste

bites-

My prayers are with her holy  Gaia.

Squwark Streams on a sound byte

Shake it

… shake it baby

It’s prompting

my

Behaviour.

Keys to unsilence the drama

a

hip-pity

a happen ing in my Soviet Russian impersona

caricature is classic!

Say what is on yo mind…

why dontchwa.

too many interests’

Too little time.

I can’t rap

But I do

got flow

70% water — can’t Make this shit up…

Scientists don’t discriminate-

unless this stream is already filled up

by yesterdays

troubles

outCHOON Ed by the original televised chooners

His-

the premier

First and foremost a clickity clackety mandated muse.

Take note — one way to scale down the itchy scratchy post

lude blues.

Count

down…

it gets a bit cameras in your face-

Porno time ?

These nuts ogle for a trace.

– Streaming

nah..

Mind seemingly souring to this distaste.

Vinylise –

cos she has no form

other than to

intro- apple -genuisly feed

a draft

One day worthy for the First Lady to perform ?

It’s not all in my head

Shucks… Big up,Daisy noted

‘mo brain mo crane’

Fly to the East

Sigh to the West

side with the South

Hustle with the true north.

Whatever get’s her typing

It’s all a bit willowy

Throw in a hillbilly (?)

if it gets these words making some…

….noise

Splat!

doo wee

doo wop

Guess what?

ain’t apologising for being an invader of my own space.

R. iveting

I.nsightful

P.ost

ha ha when you cha cha.

It’s dead.

‘it’s gone,Gym’

Giblets strutting down this street

Shaking their tail feathers to those with the Harmonised feet.

Footwork.

Intro

Outro

vitro –

era

chiming Dutch bells

toll’

D

Her the time is for her inner She-era.

The mice may be chasing that scatty cat.

She speaks fluent meow-skies — knows a few tings concerning species ruled by the One Count-Ah! Ah!

Give this a ball a bat.

If you’ve caught up …

Tell her where she lost the plot.

hint Where is she at?

doing the wiggle worm , 8 years young?

thinking ,

maybe I’m a kid ‘— kidders rights to think

‘maybe I am shit hot.’

Child hood is bliss.

Improve

vocabulary

Impervious to the nonsense .

Tolerate her apparent nonchalance.

she winds down

halting

Yelling

No!

Screetches for more.

grasps the idea of throw your hands in the air

Hit, publish — these words

have no shame, in saying

I don’t care.

Be content to have your own flair.

Sometimes you gotta groove the ghetto to let up some get up and get some get go.

(Whatever)

I had fun writing this.

Parted Flesh.

*Currently, I’m working on my Masters-Year two.  I’m working on a piece about a jury split over the  ‘ grey areas’ of a  media frenzied, high  profile case, A young ,married man is accused of Raping his partner.  Is he  absolutely guilty of  Raping his wife? One night of passion. Two stories.  What happened that night?  The evidence lies in the hands of 12 jury members.*

  ‘Now are they not twayne then, but one flesh. Let not man therefore put a sunder, yt which God hath coupled together.’   MATTHEW  19:6

‘Do you promise to tell the truth, so help you God?

12

composed

In Gender.

Half a dozen fester  in a room

Sensationalising

A sweltering

Summer

In a  hyped media  play pen;

Forecast for doom.

 Devising the fate of a boy

In touch with his truth.

A mistake , is he to fall?

Be punished for the ongoing debate?

Does it make it right?

 Boy continues a relationship with the sexually assaulted.

A girl

Publicly  claims  fearful  of boy’s sinister

Fright on sight?

It’s never okay.

No means no.

Two people.

The truth.

Damn, that’s a blow

No drug could penetrate,

Mass guilt floods

Semantic fluid clogs the mind

Of a boy done  wrong.

Easy to get cynical..

If,

You were to decide his fate.

Where do you compromise your

values, beliefs,

Determine the facts?

Voices swiftly  tear apart views

Silenced into  cloud funded crowds offset to  dissipate.

What is a worthy punishment?

Manipulate Boy  to gain the upper hand to…

….Deal with a death of  paternal bond?

Cash in on emotional  connections equivalent to living in the cult of  the son of  I am.

‘Forgive me not or let me be free!’

,he pleads

Can we move forward?

Can we  sever ties ?

Chalk it up to experience.

Honour,

Vow to

Live without hubris.

His existence determined  by

A dozen eggs:

 The Jury.

Hidden behind Neon flashlights pointing to God’s hand

Directing the choir to  Man’s asunder demise?

 

asunder

Asunder is an adverb that means “into separate pieces.” So if you’ve torn your ex’s love letter asunder, you’ve forcefully ripped it into separate pieces — and rightly so.

Asunder comes from the Old English phrase on sundran, which means “into separate places.” It is a somewhat archaic and uncommon word and most of us know it only from marriage ceremonies: “What God has joined together let no man put asunder.” In most cases you can use its more common synonym “apart” and convey the same meaning, unless you want to express a particularly violent or forceful ripping.

 

What do you know?

What do you know about life?

roaming in the streets with a bag of foam E coloured, banana sweets, a flat cap to accompany your flat ale.

My mind can’t take the stairs to your psychopathic fuelled attic.

Try know about life.

I ask myself why.

Got plenty worries to wait on.

there’s nothing but your conditions dictating every one of our conversations.

I’m lost-

feel dead. rehearsing what to say is futile , when face to face , with your condescending glare.

Whispers-hard of hearing , harder to crytallize a picture of a time you were ever sweet

I keep on overthinking.

I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough.

Yet, I still bloody cared

for I know not what.

For a sign of a heart that was ever moulded into a moment so fair.

Make my amendments with the one who is the true enemy.

I nearly fell for the bastardization of the one with a tumorous relation.

I ‘m done over thinking.

I thought I was wrong,

but then I look up and see it’s you on the side of the serpents infantile tongue.

What do you know bout anything but the base life?

African synthesisers — backdrop safari park- full of savage humans.

Ooh wee-what is this shit?

every time we meet he wants to get an oo wee

Haibo,voetsek! Hamba

I want you feel what I feel tonight.

feel scared of this daughter of mama Africa –

hamba.

my body will be dancing!

feet stilettos connecting with your underbelly

weak spots identified for a finale.

macabre

macabre

-I don’t like your style at all.

Seen more compassion from wild monkeys beaten to perform.

What do you know about life?

I’m the one who is always so sorry-I’m left

Sipping up more stupid flavours itty bitty

who are you ?

ask yourself in a clean mirror -are you satisfied with what you see?

you speak about pain and suffering yet understand nothing about another’s fight.

I’m so strong-where did I get it so wrong?

Im not sorry — you deserve a room date with perverts in sodamy.

what do you know about human emotion?

Here we go

-I’m done trying to figure out your distilled mind.

I’m lost

I’m scared-damn right, you hurt me to my very core.

I forget how to breathe-only cos you disgust me with you brash audacity.

What do you know bout life?

I’m cross, I’m marred, I’m completely impaired.

what do you know except shouting down opinions?

you so damn selfish and you could do something about it,

if you cared.

You look at me right now, you don’t ask how I am.

Its all about you and your bruised ego.

You selfish bastard-you know nothing ’bout life.

Pained infliction

authentic words of describing the real you.

what the hell is wrong with you?

you are utterly a definition of disgrace.

you don’t know bout nothing.

You only care about your own suffering

I never want to be so ignorant to other lives, eras and genres of people who have a clue.

jungle vibes don’t mean you have to lose your chivalry.

you!

I don’t wanna walk like you

or, talk like you.

what the hell did I see in helping you?

I feel the open wounds- ,I see you take pleasure in openly mocking my new acquired pigmentation.

You know bout nothing -care only bout your own suffering

Lying faces,

sometimes don’t even pretend to be your friend

Lying faces come in different suits.

Proof comes from not recognising their blatant ,arrogant style is their truth

Hear these tears-you can’t look !

bass

turn it up

Music files away the pain.

rain drops cleanse away the ebony and ivory keys layered , over the bruises, of yesterday’s insults aimed at me.

I’m kind of feeling bad right now.

Peace maker?

-you should come with a pacemaker warning label

A pacifist?—

not a clue -what’s the definition –

the kook who can only mutter

‘what -a muppet’

-you don’t know this is serious!

You’ve got your addled mind with amnesia.

you rape your mothers heart repeatedly.

patterns transferred with a motion of akinesia.

Around you,

every person could be convulsing in an epileptic seizure.

you still wouldn’t know it. —

to afraid to part with 15 year old love poems written to yourself in Rhodesia

you speak of peace yet you make dividend equations

,using your thoughtless cowardice utterances, by mc-ing disambigous multiplications as an excuse for regressive aggression.

Short story- The order of the black Dog

THE ORDER OF THE BLACK DOG

My family. Here we all are, sitting around the circular dining room table- flecked with bits of gold. Ma sits under a hanging portrait of this Christmas just gone. Three weeks ago. We are all smiling in it including Poppy. Poppy sits playing with her Annabelle doll, on my husband’s lap. Sat opposite from Ma, closest to the electric fire hearth is Gran. I find myself sitting across from Gran. An iciness breathes mist over us. It separates me from them, cloaks me in a fog. I try to swallow. The air is so thick it chokes me, I’m forced to put my hands to my throat. Nobody notices me.  Nobody notices me the way they used to. I tune in to the conversation-taking place.

‘Of course I’m not suggesting this is your fault.  I should have known. Done more…’ Nan bursts into tears. A cry out for:

 I need attention I’m suffering the most.

My skin bristles. Nan pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, and then throws out a familiar comment about it being draughty.

‘You know I could catch pneumonia with my Asthma.’ She coughs. Ma gets up to put on the electric fire.

‘I didn’t take her seriously. You know what Angie was like?’  Ma’s eyes are red as the rosary beads she is thumbing; she looks over to an unusually quiet Poppy.

‘Did she just do it to spite me?’ How could she just leave her own…?’

 My husband throws a warning look at Ma,

‘Marie, for Poppies sake.  Our Angie suffered more than she let on.’ Ma sits back down. ‘Let’s put on a cartoon, luv?’  Poppy shakes her head.

 She doesn’t look at us.  I look straight at her, willing her to leave this table. Leave this conversation. She lifts her head and looks me dead on in the eyes. I instinctively smile. Eddie and me always stood together when it came to Poppy. Her face is pale, her eyes sunken, her skin is drawn in so tight I can see cheek bones protrude. Beneath her eyes-, veiled shadows betray her youthful face. She clings onto Annabelle, still looking me dead on in the eyes.

‘When’s Mummy coming home?’

 Silence. Her words enmesh with the silence. Her question disarms me. Marks me. The arrow leaves its bow splintering my heart. I open my mouth to scream out as many words as I can. Condensation steams the air distilling me into silence. I reach my hand across the table to grab hers. She doesn’t see me. I glare at my family sitting at the round table. They say nothing. Smothering themselves in sorrow, they witheringly curl inwards. I urge to shake them, uproot them from winters glaze.

-Answer her! Answer my daughter.

Instead, Gran succumbs to a puddle of wrinkled tears, mechanically Ma gets off her chair, attempts to console Gran and naturally it’s  up to Eddie to mediate.  My calm, rational Eddie. His eyes read as vacant –his beard is wild and unkempt.  It’s impossible to read his face. He clears his throat,

‘We’re gonna see Mummy when we give her… say a proper goodbye.’

Gran flounders in her anglers net of remorse.  Great splotchy splashes of grief escape. She wails,

‘She’s with the angels –looking down at you, darling!’

 I roll my eyes. Of course I love her!  Lately, she grates my skin more frequently with her, melodramatics.

– Confess how you truly feel. Relieved!

I’m so fixated on evoking a response from Gran; unnoticed, a light flickers with an intensity to match my own.  Eddie carries Poppy over to the sofa, sits her down to watch a cartoon. He covers her with a blanket then kisses her forehead.

‘We’ll see mummy soon? To say goodbye?’

 Eddie nods his head, his voice cracks.

‘Aye, love.’

‘When will mummy come back from saying goodbye? In spring? My teacher says it’s winter – everything goes to sleep like her?’ Poppy points to ‘Sleeping Beauty’ on the television.

 Eddie focuses on the image. The Prince is just about to kiss Aurora on the lips. He turns his head away from the television before he can see Aurora wake up to her true loves kiss. He grinds down on his teeth. Poppy’s eyes remain transfixed on the television. Eddie gets up, crosses the dining room table; I’m compelled to follow him, I have to stop him. Tell him I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve so much to tell him.

 -There is no God! We were right all along. Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves.  We were right to take the piss.  

Eddie flinches, puts his hands in his jean pockets. I follow him down Ma’s hallway and into the bathroom. He closes the door on me. It doesn’t ever close fully. I slip through the crack of the door that is always ajar.

 Head down. Still. He sits on the toilet seat.  I kneel down before him; go to lay my head on his knee. He flinches again. Hits himself in the head. Bangs his fist on the wall screams out:

‘Why? We could’ve figured it out, you fucking stubborn mare’ I bring out the best and worst in Eddie. Till death do us part. What are the chances?

He still refuses to let me go. Stubborn.

My symptoms intensify in the days leading up to the funeral. Everything‘s heightened especially emotions that seemingly walk precariously on stilts.  I can’t walk through walls or levitate. Nothing like any of the horrors Eddie and me used to watch together, on the sofa. 

Unheard, I bellow continuously,

-Just let me go!

 Every time I hear my name called reflections of nostalgia flash and beam over and around me. Prompted, I gravitate towards the source. Someone needs me.  These past three weeks, I’ve been teleported from one conversation to another. I find myself in a room; familiar or not familiar, with people I know and people I don’t know.

Today I’m summoned to the usual bickering between Ma and Gran. The familiar sound of Gran’s kettle boils in the background.

‘I want that picture of her on her graduation day and flowers- blown up .With azaleas. And roses – she loved roses- pink.’  

‘She hates that picture! And she loves- loved yellow roses…’ Ma’s wobbly voice mirrors her jelly struck legs propping her up in her work shoes. She staggers backwards. Like the black dog with a bone, Gran won’t give in,

‘No, she’s my eldest grand daughter and I know her – it is… was pink!’

 Ma sits down, doesn’t speak. I go over to her to put my arms around her then she dissolves into tears. Gran bulldozes her way over to us. Intimidated, I move out of her way. Gran holds Ma and Ma lets Gran hug her. Ma calms down, mentions something about pink and yellow roses

Vexed, I shriek

 – don’t back down Ma, I love yellow. Yellow roses. The kettle whistles for attention. My voice is lost to an object.

‘I’ll go make that cup of tea’ Nan retreats to her kitchen.

Another opportunity to get close to Ma again.   I need to hug her, give her some of my energy. As if on cue, Mum’s tear-stained face crumples just like my heart. A poking hot iron burns a hole right through it. Gran re-enters the room I scarper.

‘Here you go, love. Lost three of my own …, as you know, mind, they never got to Angie’s age. Yellow’s more of a quirky colour like our Angie… was.’     They smile at each other. I move back, the distance seems to illuminate their smiles.

Tonight, I beg for there to be a heaven. This has to be hell. The familiar, incongruous, gravitational pull lures me out of my cavernous abyss. I blink my eyes several times to focus: orientate myself. Hung up around the wall are vintage Disney posters. My eyes settle on Poppies bed. Eddie bends over Poppy and kisses her goodnight,

‘Mummy loves you just as much as I do.’ He tucks her in.

He switches off the light before walking out. I stand and watch my worn out daughter in her bed. She sings herself to sleep just as she does every night. She sings our song:  twinkle twinkle little star. With each inflection of her sweet singing voice, the words serve as a needle. Each word stipulates smelting hot ink into my flesh. My neck is ablaze.  Before closing her eyes, she whispers,

 ‘I love you mummy.’

When I reply, scorching chains wrap and lasso me around my neck. My skin swells up in blisters. The familiar sound of her breathing evaporates the pain.  I need to be close to her, I need to smell her, kiss her. Carelessly, I run over to her bed to touch her sleeping head. Startled I lunge backward as Poppy instantly wakes up screaming.

– I’m powerless

. Eddie barges into the room, throws on the light and takes Poppy into his arms. I watch her body stiffen; then relax. I watch him settle my daughter back to sleep. My hands ball into tight fists.

-She must know I’m here.

Before I can touch her face, she wakes up screaming like – like she has seen a- ghost.

-I’m that Ghost! I put my hands to my mouth in horror.

 Envy bubbles inside me as I witness Eddie consoling Poppy again. I’m half hoping he won’t succeed.

What kind of a mother am I?

I’ve been telling everyone to let me go.

Where will I go?

I can’t drive, no one can see me. There are no other lost souls wondering about telling me to join the dead community!

I won’t give up on my daughter. She needs me. I have to be here.

 The stroke of our clock announces its time; a primitive realisation slithers down my very core. Nausea spirals up into my throat. I run into our bathroom, heave over the toilet, nothing comes out. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror; I see vicious V-shaped welts where the noose of the rope has cut into my neck. This is what Eddie came home to.

The cloying black dog of depression haunted me. Its delivered dose of pain was exquisite- nothing took it away. Not drinking, overdosing, drugging myself, talking-nothing. Eventually, I told it to sit down.  I told Eddie repeatedly,

– I just want to disappear.

– How can I help you?  His eyes pleaded for an answer.  I would always lash out,

-Unless you help me disappear, you can’t!

 I remained imprisoned in our bed and he would go back to work and look after Poppy and the house. He could walk away from me. I couldn’t. I resent him for that. I can see myself now, googling the various ways people commit suicide. One article struck my eye ‘Men are more successful at committing suicide’.

  -They don’t mess about with poisoning themselves –they resort to more violent means.

That is the moment I reached out to the wrong Alpha.

The black dog and I began sleeping together. It became my obsession. Up-close, I could analyse it, experiment with it. As a couple, it didn’t take much to find that Alpha rage. One phone call from Ma,

-Just snap out of it. If you’re going to do it, get on with it.

-Fine, I will!  I hung up on her before she could hang up on me.

My impulsiveness finds me trapped within this mirror. It’s cold. Everything I read is back to front. Everything I do is back to front.  It doesn’t reflect my true intentions. When I reach out, in fact, the more I reach out the more pain I inflict. I back away from the mirror until I’m pressed up, with my back against the bathroom wall.

 What have I done? 

 What right do I have trying to tell my family how to deal with their loss?

Eddie will never know that I was messing about; I didn’t know if I could actually go through with it. From a great height in a corner of the bathroom my body feels cut loose from itself. I can see it happen in front of my eyes. Like a rerun episode, I can’t pause. The noose around my neck, in the shower. Steam shrouds the mirror, with slippery feet, I accidently knock myself off that chair and in that moment I realise,

– I don’t want to die.

I can’t scream and tell anyone. I made the decision when I decided to sleep with my enemy. I’ve interrupted the natural course of life. A lost soul in life: a lost soul in death. There are no bright lights to come with this epiphany. I exit the bathroom, stumble down the staircase, out the front door, and walk aimlessly down the street. I sense a familiar pair of eyes examining me; I look up and see the black dog in its true form. It waits for me to catch up.  We walk side by side. I don’t look back.  I am the one preventing people from moving on. I have to let go.

Hi Lo Perspective

*If you want to find out more a bout the inspiration for this piece and raise awareness against all forms of violence and abuse-Trigger pictures of me looking bruised -HEAD OVER HERE

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If not read below.

It’s not Saturday and I’m feeling non conformist. I guess its kind of my way.

Haven’t done much this weekend — except nursing bruises, swellings, scrapes and down right painful blisters on the mouth.

I’m fuming.

The lows of last week found me beaten to a pulp like a survivor from a war jump.

Didn’t get no gangrene or scurvy-I suppose that’s better than dying on a row boat at Dunkirk – on sheets of ice.

Spinning around not a La Kylie Minogue mode.

I’m over the worst of the beating-

I “secretly” hope these two bastards gets their come( t)uppence.

It would be easier to get high and escape from the down side-

Look out my window and the skyline is blocked by housing estates.

Crumbling – it’s always a better view at low tide.

Three a.m. wake up calls for months-every  time.

The creative freaks come out so, I suppose I’m in good company and I will be..

just fine. 😀

Physical strength is the only thing that let me down in this fight against the Alphas.

If guns were legal I think I would use the second amendment to plea —

Y.ankee

O.scar

B.ravo

S.ierra –

Give at least one of the limp cocks a belter.

Only one would be laughing — this bruised weed — always making sure her brood is out of the firing line;

Standing in the shelter.

Ballroom blitz and shammy with my king.

Oh how we will dance!

— cowards should carry around organ donor cards.

On second thoughts, who would want the innings of someone who can’t fight to their  own strength —

Run little boys to your Audi and drunk mommy-

The one you beat up on a regular basis.

You think this is a female annihilation version of the crusades?

I’m low not in mood but my body says — sit down and feel your boo boos

My head says life is for living.

I don’t want to walk out of my house,

like a beast or looking like a victim of domestic violence-

Here comes the freak in an endless hued complexion of distracting tutus

The highs are the times when I hear my child laugh, my husband he bathes me and kisses me tenderly,

loves my sense of spirit when I look bloody unsightly.

In truth I look hideously ghastly—

Green beans and asparagus — home made by La Bonne chef, ma Mere.

I struggle to eat more than ever, but I won’t let two stomped out cans put me off the future horizon I’ve cut out —

The scenic view from here is a — plethora of orgasmic sight sees.

Lows inevitably come with highs.

I’ve accepted a hand

taken that step off the top roof.

The next time I’m up their , I’m going by lift.

Agenda?

To dance and rub shoulders with people channeling the same level — hearing a sub woof.

Clearly better days ahead.

Wasted time on talking pin heads.

Its fine, its mine, Its life.

Yesterdays news is on current recycle mode.

This Mary Poppins has already started making UP fresh linen beds.

A break from the toxicity of incurable idiotism — helps me see far up the winding road.

Perspectives easily imagined —

There goes a heavenly striking stair case.

It may not lead to a conventional heaven .

I’ve already stated my unorthodox ways right at the beginning .

I missed the word that rhyme ending three sentences up,

So, I’ll close SOCs by stating:

I’m recharging my load.

I’ve missed LINDA G’S. SOCs -today’s prompt -High and lows

Good to be back – Take part its fun heres a link!

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