Tag Archives: love

the Meowskies

She gets on with life as a wannabe music journalist,
She’s a charismatic kinda gal.
She likes chilling on Sundays,
She likes reading in the week.
She likes to contemplate owning a goat.
But when she starts to daydream,
Her mind turns straight back to her cat-Tatty Anna

Sometimes I look at her and I look into her eyes,
I notice the way she idolises about  Tatiana with a smile,
sensual lips she can’t disguise.
But she thinks it’s GOAT making her life worthwhile.
Why is it so hard for her to decide which she loves more?
Goats or…
Cats?

She likes to use words like ‘eish man
She likes to use words like ‘sorry.’
She likes to use words about GOAT finds
But when she stops her talking,
Her mind turns straight back to Tatiana having a heart attack.

She likes to hang out with Pinkie
She likes to kick back with Belle,
But when left alone,
Her mind turns  inwards  she obsesses over losing her Tats

She’s not too fond of gossip,
She really loves cheesecake & wants a goat
But she just thinks back to Tatiana
And she’s happy once again. knowing she is owned.

 

So far gone

These are my words. They are all I have.

If you wanna switch off you could

I threw it away

Not realising I would come to call it my most favoured crown.

Fascinated seeing my self riding waves of the guilt

drowned in salt tears of rumination to the hilt.

letting mom down

all my fam too.

Those who truly love me.

There are but few.

Hot damn! That’s better than cool.

Gave self-destruction a permit to ride out a course of self-flagellation

decorated in sleuth

The truth hit me oops upside of my head

Discombobulated -I saw the truth.

I let myself down

I deduce.

Take me back to my roots.

Be nt over crooked

wrung my hands for people who haven’t left my life

Yet

Anticipate gloom & doom.

allow these drum beats to perform

my body afloat

on cloud nine singing cheerfully to the staying alive tune…

Regrettably, I’m responsible for this present predicament.

There goes a fully armed disorderly platoon.

One setback

folded like that grieving widow.

She had a reason

I still have an abode

I’m not a widow.

I’m down on my knees & up off them almost like it didn’t happen

Stood defiant still feeding an outdated superstition

of other motives

This is my prison.

Trust in people

Risk my heart

Yes, It didn’t go my way

This was a time to not fall apart.

A glimmer of hope I’ll grow strong

again

Make mirth and merriment

not misery & disappointment.

I have only one person to blame.

I disappoint myself over and over again

then Surprise myself by what achievements I continue to create.

How am I to play this next move?

escape to another alternative reality – never to bloom!

Or talk about my feelings -is anyone listening?

Cos they have, what is the problem, strewth?

facing all that ‘I feel fat’ STUFF

Makes me wanna holler hey you, cat, scat!

Look me in the mirror & be proud

of my deeds for seven consecutive weeks.

Nor ask my loves to keep turning another cheek.

I’m ashamed.

I am to blame.

I have to fight

My mother is alright. I mean my mother is right.

This half-hearted escape acts

attempts on my life.

attempts to self-harm

They come & they go.

If I can keep this train of thought

the cravings of self-hate might go

come back

less frequently…

Perhaps I will still hold on to some of my dignity

or become a statistic…

We all end up a statistic one way or another

What statistic do I want to come under?

Now there’s a question to ponder over.

The birth of a Great daughter

It was 13/10/2011. Icelandic temperatures in the U.K. We had zero cash and I was not afraid. Everyone around me; My Nan, my Mom and my Aunt were giving me advice and asking me questions.

“Have a bath. Have sex. Have a curry. Have a bath.  Have a … inundated with many opinions and suggestions

My daughter was still not due until a week later. In one week I had had three stretch and sweeps. My Nan had to give us money for fuel to get back to the hospital.  After my lovely bath, I went to lie down but I felt rather contrary and decided to check back into the hospital. The midwives said I still had at least 5 cm to go.

So we trudged back into our car for the seemingly long journey home.  10 minutes into the drive home, I felt something that I thought could be a contraction. It wasn’t painful but it was consistent. and it was a real ‘feeling’. I turned to my Nan and said I think I may be contracting. The car swerved and headed back to the hospital. At the hospital, the contractions started to pick up in intensity (not sore just an ‘alien’ feeling). The nurses led me to a room and said they would be back with all their midwifery gear. My Mom and my Aunt arrived.

By this time I was going into panic mode because I didn’t know what to expect. I demanded my drugs and started hitting the gas and air (That was all I asked for). If only I  knew how ill too much would make me. I sat on this massive pink blobby ball, bobbing up and down like a  confused Buddha. Mom was massaging my shoulders like I was in the wrestler’s seat ready for round one in the ring. DING! DING! DING!

Out of nowhere, I had the urge to get to the toilet. I don’t want to be vulgar though the feminist in me wants to flip the bird and give all the gory details. We need to get over the fact that birth can be ugly.

Moving on. This immense pressure hit me and it felt like I  needed a shit. REALITY PEOPLE!  Though, it wasn’t the same feeling like the usual order of the bathroom purge. I ran/made a move to go to the toilet and I sat down on it. My mom followed suit   and said to me,

” No grandchild of mine is going to be born on the toilet” so she and my aunt took an arm each and propped me up and headed in the direction of the bed.

I got on the bed and screamed out what I needed to do. I wanted to push.

“PUSH”  they cried.

Okay…. so I pushed really hard. I heard my Mom say,

” I can see her shoulders, push! “

I gave one almighty push that started from my head (with thoughts of ‘ one more push’ ‘body will obey’) One more push and it was ‘SHOWTIME’, I felt her shoot out of me. A chill stirred by my snakelike placenta laying frigid in between my legs.  No cry. The midwives burst in at this moment with a Spanish inquisition manner of urgency about them. All tooled up for their big moment.

“We need to pierce the placenta.” 

My little girl was born in the full sac. My body didn’t even have enough time to send a message to tell my body  ‘waters you may now burst’.

Still no cry.  Then a tiny mew of a cry and they placed her on my chest for a  nanosecond and then took her away to make sure she was in top form. They took my girl to another ward to observe her breathing and to make sure the medication I take had not affected her in any way. The midwives broke my waters!

My Mom and Aunt were clapping like a bunch of sea lions and then kissed me on the top of my head and dashed out of the hospital to catch a bus to London! I almost looked around for any discarded popcorn.

I did grab for the gas and air because my daughter had torn me and I needed to be stitched all the way around like a hem of a skirt. I needed some post-labour-pain relief. The whole drive back to the hospital and the labour lasted less than three hours. My baby girl was born on the 13/10/2011 at 03:15 a.m.

All the other Mom’s were super jealous. The easiest birth ever.  The worst part was actually having to go to the toilet and not scream out in pain when my stitches had been so cruelly awoken. She has never been a hassle from her birth right up to her fourth birthday. She is such

a placid kid, she is always smiling from morning till night. She tells people they are beautiful and she comments on what people are wearing. She sings and dances. She shares. She is so courageous. There is an old wives tale that children born in the placenta sac are ‘special’. Centuries ago men travelling at sea would wear a part of the sac around their neck as a talisman – it was thought that it would give them protection and stop them from drowning at sea.

 So much has happened in my daughter’s 8 years on this planet. People expected you to act like some feral child but no you are the most chilled, charismatic, hilarious, intuitive and smart child I know. I see you blossom and I blossom too. When I hug you to my chest that connection. That surge of emotion puts everything in perspective. I LOVE YOU!  

Our pinkie promise: I promise to love you forever and ever and I will never stop loving you and you will always be my baby girl, pinkie promise.

I know a special girl whose heart is full of sunshine
She dances her way around the world to deliver her own special punchline

She laughs so distinctly that people cannot help but become infected
It is a sight to behold when this observation is detected

She is gracious and kind and is delicately inclined
the phrase 'she is an angel' are the only words that come to mind

Her name means beautiful-that  of body, mind and soul
and to have her touch so many lives confirms her title role

She is my modern day princess -so noble and full of grace
I love her with all my being and she is a person that I cannot replace 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my sweet child. You are the true gift
I found it in your innocent eyes and that was the day my world truly began to shift



Truth bloom

a strewth sleuth of truths

Twice told

Only one to  realize

They lied to is

yourself.

Grappled thoughts hazed out of  all sincerity

Twice them gamblers cast away all integrity

A dire dice reveals fear & loathing tosser going for a price

Lost to waging another wank with nirvana.

Times now?

Perhaps thrice.

Witness these winners

Outlining unspoken words

ratified a squeaky line of cheese

Exiled

A meta-more selfish imitable of an  Ovidian

Kafkas.

Sniffing  bloody bursts of  betrayal

A mass

Carcass cordoned off by pissing yellow tape.

Not a John Doe – Fate confirms

But your own star crossed lover.

Two tall tale tellers serve hyperbole on the gossip scene —

Two punks who ain’t true to punk for the right reasons.

Caricatures emulate the shadow of these

Proud louts.

Halve these egoistical errors-

Blunted knives

These Terrorists

clothed in night sheets — stark nude

Wanton to retire for a brief interlude

A lie

down.

Sleuth blooms an alternative truth.

Hooked on Floating points & this video is autumnal in the mood.  #goatbahs

 

A muse in Patron

It don’t matter how many selfies you take.

What matters is if you can accept your own mirror reflection.

No time to flinch.

No time to hesitate.

Free to stride across abundant valleys conjured by a sweeping imagination.

God, when she weeps!

I collect her tears.

Covertly

Thankful for the martyr,

My patron muse.

Crystallized an abundant array of gifts .

Perhaps it is a silhouette…

Perhaps it is a rainbow’s smile illuminating intrinsic hues…

These words could reveal Science’s stuttering staccato voicing his love for nature.

For all her might

For all her brute

Which one is Beauty?

Which is Art?

What if you believed the sky is indeed blue?

Suicide -get it right

A follow up to NEMBUTAL.

The man on the right loves me inside & out. My Boo . He has seen me in the best positions 😀 and seen me in positions that would make a man shake the rice out of his shoes quicker than a man walking on hot coals. He ain’t perfect.

He shows me my flaws & I struggle to accept them. I push him away not because I don’t love him.

I do.

I don’t/ refuse to understand how someone can love every part of me especially as I’ve got older and had darker moments than good moments of late.

How dare he love parts of me I’ve yet to love? Mentality 😂

He has brought out parts of me I didn’t know I have. I’m funny and smart and when.

I’m confident – there aren’t many people who can knock me down in a debate. I will state that I’m always willing to listen to other peoples opinions within reason.

I didn’t want to put this pic up on social media because of the way I feel.

The man on the right ( my husband) is justified to have more reasons to hate me than anyone I can think of. He puts up with a lot. He is not perfect. I’ll save that for another day.

I read something a person wrote about not wanting to fall in love but rather to grow in love with someone.

He is my best friend & hears me talk about whatever is on my mind. Even if he is breaking inside by my spoken thoughts and candour. I push him away & I’m learning not to.

Hope can be a tiny thought of ‘maybe.. Maybe I can be something more than what I feel right now. ‘ with hope comes the possibility of re-discovering one’s purpose.

I am that lady who fought death in the face multiple times. One example when I had a BMI of 14 & raised £ 100 for a small cancer charity shop in the retreat, in York ( in a mental hospital) in 5 days because I found another purpose.

To help others.

I won’t rule out looking at killing myself as an option.

I will be true to my character and rationalise as best as I can the pros plans cons of living life with my head until I can’t bear it any longer.

I think this line from fear & loathing sums up my over-analytical character. It’s genuinely hilarious.

There’s a big … machine in the sky, ….some kind of electric snake…. coming straight at us.”

” Shoot it”, said my attorney.

“Not yet, ” I said. “I want to study it’s habits”

I’m loving reading ‘Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas’.

Yes, it’s about the crumbling American dream & people becoming conscious about that reality.

It’s also an interesting paradigm & insight into Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Final words…

Write to recover or try living another day looking for meaning even if you can only see that hope in the eyes of another.

The clarity of insanity

And at  the peak of my insanity

A moment to glance away from my apparent  reflection gunning down with its eyes of La Mort

I know that if I am able to glance away

at that reflection

of utter fear and self-loathing

See

my child in her stark purity dancing in front of the mirror.

If I found myself standing over her

pick up the comb, attend to her dutifully then

This motion is fuelled by a fierce love.

A fierce refusal to allow her child to be abandoned

by her own mother

The same mother who flees from her Self every day.

If this is not a demonstration of love

then it is a moment of clarity

I see the reality I have created.

Sweet bitter

I’m ready to tipple

Tears or bourbon

I’m no longer sure

Does it matter?

Then it is a moment of clarity.

These are my words.

Inspired by reading a passage of  ‘Memoirs of a daughter’, written by Simone Beauvoir and her relationship with her mother.

untitled

Inundated with love & affection

 still chose to perforate all scar tissue encore

Lover left

without money

Again

midnight  summons a portion  of  scruples to perform

to

 a bowl of shredded paper cut of the imminent dawn.

 

Now, I thought

Now,

I thought

I’d tell my husband that I was going to walk out into that  main road

Wait

for a car to run me over.

I’m sure he would have expressed concern and said I should have invested in an organ donor

Card!

That he is with his wry sense of humour.

 

 Now, I thought, we’re  on the train & nothing feels real

Except maybe his hand on my knee reassures all I  need to feel.

 

The sun’s out & sparring with my panic attacks & phobia

I have to leave ya for a better time.

 

We’ll have time to play this theme out over & over.

Just for now I’m feeling fresh

Air

Not like I’m drowning in a cashmere claustrophobic coma.

Write to recover. Write yourself out of a panic attack. BUY a book. Look both ways before crossing the road so you don’t get mistaken for  Avante Garde road kill.

Esther Roe

Charlie met Esther on abortionist row.

Hedges neatly trimmed – enough to dishevel a bearded vagabond to weep after his latest woe.

No coat hangers to gut the newborn sac.
Charlie stood for hours until her number came up.

Raging
rouge screams with a tremulous beep.

Surreal
Conceal
Unable
to strike the star lead role in a Bollywood film deal.

Unsullied arrived in a cumulus cloud stricken by a thunderous compulsion to wail.

Esther didn’t hear the bond lust, lilted scream.
Memory hazed -by two fat ladies at gate number 8.
Efforts disarmed – the inability to count down to the primal odd.

Nebulous chlorophyll masked her mouth. Envy immobilised to an unrecalled dream.

 

Innocents smile swinging on tyres.

Freddie Kruger caught in a static slumberless nightmare  loses credibility to a sterile clinic

Action paralysing every unconscious scene.

Stratham, London. the  Knight defends to keep watch.

Both stumble upon a tidy little room – 1970’s style. No disco defibrillator harmonizing jolts to the melody of

‘ Staying alive ‘

Old granny hoovers up flowers choking on an ivy patterned carpet.

Mist of lavender lingers.

This bitch knows how to spray.

Don’t mess with this O.G.

Peppered, seasoned hair, non-linear lines carve out a facial narrative.

Don’t be fooled by this kungfu hoe.

Inebriated illiterate desensitized to her strategy in a game of cruel Cluedo.

It’s all so normal. It’s life, you know…..

 

Scissors aimed

ready

to

stab

a beating heart

 

Positioned in foetal

Sucked out the uterus.

 

Pro-choice.

Pro voice.

Pro-life.

Pro midwife.

Tall walls

Bricks bolster the Illusion of affairs in order.

Fiercely scrutinized is the woman who maps out her own destiny – navigates the boundaries that her ideas can afford her.

Quality control.
The NHS paid for a private eye.

Two signatures deemed sufficient to see her through the hours of her sobering silence.

Shameless in her deflowered disguise.

Ginger nuts, unsavoury tufts.

No, this wasn’t her nine month due – no ice cubes for killing in the name of freedom to govern her own vessel.

No need for pro-life Stepford wives lies.

Sins anoint.
Sins accumulate.

Where would our saints stand without a dissident at hand?

Society sits down, protest proudly.
Part the veil of clouds
Peer piously downwards,

ready to strike thunderbolts of judgement.

 

Rain down booming terror tactics.
Esther cares not for their gospel band.
Society sips, exhaling wafts of fair trade Ivory coast coffee beans.
Privilege smells of a modern holocaust of starving babies in bony mothers arms.

Who said any of these women consented to consummate?
Penetrative obedience to the phallic statues erected in morning glory psalms.

Civilized society!

What if God was one of us?

a scripture in the making.-

Touch and kiss the sky.

Would he become the true reflection we see, when we catch ourselves about to exhale the final breathe before we die?

Fantasies always signed off with a silver lining and promises of a rainbow.

Reality is cold,

winter serves a plateau of ice.
Frigid flowers are frozen in angst
Shatter like glass.
Rebel against their reproductive nature.
Air.
breathe.
One full gasp.

If only a mere raspy rant leaves on its depart.
It’s either them or an urban jungle of homo sapiens collecting another free day ride.

Ready to infect ignorance on every global ocean that has shows we all go out at low tide.

Rebirth!

JUST

ICE.

Everybody’s got to hear the shit on FM willows call!

Stumped hand makes it arduous to know what to write about.