Tag Archives: ramblings

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.

 

Cinquain -Batarde!

Fathers

Sons of other mothers

Paternal, protective of those who raised them

Desperate screams, abandoned by their original sires

Bastards!

This is how do it±

1: one syllable (title),line

2: two words describing the title

3: three words relating the action,

line 4: four words expressing the feelings,

line 5: one word recalling the title.ber of syllables i.e. line

I’m supposed to be working but I’m doing anything but….. I thought let’s humiliate myself more ( how low can you go? I couldn’t care less tbh… It helps my mind to do all these silly creative experiments.

So here is hazy daisy “singing” in what appears to be French.

(Trying to get back to speaking French again) I’mnot trying to make money out of it so it is all good! 😉

 I’m lucky to have a husband who loves our daughter like she was his own. She is in everyone’s eyes becuase  the other amoeba literally refused to see her!

Fuck him cos he was a creep & a nutter & disturbed & he pressed EVERY.BUTTON.IN.MY.SOUL.

 I’m pretty doolally, okay. He was insidious and cos I fought back when he was violent or put me down  I got blacker, more yellow, more trips to the hospital. I grew to hate him. And there are not many people I can say I hate. One person -Him.

I focused most of my B.A.  in creative writing getting over his perverse ways and utter lack of respect for me. I graduated with a post-graduate degree in the humanities (high merit) THANKS for the material.

As for Gaz, he used to come with me to contact centres and wait for me while I saw my daughter  for10 hours a week ( for 16 months), I’m often caught off guard at how hands on a Dad he is. Difficult behaviour or not. He truly loves our child. I didn’t think it was possible. He does.

It’s been a tough one today cos my Gaz’s Dad died a few months ago. I tried to ay happy fathers day to my own Dad. My gut feeling is he can’t he be arsed. I’ve been a problem since I was 2years old. my Dad and my stepmom decided when they got married  (over 30 years ago) that they would forget about any previous children. So my stepsister lived with her gran and I lived with my Nan ( and mom and I lived in many different places, countries. And I was extremely unsure of who I could rely on as we all have our issues in life, especially as adults.

I am a Bodley cos my Nan is mind-blowingly switched on 81 years old. She goes to pilates, has a hectic social life and she loves the bones of me & my daughter. She is into the arts and she has never turned her back on me ( for long) 😀

I’m also half of my mom. And I’m happy and I’m proud of my mom. I strive to be more like my mom because she had abuse hurled at her from every direction – my Dad’s side, her side, husbands. My mom has the heart and courage of a lion.

Oh well….. My Mom, nan and my gran and my grandad raised me. I TRULY HOPE HE IS HAVING A GREAT DAY, he is my Dad.

If he taught me two things in life it was:

drugs are okay ( haha) just kidding.

No, he taught me how to party, not bother about what other people thought. He taught me how to fish. And he tried to debate more time for me when I was on holiday in 2004. He taught me that men couldn’t be trusted and he was the second male (after my stepdad) who rejected me because he was happy. He also cried when he found out about soem crazy shit that happened when I was a toddler. So- respect for that fatherly protective feeling. However, fleeting.

Unfortunately, I have a stepmother who hates me( and my mother) and is nasty when she drinks ( but fuck her). She may not now. She is vindictive & I have no time for her polluted mind. I wrote an 80 000 w0rd draft basing one of my characters on her. Thanks!

She is also funny, and a tomboy. And we have had good moments laughing together. I have a sister who I don’t really know how to be connected to her.  She’s jealous of anyone who takes up my Dad’s attention. As long as she is healthy and happy then I wish her the best. My English family are assholes. Except for one great aunt. The rest are mean & so provincial. I don’t know why? Oh, cos I’m different…

FUCK IT!  Anyway… I’ve grown to appreciate bits of  Yorkshire & the culture here, cos my Nan is and great Nan (was a legend ) and I’ve met some amazing friends here who put up with me.

That’s just way it is.

There are brilliant Dad’s out there! And I’ve seen them and you all rock. My Dad can be cool, funny & frustratingly quiet .it’s drawing blood from a stone chatting to him. Maybe he is shy but ff’s  He did win the race to procreate.

Write to recover, be happy or die trying!

It’s all good.

 

Daisy does time

 

High on life- no light of artificial sight.
I know what I will do if I ever get mugged.
I will look my mugger right in the forehead and say I can see the emergence of his third eye.
 
His monobrow will wriggle in confusion.
Then, I will 1970’s kung fu him in the balls – He will be blubbering.
 
This is my first chance to demonstrate my self-choreographed, self-defence, dance class, get fit for life infusion.
 
I’ll grab my bag and wallop him once or twice.
I’m not condoning violence, but I get the feel for it, I’m grooving, putting my own spin on it. So he rolls with the punches and I carry on rolling my dice.
 
Then when I feel we are on an even keel I’ll stretch out my arm, give him a hand up. Hell, I will even get down on one bended knee.
 
The score will be settled and even.
That is what you get, mate, for attempted thieving.
Panic alert flashes across my eyes. I didn’t know Mr potential mugger had another job. He’s a rather talented actor – he is making me believe he is actually bleeding.
 
Wait a few seconds – look left -look right -look left again. Got to keep my wits about me. Road safety training might seem elementary but it can be a lifesaver.
Seconds turn into the longest minute ever documented. I don’t think he is an amateur. In fact, I’m checking for signs of a well-known face; not some chip off the old block. I can hear the other stars calling out for their missing, celebrity neighbour.
Things are starting to turn grave. I’m the one who was in true danger.
Superheroes, do they exist?
I need one pronto – bring a carpet -we have a John Doe to roll up and we need a couple of spades and all of the aces. I need a super professional with a zany twist.
 
Moments pass. My superhero hasn’t pitched up, he must have run out of gas.
I’m on the run with an imaginary gun – this is not fun. He started it. What an ass!
 
“Oh why hello, officer, I know what this looks like. Yes, I am running” mentally exercising my train of thought.
“Hit and run?”
“I don’t drive officer. So can we skip the walk in a straight line, touch my nose and rub my belly and get to the part where we both laugh about this situation.”
We may end up in a quaint bar.
The one that sells all the good rum.
 
My mind is working overtime. Think! Think! What would any civil, well to do, ordinary, civilian lady do in my circumstance?
 
“Now, officer. I think we can have a bit more fun with those cuffs. Got any fur? oh, how I love to purr.” I’ll lean over just so he can clock my cleavage. Hey, this could work! Have you got any better ideas?
 
This may be my only chance.
 
“Ma am , Are you trying to poodle face with me?”
 
“Me? I don’t even own a dog. Are you trying to call me a bitch? Now that is offensive.”
I was merely using my right to freedom of expression.
 
My wits tell me to back the fuck down. He is jangling what sounds like more than one key.
He reads me my rights. I tell I’m Catholic.
 
I ring God daily, no messing with Angel administration. I have him on speed dial to atone for my sins.
Now, this-this is unjust. All this fuss. What happened to the good cop, bad cop scenario?
 
All I’m seeing is the end of his boot and my own reflection in his riot helmet gear. Have I been transported into some retro game and swallowed a mushroom and turned into super -uber Mario?
 
Granted, he is a shitty plumber. But, he does get to collect plenty of coins. Maybe I can bail me out.I don’t need no man to rescue me. I am the victim and the surviving princess.
 
I get the feeling the only jangling I am going to do is when I walk the line. Stub my toe. I think my entitled title just got ripped off me.
 
Scoundrel.
It was that mugger that’s got me in this stitch. I’ve been demoted to a rather fatigued and distressed seamstress.
 
Moral of the story?
Don’t go acting like those sensational media heroes.
 
Just let your entire shit go-
JUST.LET. IT.ALL.GO.
And tomorrow you will wake up not in a cell but smiling into your favourite stripy bowl of cheerios.
 

*inspired by absolute nonsense. Stream of consciousness

It takes one

MINI DAISY LIFE UPDATE

Well, more like a teeny show and tell.

First, a picture/quote, if I may?

 

 

crayonbreakercolor1

broken-crayons-still-color-300x77

‘Not only do they still colour ,I know your Mama said no playing with Fire;
but melted crayons- create wax.
Wax and vinyl  a bit of funk and soul- create music.
Music brings hearts together.
Hearts all bleed the same colour.
The last time I checked we all have one.
Learn to Live and Love and Forgive.
May your soul be filled with peace and be happy.’

DAISY WILLOWS

THE SONG (from a series) THAT INSPIRED ME TO WAX LYRICAL ON THIS SUBJECT 😀

 

I am obsessed with this new series.

The Get Down.

 

 

It has soul, funk, wax, vinyl, Afros,disco balls, Cadillacs , good music, comedy, great editing, great acting, dialogue, sexiness and  drugs  ( when it was still cool cos we didn’t know any better) and that kind of shizzle….

I’m in love with the Wordsmith- well my  inner teenage self is.  There are so many traits of his I want to blend with a character I am working on, in my creative writing studies.

 In the second episode:Flash &the fantastic four (plus one) are Inspired by  one of the   hottest D.J. mixers, in Manhatten, has to propose before he will teach them more about  learning to mix music, on two turntables, and get all scratchy ( it is set in the  late 70’s era ) –

They have 24 hours to figure out what a purple crayon has to do with mixing music that even today, still, inspires  the global music culture .

Shout outs and expressing my gratitude  to follow in my next post/s.

Sunday, We are heading to Scarborough on the coast of England -somewhere.

 

HAPPY FRIDAY PEOPLE! HAVE A GRAND WEEKEND!

This is my happy dance ‘cos let’s face it I am 100% QUACKERS!

I will make No apologies.

 

❤ DAISY XOXO

 

 

Life Midwife

Panic  glares at them boots tossed near the scullery  bin

Churns its  stomach until it resembles a soiled salad

Curled

Brown shaded  stemmed leaves.

 

A dice scarred  thrice

Flag down

The fourth Pleiades  sister

Her face disfigured by a silhouette.

Speech dubbed over until she believes she is mute.

 

Declares her name as

Proprietor of

The scarlet barnet.

Gingerly

Desperate to hold onto her  last shred of dignity.

 

Shrouded into a solar

State

         Less

Honoured

To

Bow

Down

To  luminosity dressed up

Unperturbed

An impish grin inhabits incognisant  skin.

Burnt bloody blisters

Advertising big  lips

Still demanding to be heard.

What makes one positive push a negative

Then rebound ?

Perhaps its for effect….

 

The ribs don’t need  a tickle

To denounce the bastardisation of the butterfly effect.

 

Brazen Christians

Resurrect naked infants born with the soul clap.

Pure child neglect.

Raised on  a  hellish platform.

High  on  emotion fuelled

Atoms

Reformed into

Noxious Martians grappling to lead the IDM  pack.

 

Heavens gates part way for  Entities egos

Stumbling

Superior to the kaffirs*

Squelching about barefoot

Abandoning their   groundwork stained  blueprint.

 

Fingers retrace its  outline  with fear &
loathsome

Garments  unravel to the ground

Reveal a strangers  foot clubbed into inhabiting an  Acute Depressive

                                                                                                                      Indent.

Hands sculpt into  a perfect punch

Transforming into a  knuckle bled  fist.

Deafening  decibels desperate to  pump  up the jam.

 

Distinguished  from independent thought

Bedlams final safety net sets off.

 

Distinguished from the  shame

Prophets  betrayed my another  divine  kind.

How to love a self

                         Inflicted
Bond broken
By  the seizures  of our child?

It bear  not the demeanour of a preacher

Chanting  to

Sopranos  forced to be overshadowed by a blues  choir.

Doubt these  creatures.

Those with  eyes of a temptress.

 

Alpha romeos induced into crawling out of her womb

Thrust a pelvis

If merely to  humour.

 

 Break  down the odds of

Un

   Hinging

This beast.

Shame fulminates

Until

Blue blood  runs yellow

                                 Bloody piss takers.

Leave a heart

               Fully

Ignorant

To the  meaning of life.

Triggers free  happy clappy believers

Of  mirth.

 

Silenced to be reborn

By the creators personal  midwife.

(Kaffir-meaning ‘non believer’ in Islam and it was also the name given to African/mixed race people who lived under the apartheid regime in South Africa.)

Whale music

And when I believe that everything that  I feel is real,

I set myself up .

Grasp  the short straw  to hear whale music

oxygenised-

Death becomes her

Another attempt on her life

Variety is indeed her spice.

She marked it out as hers with a tank girl knife.

Neathanderals and the world are  conspiring against her .

Look at the hand she’s been  dealt .

Loftily she made her  own choices

Xenophobic outbursts desire  the harmonious  pursuit of happiness.

Fear to live in the joyous moments.

Living in a future-waiting to fall from grace.

We wait for hecklers with distinctive voices

Inspired by healthy eating-

You deduce you are a moral sound person.

Just because you swerved the cake at the party

It still won’t cleanse you .

You won’t have your sins dabbed away by a whore called magdalene.

The diet of integrity lies in listening to rumbles of those living in poverty

Starving.

Atrophy

My demise.

This statement I  claim as my own.

I am that walking catastrophe.

There.

I saunter

Meander

I’m in a state of atrophy.

Hear the  cackles  full of apathy.

I write no more for pleasure

I write  more for  no pleasure.

I’m wasted to academic response.

The demise of a writer in  brogues set  onto the scribes chopping board

Blocked off from all creativists.

They who live in annus miribilis  mocking bird world.

Woken by the chirp about Motivation Monday.

Todays news

The latest politician to fall into a blunder.

Cordoned off by the first sizzle of thunder.

I dissociate  from a time I could

Muster

Guster

Cluster

words from my heart and mind

Until

They over spilled

Foam  froth

Displayed into  an array of shapely snowflakes

like a Costa ‘s  coffee hallmark.

Glug down on the dawn of the  frosty festival of the dead

 Mourning

in a town close to the  Pennines-

A place I see as lost to me.

Improve to be a better person,

This is my woe.

I am ungirthed

upon a  spit  fire roasting.

A  moaning myrtle.

Toilet

vacant & blocked up with  yesterdays cum

By  Yadda Yoda .

A geek to my own fatal flaw.

I am a whore — seeking out the currency of words.

If I could scream out his name,

Would he bathe me in white milk and entice me to indulge in my  favorite parlor  game?

This is a back drop.

A mood scape.

I’m an  archetype of  a blind fate.

If my story could end,

Would I be saved by my desire to fulfill my true destiny?

Garnish my blistered thoughts in scabs of  Hope

That I may find clarity

in my infinite  notion  of self worthlessness ?

Disparaged my hypo-manic thoughts-

Goading me to sit in a contemplative state

Coloring in books

Mind

Fully

Clothed.

I’m hiding from myself.

Write to recover  or die trying to be another

A better self

One more at peace away from this tumultuous existence

These are my words.

 

atrophy

noun

at·ro·phy | \ˈa-trə-fē \
plural atrophies

Definition of atrophy 

1: decrease in size or wasting away of a body part or tissue atrophy of musclesalso : arrested development or loss of a part or organ incidental to the normal development or life of an animal or plant

2: a wasting away or progressive decline It was not a solitude of atrophy, of negation, but of perpetual flowering.— Willa Catheran atrophy of imagination. 

MERRIAM WEBSTER

*Writers block. I’ve restarted my final year of my Masters in Creative writing, I’m struggling to find my voice.

 

 

Operation clam

Maybe I’m not who I say am.

Maybe I’m too prised shut.

Im certainly not the man

More likened to a clam.

Plenty of fish to test my lack of faith.

Indirect lines

Caught in the net-

Delivering me to an Ill designed fate.

Mate,

Tag me with an aphrodisiac.

Swimming in the theatre room

Hang up my ten phalanges

To ward off the inner crowd.

Grains of sand obscure my funny elbow.

Morose in all affairs

Wander afar from the nudists-

They emulate all my common fears.

They are my foes.

Grains of sand.

A Stormy clap of hands.

Alone in this operation,

The agenda is to make sure I get by on an innuendo.

Fear to be me-

To let the tears show up my negativity.

Look for the silver lining….

Give up?

Be happy or die trying.

This is a message in a bottle

Fish are borderline crying.

In yer face

Illiterate

Poet ,

writer ,

Creativist of my right palm.

Read in between the lines

I’m the maker of my own divine crime.

* My mind has gone blank. I’m struggling to write. A person close to me is in surgery. I’m waiting .Write to recover. Part of the ‘be happy or die trying’ series

The conduct of the fear

Introduction to the function

of life from the conception of conduct.

His caress catches me off guard.

Wanton to stay in his embrace.

Yet my inner scars compel me to flee.

Does he get me?

Does he see my plea?

Forever  etched into my life –  part of  my unforgettable history.

Scared to be loved for fear of the ‘let down’.

Don’t condemn a man to exile without giving him the chance

to make up for past hurts betwixt by fear.

Is its so hard to believe in my inner beauty?

No wonder  I can’t fathom if I have something to offer

without waivering.

Constantly wondering if I have what it takes to make me believe in

love.

I am the walking dead caught in a blizzard

Desperately trying to believe warmth lies in the body of another.

Looking for Mirth

Contemplating about my guilt.

Flood waters break.

Damn!

Bursts  in Death’s wake.

Sombre sombreros sway nonchalantly past my weary face.

I see the disguise

Its dressed as the waif.

Inside I try to blossom-

Inside I will myself to wake.

No lovers kiss to make my fate.

I rise and I fall,

fall and rise.

Twisted thoughts convulse my dreams

until I arise in an apathetic state.

Change is inevitable,

Words hold weight worth more than gold ,myrrh or diamonds.

Mere blistered pearls

as shallow as the last tide waving goodbye for a wee break.

My heart is as vast and abundant in potential  as the Congo

Stuck in reverse.

The past holds me motionless

Yet,I fight for her smile.

To hear her laugh.

I don’t  realize that this is all that I wait for.

Simple conversations.

Simple blessings.

To be the queen of mirth in some one else’s hour of need,

will make me stronger.

I will live as I please.

Fulfill my destiny.

Duty is a gift.

Present in this moment

I smile,

These are mere weights.

They hurt

yet my spirits lift.

This is my show.

You are a part of it too .

One chance to realize your dreams

I, you and we.

Signing off with a silver lining;

These are my words.

They define my mood.

Not my girth.

*musings – write to recover

Queen of Trisetess

Stone cold.

I sit in silence.

Tears betray the death of another beating heart .

Distant to my heart ache.

Love is meaningless

accented by meaningful nuances.

Hunger strikes,

I’m alone with the pangs,

Unsure if I want to feel the caress of familiar hands

or

if I’d rather escape to a nether land.

Conjuring Magicians ready to sell inconspicuous  potions.

Allowing me to flee from my skin.

Threaded by veins

Morose in temperament.

Aloof to the consequences of escaping this reality.

Complicit to the sadness that shrieks in my gut.

Pierced spleen.

It’s not nearly as stomach able as watching the chambers of my heart  in my hands

Weep.…

For the moments tangled in lust.

The desire to be a part of some one else’s sun.

To inhabit their orbit.

Study the stars,

share butterfly kisses,

break free into a wild run.

Freedom is a state of mind.

Release me from the bonds of this exile.

I am the hunted.

I am the hunter with the blade ready to attack,

For this is my vessel.

My only means to move forward.

Cut the strings

for this puppet will not be coerced to dance nor sing-

until I find a simple hymn.

One to attest that another mortal respects I am more

than my sin.

Words hurriedly  apologise to re capture that soul;

Spotted

In the glimmer of dawn — it cowers fearful

deep within.

Have a piece of my heart.

Have a piece of my words.

Sully not my thoughts to taint my heart with more leacherous poison.

I am breathing-

merely existing to find out how to win.

This  is Life’s charade.

the cards dealt to each hand.

Thanks to Allah for I have both in tact .

I’m able to use my body,

I’m able to use my mind to forgive.

Though….

Not give in.

The melancholy of my aura glitters like a Midas collectible  when he touches the man I call my king.

The weight of this gloom

Thunders over me.

Cajoling me.

Repressing my desire to quit killing myself.

Smile authentically — blossom again for it’s not time to hide away under bed sands , muted enough to make me think I’m still not thin-

Enough.

These words don’t do justice to how I truly feel.

I lose people I love and gain friends who form a circled ring  around me.

I have to reach out and allow a hand to bring me full circle.

Alone,

I contemplate.

Fighting  for the thud in my  heart

Fighting for another hot flushed blush.

Wondering if I have already died.

Is living not for the likes of my kind?

Am I here to exist glibly in a ruin of poorly constructed pyramids?

I sit here in silence , blowing out smoke rings made  out of my woes.

I’m the queen of Tristeness.

My position is to not give in.