All I need.

The need in me is to create.  What?

Anything – it is all up for debate.

I’ve been away far too long from my usual stream of conscious ramblings.

Doing important, official  work in the real world. I don’t mind but my urge to write  ding dongs in my head like Big Ben , pinching  at my nerves like little crablings.

Walk sideways, it’s fun .I don’t mind.  To not feel able to put thought to paper is  a pain that  lunges at me with pincers.

Threatens to cut, alter my composite  chemistry that aids my synapses to   hop from one tufty  cloud to the next .

I’ve fallen off this heady tuft of higher ground.  Landed in a dank, damp, dark marshy bog – I look around  me and I see my only flight back home is sinking in the mud.

Oh, see how much I have wept.

 Humpty dumpty  had a far  easier break. I’m  burning up – I’m spilling out my innards from every orifice. I’m burning  up  a fever, tactile sensations- uncomfortably  scrambled.

If I could just sit up and inhale a breath. I’m tired.

 Tired.

I am sick of heading for the routine spine bash.  

Dreary Dystopic  drones in uniform hedge all around me.

I know I am ambushed. 

Spare this loaf. Save some for later . Don’t be Greedy.

We all need some form of energy to buzz us into a land of fantasy. 

 This existence is not all it’s cracked up to be.

Necessary to be a part of, I agree .

I need to chill-out.  Don’t you see?

I have to have an outlet – that allows me to just, Let me be me!

I promise I won’t hide from my civic duty. You don’t need to contain me  in a fryer with other slices of chips off the old block.

I am patriotic.

I understand my need to be part of the solution.

Eyes rise up  to the skies- Pink tufts, hues colour me in , a chance for wizardry to occur. I promise I  won’t become unwell again .

 I won’t lose myself entirely that I become an invalid to humanities true cause. Resolve for my Absolution!

Before you take that roller pin to my head. I’m already malleable  – ready to rise . See how  blanched I am –  covered in fine ,white, earthly grounded  flour.

See, look!  Pat me down.

Check my left pocket. 

A quill.

Check my right pocket. 

ink .

Together I can re write this story – or create a captivating ending for everyone – I can whisk you away from a life  so dour and sour. 

Temporarily of course. Just for a fleeting moment – I can change your wooden hearts and make them beat again.

Feel, breathe.

You can be Lucida.

Fetch me that parchment – just by that oak tree. Three combined ingredients are all that we need.

No dark spells. My  intentions are pure.

My need is  to make you see an alternative  style of Living – a  tiny bit clearer.

Imagination does get rusty when we don’t use it.

We can use some of  that oil from the this-worldly  fryer to lubricate , intoxicate. 

Envision any place you want to go that feeds into your happiness

How do you want me to start?  

Once upon a  time, we abandoned our  traditional milieu  to head to a place, where we all could  flex our buns in a manner of  straight out wackiness. 

I have my cure!

sizedimage.png

spinebash

[spahyn-bash]

verb (used without object), Australian Slang.

1.

to rest; loaf.

DICTIONARY.COM

My True penny

I’m taking back my power.

I’ve got my ammo and my gun powder.

I’m not going to use it cos I’m more of a peace than a ‘fuck you -let’s bomb you to oblivion’ type of  person.

I have realised that  to allow someone who thinks nothing about me to have so much power to lure me into a paralysed state of persuasive perversion is:

 True insanity. I have my true penny and that is what counts.

I pushed him  away like a woman under attack –  I pushed  my lot away – until it formed blood clots on the insides – comparably sized to mounting a  herd of elephants.

unwilling to be ridden- trunks raised up, irate – exploding in  shouts.

I started to talk about what goes on in my head and my true penny told me that we all makeup scenarios in our minds, to make sense of the lives and situations we come across, in this world of an  uncertain,  never-ending skyline.

I thought I was losing it.

I thought I  was obsessed.

Turns out my brain works out  my issues based on characters and story lines and other  shenanigans.

Crazy?  maybe but creativity strokes  the  beat with a brush  –  I feel there is  almost a genius to be found walking on this fine line.

Swastikas and Reds are not my idea of interior decorating.

Tearing down my  walls.

One little Nazi’s thought is not going to make me come down to that kind of level.

I have my life.

 I am the queen of my disco.

I have retro  roller skates on .

 The sun is my Disco ball.  I’m on the rooftop, in the light-beaming under the  rays.

Not hiding in the dark, under the influence,an imposter.

A star that can’t twinkle, dishevelled – so shady – a back turns away –  It’s the one known as the  blue devil.

We are on two separate  paths –  I notice  the screams of a   shaken baby.

A rattle spins across the floor – Dummy dribbled with garbled spit.

I guess mommy is right when she says: ‘You always want what you can’t have’

It’s not infatuation, love or anything like that – This baby is  having a tantrum – she  didn’t get what she  wanted .

She  didn’t even get a maybe.

I’m done slithering  on my belly across damp floors.  Waiting for the next Gestapo, soot-stained  boot to squelch  me.

Turn out my guts until, all you can see is the insides of me- a sore sight of  limacine.

Phantom limb syndrome – I am back from the  war of past, oppressive obsession.

  I’m awake.

 Clarity.

Nightmares were all I had to grieve over.

 I didn’t lose any limbs. Only my inner self- belief .

 I’m a china teapot lady – I’m done  trying to find happiness in a person who happily  lives  life drinking out of cups made of polystyrene .

 The present is my greatest gift.   I’m not wasting another second wishing on  dreams that we can be friends.

My heart is my greatest ally and foe. It makes me work.

Dwarves getting their hoes to do all the work – chasing fairy dust ,  axe- picking fights with one another, to grow in a place under a roof of  artificial light.

Genuine and melodic – true light – mountain breeze is the only place I will find a place to atone.

To make amends.

Let it go and go with the flow

I stand before the world smiling – unashamed – this is my show.

 

SHOUT OUTS AND AWARD NOMINATATONS TO FOLLOW

 

Her Legacy.

Coming from a place of Fury. Never go to sleep with an angry mind so I saved it for waking up on my side of the bed.

Move two steps and three paces backwards, doubts plague me. Dementia ‘s grey cloak  veils all I want to retain in my head.

The sheep get weary before I do.

I watch them sleep.

Wolf- like I want to smash through them. Fangs connect -impact on bone and tissue -a red massacre.

I need colour in my life.

This visceral creativity is swallowing me whole. I’m in the bottle – blurred images are all I see on the horizon.

Spin the bottle ,maybe I will land in a place  with less strife.

Cramming  in mouthfuls of

anxiety,

 self-loathing,

head battering, assault weapons of thoughts .

I’m bloated to the state that my discontentment leaves me, like a sleepy wide-eyed owl – manic in my state – shoving in fistfuls – I need to lucubrate .

Nothing sticks except the whiff of the end of a successful selling day at a  Parisian fish market .

I am the babe the market seller gave birth to.Times up for this  broody bird to   incubate.

Cord snapped with a fish gutting knife. Abandoned  the moment money exchanged hands.

Only enough for a Meal for one. Survival is my greatest chance . Nurture myself and  hone in on any innate talents now, so I can control the succession of Fates brass bands.

It is my birthday. I get one day to shine. Tomorrow I could  be slapped away with one salty breathe,  inflicted wounds forgotten with yesterday’s newspapers headlines.

I came into this world with the cards I was dealt . I can cry a Seines- full of tears for the life that could have got caught up in the  catch of the day  fisherman’s net lines.

I refuse to be that inmate -on a bed of foliage, with one glassy eye, staring up at you . Doesn’t matter how well you dress  me up – my fate is not to be found in a 5-star Michelin restaurant.

Grill me ,  poach me,  puree me- see what happens when you try and throw me in the oil fryer .

This amphibian has wings of hope.  Higher consciousness has blessed me with a generous grant.

I soar above all the conventional career options for my kind.

I will never be normal and for that, I will not apologise .

Evolved -a hybrid.

I have to decline your maverick binds.

Today I walk with two legs  and two eyes looking forward. Destiny is a start and thanks you, dear mother,for letting me find my own way.

 I took my life into my own hands – my heart beats with passion,drive, ambition and the fear.

I have made it this far – so either stick by me and support me in what I do or feel free to stand out of my way and go astray .

sizedimage (3)

Summer Daze

When I  first saw you , in Sitges , across from the bay- To say I was struck by your display of non-attire   is hardly an understatement.

My eyes darted in every direction . Phallic erections were all I could see in my embarrassed array- it was all so blatant.

There was simply nothing else I could do  but hold eye contact with you – those emerald-flecked  eyes is when I felt true mesmerism.

It was only then I realised how naked I felt fully dressed on this hidden beach -it projected the true souls that contain all thing auriferous.

My hands easily untied my tie-dyed blue sarong. I didn’t stop there . I may only have a hand full but I whipped off my white bikini top and wriggled out of my bottoms. All I could sense was an aura emanating off of  you

(sigh)  simply so… chivalrous.

The sun shone starkly – but being the  mightiest of knights you picked up my clothes, placed them next to yours. You took my hand and guided me -running , gold spun,free – to the turquoise , fish enchanted ocean.

Legs entwined around your torso – skin on skin  contact – salty, wet, tongue licks of devouring  devotion.

Lavishing one  other, two became one. The ripples, the bubbles- our heady  infusion, blasted open my eyes to the skies- – tufted clouds – summoned up  an old tune-

Puff the magic dragon.

Magic is always possible when you believe in you.  I  swear it had nothing to do with  that extravagant  elixir  of a  cocktail – I  imbibed a  couple of hours before, at that quaint restaurant – the one that I drank out of a craggan.

Composure – time to depart, float on my back -contemplate this dilemma of how quick I was to abandon my clothes.

 I may have come into the world as naked as I am right now but I know what is waiting on the coastline is a far cry  from my fantasised hardened  cocks.

 In fact quite the opposite. I know no shadow can camouflage    the   pruned skin of a   60-year-old Grandad  with a   wrinkled ,flaccid   penis.

Christ,  I am 21 years old- apologies for the sudden heaving up of  old man smell that a young me loathes.

It was meant to be a bit of fun – find the secret nudist beach – have a laugh – take a few sneaky pics ,make them go viral- anything for a cheap high.

It’s gone viral alright – my mates couldn’t resist -filmed it all!

pardon me – if I gather  my clothes and seek legal advice to prove to you all – this act is one steeped in a state of  stultify?

Out on a whim.

Do or die –

live fast , party hard –

be an honorific rebel.

Spank me, 

Shake me up, 

Colour me bold! 

Don’t wind me down – use a font that sounds like Bevel. 

If I could jump in that diamond encrusted  box with you ,would you promise that when the children come by 

we could uncoil, spring up, put on the frighteners  – bob up and down  on a wire?

I don’t mind you playing the  feral monkey but those cymbals screech: over trained!

we need a  new theatrical,

a mind-body infused ,hell raising  gospel choir.

It’s  a happening ,baby – right over here. Club Fifty Four.

Andy Warhol is in New york –  a shimmering  and a  shammering with his latest  regurgitated muse,  lapping up the froth off his candy coloured eye-popping  corps.

It’s all the craze .

It deserves a mention.

Yo, budding journalists get your jots and pens out,  pay attention to the latest and greatest.

News knew how to  mark us – with the blackest of  plagues.

Fish and chips to go, in  ink -lined, soggy wrapping?

Spill out your guts with this slick new verse , Congenial wordsmith.

Toxic misty  breath continues to reign -centuries later, none of us  is the wiser to what we are all truly cursed with.

Need a blood test or has Fate told you to put up your feet and take a light rest?

 Rest is of the idle boned –  the ones whose gums recede in a world of a decade ago of old, gravelly  deflated pillows, grimy duvets sprayed with remnants of last night’s perhaps last months  dalliance.

Life is to be played.

Hard and fast.

No one wants to party with some skittle who loses the colour  of his  new shades – when the beat kicks in and he is meant to advance without a second glance.

Rookies, pawns, knights and queens. 

Who should we really be saving?  

Strategy demands a benefits  calculated tested means.

Decrease or increase the stakes of getting a hit .

Marked.

Snipers above you – numb shoulder – stay still, Mr unfit.

If I could be the monkey, I want to play the trumpet. 

Souls are more likely to come my way if  they can see few notes breezing over the Mississippi – 

Maple syrup to go with that sultry strumpet?

Hard cold cash – transmute people  into formidable  magpies.

Shiny, wind-up trinkets send these entities up a spiral of canonised lies.

Dance with me – take  flight to this notion. All you have to do is follow the lead – go with the flow just  don’t step on my toes. 

Look me in the eye – don’t worry what the other Ravers are shaking their glowsticks at.

They are revelling in a moment caught up in  ecstasy- let go of your own methodical  woes.

One night to play – shirt off  -loosen that fusty tie – let’s make a play for the dairy queen – Rocky road ahead but it leads to  confectionary .

Extra! 

Extra!

read all about it.

We have a new sweetheart in town – all scarlet glittering lips- she hums the notes of a person who invented this spin.

I will call her  whig mal eerie-

non-believers look it up in the dictionary.

State of Dis Orient

Ladies dressed up to watch the jockeys race, not on but  against  their steed.

A befitting bet ,the only time you will see her bow down, wearing a fascinator – laid on the mud- sacerdotal, on her knees – lunacy fanned out in a stylish turn  of the century plead. 

Mixologists stir up  a great spectacle – 50  percent proof . This skulls hidden unconscious is about to  set  Ablaze

Four straws facing north ,east ,south, and west. It’s nearly 8 o clock and she is losing all sense of walking along cobbled streets – eyes misty -sultry in her glaze.

Somewhere, busy – night rolls her  up in its fringed tapestry. 

Abandoned,lost. Cries of her child – don’t let them take her . 

Don’t let them know she is the true reason the station has become a living catastrophe.

How did she make it past the patrolled border?

An elevator –

dizzy ,

disorientated ,

confused – out of order.

A wack to the mouth causes bones to elementary fracture .

Spewing out pieces of  ivory tooth and red rotten metallic pulp  . She has become the victim of a  mere capture.

No eyes, no mouth, no voice.

How can an  invisible entity  cause so much blood to make enough for  a devil   Mc flurry?

She stumbles about – finally free – absorbing kleenex tissues to stifle the color  of Florida’s orange   rain . 

Elbows, whistles, laughter  – a short dwarfed jockey, begs, catches her eye – nods at her in  mocking disdain.

Maybe just this  once she could wish for  a  platform called nine and three quarters. 

She knows the wizard told her to click her shoes thrice and think of home. How is that nothing resembles a place she knows holds the faces of  her loving daughters?

Chiming spinning, no change, no credit card ,no ticket. 

Ringing,coming from her leathery bag – could it possibly hold  the conscious of a good hearted  Jimney cricket?

Where are you ?

Where are you ?

Where are you ?

Where are you?

Familiarity breeds a set of stifled sighs .

Eyes veer to her left,  a drunken, matted hair women screams to her brood “don’t let these people put you down . You are who you are – Never be ashamed and don’t fucken frown.”

” Let’s have it.”

I’m home !

I’m home!

I’m home!

I’m home!

Nothing seems familiar. She  doesn’t recognize a face , a place , not even the sound of the underground.

Train tracks look as slumber full  a place to have a reality dysphoric fit.

All of you attempting  to copy her  brand of me -tooism.

Not even the darkest version of voodoo blended with rum can get you to her level of cuckooism 

Her  child appears. Disappears in the arms of another blur .

A man who says he is her husband is here to take her home – in his arms – he attempts to gather her.

Not without my daughter . She  knows what these child traffickers are doing. 

Police form  a ring around  her – all  flashing lights- yellows   and  blues.

What happened Miss – Miss? 

She breaks down into a misfit of  boo hoo-ing. 

Assaulted by her mind and  the evil hands of time. 

Destroy the ones she loves – her gaping  heart – her child won’t come near  her,  not even if  the thought crossed over to bribe her child  with  a dime.

Rage, fury, vengeance and betrayal – a feud with her family- the ones who have stuck by her to the very end.

Divorce on grounds of stationary inebriation . 

Rings are thrown  to the ground . Frodo come get what is rightly yours and have your eternal salvation.

Clean sheets, a bottle warmer tinkers at  her feet, a hug from the husband who she tried to chase away and defeat. 

A portrait of a framed  married couple- Cracked and jagged  on the side of this man . Fragmented glass distorts a smile, rendering it obsolete. 

So it is true she is the one encrypted with a  learned evil, the one who  holds the reigns of the one who goes by the name  Deceipt?

She picks ups her lace parasol. It can only hide little and only reveal so much – she still has the fascinator and her original  brand of  receipt. 

Titivate to Titillate

First a song in my head – the fabulous Nneka- I discovered many many years ago.

 

When She is in the mood to arouse you and  She wants you to reciprocate.

She has a technique she uses to spruce up her petals – inject a color dye -no doctors needed to take an oath – no need to hang dry and desiccate.

Sometimes all she wants to do is tempt you with Her words.She looks upon them as her Fire stoked Lords.

The Simple and overused can get tedious when used as a commoner slurs.

So titivate is something She tends to do.It  doesn’t require zazen mind state to create an immediate demand for 1950 style  Fords.

It is like taking a  dust feather to your ear, tickling it ever so slightly, a murmured breathe escapes – to let you know she is quite eager and indeed keen.

Arouse you with whispers of precious sweet adjectives.Use words that excite you to shudder instinctively. Now She needs to make herself seen.

Fluttering eyelashes – butterfly kisses. Sensual and cute -tempting yet blissfully innocent.

Pure and light and dreamy enough to set your imagination to seek out. Whatever is in that mind of yours, She wants you to know She finds you alluringly magnificent.

Which of your senses does she wish to tease out the most?

The ones where you see mental fuck ableness from an agile and graceful host.

Sometimes she tidies herself up because she just wants to try out something new. Freshen the vibe up. Create dribbles from your lush dew.

Bubbles have more of more a ranctious appeal.

One belongs in a crib or old age home or if you think like her – it is a bombastic way to expend your energy kicking about shapes with smiles that will make fans queue.

The other appears to invite a sense of pure, exquisite fun – something Her mind has always sought out to imbue.

So to titillate you, She has to titivate herself.

Seems rather rueful, when she wishes you could be curious about what she has in her mind -not something always recognized at first appearance when you are cuffed to a vision frozen on the ice shelf.

Truth is Her middle name.

Look by all means.

 Dare, is the name, She gave to herself when she was born.

Ask questions too.

She speaks in orgasms  when someone can make her laugh with their wit or indeed see a sparkle of hers thrown our carefree and unconsciously.

The successful friendships are indeed a honed practiced recipe, to incite those who indeed have an inkling or some fledgling clue.

MINI LIFE UPDATE

Off to York tomorrow. Lots to read – I have a pile of books to study and read. I am prepping for my life to get pretty hectic in the next two weeks. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Have a wonderful weekend all.