Christmas Psalm

Musik: Something In The Way - Nirvana
Kleiden: Purple top, tights and grey skirt
Filme: Tron (Kosinski)
Buchen: The Bible

As you've probably noticed I've been reading the Bible a lot recently. I'm particularly struck with Psalm's 22 and 23, having studied them at hall group. Something about them resonates with me. I was attempting to write seasonal poetry, so have come up with a bizzare mix of those two poems. I'm a fan of intertextuality, however.

It’s a communal gathering of discontent;
The winter of it, in fact.
That’s what I meant.
Everyone makes a pact
To be cheerful, jolly, fat.
I shall not want,
I shall demand at the font;
Demand; why hast thou forsaken me?
‘Tis the season of need, you see!
Why art thou so far from helping me?
This pact is false;
Nothing changes from any other time of year!
I still have my pulse;
But I do not want it, I fear.
My God, I pray thee Lord!
He is not with me in this season of cheer
‘Tis only fear, only fear.
Trouble is near, and there are none to help me.
I am alone, alone, alone
I have no home.
The season of jovial greetings,
Lights, gaudy lights
And mistletoe meetings.
Meaningless now
Because thou hast forsaken me.
Thou hast forsaken me.

Pour vivre est de mourir

Musik: The Art of Suicide - Emilie Autumn
Kleiden: Red lacy tights, pinafore dress
Filme: Nightmare Before Christmas (Selick)
Buchen: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

This poem reminds me a little of the famous Shakespeare monologue 'All the world's a stage' from As You Like It. And the 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow' speech from Macbeth. I guess it's a universal theme.

Little, amorphous blob of joy;
Dribbling, puking, shitting;
Miniature fingers, toes and nails
Staring gormlessly,
Blissfully unaware of the world,
Ignorant to the extreme.
What it is to be you!
To know nothing at all but what you see,
To do nothing but follow base desires.
But why wonder at you?
You are new.
You are the same as every other of your kind.
And you shall become the same as everybody else;
Dust.

Wrinkled, defined, wizened figure;
Drooling, coughing, gasping;
Gnarled knuckles, nails and feet
Glaring knowingly,
All too aware of the terror,
The monstrosity that is this world;
Tired of it.
We shall become you.
To age is to carry more and more weight,
Until that weight is unbearable, until it breaks your bones.
You are old.
Grey, fading fast but glowing, glowing
With that spark of life.
Pour vivre est de mourir…

Moonlight

Musik: Pretty On The Inside - Hole
Kleiden: Red hoodie and jeans
Filme: Daybreakers (Spierig)
Buchen: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

This is a poem called Moonlight.

My heart is made of ice,
It can shatter.
It’s hot as a star,
It shall self-combust.
I feel the rays of moonlight,
Reflecting off my skin;
I shiver, and think of you.
An empty lake;
All the water has drained away;
I swallowed it with my pills.

The purity of the numbness,
Leaves me gasping,
Struggling to fill my lungs at all.
My lungs are composed of cold,
Chilly winds pass through them
Like a draft under a door.

If I felt anymore,
The pure volume of the concept,
Would destroy my brain;
It would become a black hole,
Consuming everything in its wake.
If I felt any less,
The emptiness of the void,
Would be filled with shattered glass,
And I would bleed until death.

A mirror-image of myself,
Would create pure joy,
It would create calmness,
Peace of mind.
This being would never know love,
Nor heart-break
But live its life in blissful ignorance.
Kill me, keep her.
She wants to stay forever.

My heart isn’t made of anything,
Because I amputated it.
It out-lived its use.

Monologue

Musik: I Don't Love You - My Chemical Romance
Kleiden: PJs, with big red hoodie
Filme: Public Enemies (Mann)
Buchen: Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe

I don't normally write monologues, due to a traumatic experience in my AS year but I decided to give it another go.

I know you don’t give a fuck about me. This is your job, you do it every day. It grinds on you with a terrible jarring, grating sound like fingernails across a blackboard. You have to sit and listen to every sorry fucker who comes your way. The whole thing bores you; the air around you is like carbon monoxide gas; poisonous and slowly sapping the life out of you. Things are stagnant. You meticulously note down what I am saying. It makes your hand ache. You just wish people would tell you everything the first time round, instead of holding things back as though they were the most personal thing in the world. You wish they knew that their insanity was mundane to you. Nothing shocks you anymore.

When you go home at night it is already pitch black. You are so tired, all you want to do is let the soft sheets of your bed envelope you. Your spouse kisses you softly on the cheek; asks how your day was. But you have nothing to report. Everything blurs into one nowadays.

You sluggishly eat the over-cooked meal that has been waiting in the oven for you for hours. The kids are already in bed; you won’t see them properly until the weekend at the earliest. When you go to check on them they are dead to the world, sleeping like little cherubim. There’s a soft glow of cleanliness surrounding them as you kiss them on the cheeks. They do not even stir.

Years and years you dreamt of this. You remember that first year at university, telling everyone with a blinding glow of pride that you were a medic. Everyone, without exception, was impressed by this. For the first three years you enjoyed every second of it; lapped up knowledge as though it were nourishment. Then, most people left; graduated and began work. But that was okay. You were in it for the long haul.

You had always been interested in the human mind, and so that is what you specialised in. It was fascinating, you loved sitting in on the examinations with the senior doctors. Every case was new and interesting. Finally, after seven long years, you were ready. But ready for what?
You were so well qualified, top of your class, that you got a job right away. This was it. This was your life, and you’d even had time to pick up a partner along the way. A marriage amidst the textbooks. The kids were on the way. You had a house, a nice car. This was it.

Yes, that’s all. All that work and you get to listen to people talking about their problems and you never say a word about your own. Nobody can know the emptiness that is within you, because it should not be there. Your life is perfect. What is there to cry about?

I know you don’t give a fuck about me. You don’t give a fuck about anything anymore.

Dream

Musik: One After 909 - The Beatles
Klieden: Blue checkered blouse, demin skirt, footless tights and spotty socks
Filme: ...
Buchen: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

So, I wrote this short piece about a dream I had. I wouldn't post it, only it was pretty interesting. I hope nobody tries to phycho-analyse me on the basis of this. It was just a dream; the residue of a partially functioning brain.

It is pristine, perfectly white and clear. Everything has been sterilized and is sharp and clean. The surfaces shine dully; industrial steel. The instruments sparkle invitingly, whispering conspiratorially to one another. There will be blood, they say, and we shall partake in the blood. It shall stain us and will become irreversible just as every other stain becomes of us. The room is quiet until she enters it, with her starch white uniform and bleached hair. Her being is soft compared to the room. She cannot hear a thing and it is deafening her.

The tap does not drip. There is no water in the basin; it is dry like everything else. She wets her lips before venturing to turn the tap on. The water blasts suddenly onto her hands, a veritable tidal wave of motion amongst the stillness. For a few seconds nothing seems out of the ordinary. When she realises, she cries out and the sound is so quiet as to be imperceptible.

As the water hits her hands, she recognises, the skin appears to disintegrate – exposing the blood and muscle beneath. The blood-stained bones poke out beneath the pink, meaty sinews and pulsing veins. And yet…she can feel no pain. She stares, morbidly fascinated by the sensation. Her blood washes into the sink, circling the drain darkly.

Almost as though coming to her senses she quickly turns off the fast-flowing jet of water. Her hands remain in their sinewy state, although still without pain. But the blood is dripping and dripping. It will not stop. She stares and stares. It will not stop. She wraps her hands in the bandages beside the instrument. Still, it will not stop. Soon there is a pool of blood leaking across the pristine surface. The instruments sigh as it reaches them. It stops.

Killer

This is my second post today, although technically not since it's past midnight. I wrote this story off the cuff a little earlier, but it turned out pretty well so I decided to post it. It's about a serial killer. I just fancied a change from all the cheerful stuff I usually write.

I’m staring at you, but you’re so deeply asleep that you don’t notice; don’t even flinch as my eyes attempt to read your soul. Your breathing is deep and regular, your long eyelashes drip onto your cheeks and there is a strand of hair falling across your face. The rest of your mane of dark curls falls across the pillow behind you, covering it almost entirely. In your sleep you’ve thrown the duvet to one side so that I can see your naked form perfectly. Your skin is remarkably flawless, soft and milky white. You bundle your arms up to your chest, curling up into an almost foetal position, though one leg stretches out whilst the other bends up slightly. I can see the pattern of your ribs, the bluish tinge of your veins through your skin. Could you be any more perfect? I push the hair back from your face, and you flex your eyebrows a little in reaction but remain deeply within your slumber.

I should go. One more minute. I want to imprint this upon my memory forever. The girl I did not kill. Could not bear to. Or else, I wouldn’t bear it.

But why? You started out much like the others. We met within the throbbing beats and over-indulgent alcohol sales.

“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
“Certainly. What would you like?”
“Whisky,”
“What type?”
“What?”
“Type?”
“Do they even sell whisky here?”
“I’d expect the cheap variety, yes,”
“I fucking hate whisky,”
“Then why drink it?”
“It has this thing called a ‘high alcoholic percentage’,”
“I see. If that’s what you want then I’d recommend Jack Daniels,”
“I hate that even more. What’s your name?”
“It’s Archie,”
“Cute. You know something, Archie?”
“A few things. What in particular?”
“You’re kind of beautiful,”

Nobody had ever said that to me before. Not in so many words. I’d had; handsome, attractive, fit, buff all of the inane sayings that girls like you have. But you weren’t like them. I hadn’t noticed under the coloured lights just how pale you were; the way you were dressed like them, but at the same time not at all like them. You wore heels and a dress but if one looked closely one could see that the dress bore the words ‘Born To Kill’, which I almost dared to hope was a Kubrick reference.

You let me buy you that god-damn whisky, but you didn’t try to make awkward conversation over the hopelessly loud shit-fest that was supposed to be called ‘music’. You danced. But I had never seen anyone dance in this way; like it had no meaning other than to serve your own needs. You weren’t putting on a show, but somehow this made you all the more attractive. The heart I often forget I possess started fluttering like a startled caged bird, like a thirteen year old with a crush. This was swiftly followed with a cold dose of fear. What on earth were you doing to me? This was not allowed. I would not let you get away with this. And that is when I decided you were to die; like the others.

The first time it happened it was an accident. The second time I meant it. My tally is up to six girls. You were to be number seven; but I guess you were lucky.

You let me lead you quietly away from the club.
“We’re going home?”
“Yes…we?”
“I’m coming with you?”
“Of course,”
“I hope you know that I don’t normally do this,”
“I do now,”
“What do you want to do…once we’re there, I mean?”

You asked the question with large, mockingly innocent eyes. I smiled at the joke and kissed you softly on the lips. It was so affectionate that even I was taken aback. This act seemed so jarringly out of character that I did it again, just to ensure that it had actually occurred. Sure enough I felt your lips on my own and my face turned red, my pulse racing from the simplest touch.

In the taxi you held my hand, like a school girl holds hands with her sweetheart. I let you. That is when I knew that something was most definitely, horribly wrong.

When you walked into my apartment you went straight to the bedroom. There was no pretence of other intentions. I undressed you slowly, taking my time to discover every inch of you. Your beauty took my breath away. I forgot to question how I was feeling, entirely lost in you. Your sweet scent, how the skin on your neck tasted, the soft moans of pleasure you made when I touched you. Everything was slow, careful yet so intense that I felt the most amazing, earth-shattering joy I had ever experienced. No-one else had ever made me feel this way. It wasn’t right.

“Can I stay here?”
“Yes,”
“Thank you,”

We both lay awake for a while. Words were unnecessary as we had just experienced one another so intimately that there was nothing more to be communicated. Eventually, you fell asleep.

I am still staring at you, thinking of this. Thinking of how, if you were someone else, I would have taken the pillow beside me and smothered you until the last breath left your body. How I would have stared at your corpse a while before placing it in a bed of lily’s atop the coffins I kept especially for these occasions. I would have admired your beauty in death before burying you deep within the garden plot. I would have placed an angel gravestone there because I never knew your name. Then, I would cry for you just as I cried for the others. But you had to die, I would have reasoned, because otherwise I would have to die. It was them or it was me. So far, it had always been them. But I can’t even comprehend seeing your corpse.

So, what do I do? I know it. I know what I must do, but I am frightened. I am weak. What is most painless? I have no gun, no dagger. Ah, but I do live on the thirteenth floor. The window, of course how could I have been so stupid? The window; the oblivion. I open the door to the balcony as quietly as I can, so as not to wake you.

It is so cold, but I suppose that doesn’t matter too much. I clamber over the railing, holding on whilst leaning over and staring at the street below. I know the fall will kill me. It is my intention to die. Just let go. Let go. Why will my hands not obey? I’m crying, I realise. I close my eyes; brace myself and then relax my hold without thinking of the consequences. A fast, falling sensation…

Ready

Musik: Anywhere - Evanescence
Klieden: PJs, not gonna lie
Filme: The Shining (Kubrick) - yes, again
Buchen: Any of the numerous critical essays I have to read...

I've been reading a bit of Wordsworth recently, so this poem was kind of inspired by that. The idea of using normal, everyday language and putting oneself in the position of the average man (or woman). I'm not sure if I agree with Wordsworth, but I'm experimenting nonetheless. It's called Ready.

I am ready.
A sticky kitchen floor,
Plates piled high, rotting food, cans and bottles,
Fluorescent strobe lighting,
Damaged, moth-eaten sofa,
Photographs of ungainly youths,
Faces plastered to each door.
Stained clothes corrode the carpets,
Unmade beds from the night before,
Mismatched décor, personal and impersonal,
Solitary latrine, laughing darkly,
Bugs in the shower,
Sopping wet towels from leaks…
My home.

Yes, I am ready.
My high heels peel off the floor,
As we walk out the door.
Tonight I am not dressed so much as displayed for all to see.
Long legs ending in a point,
Breasts pushed up from under my tiny dress,
Face covered, a virtual art exhibition.
I hobble to the place I ought to be,
Am presently, pleasantly met with a throbbing vibration;
I let it flow through my body, let the beat carry me,
Along with a few cheap vodka shots.
Soon my mind is racing, heart beating ten to dozen,
Here, the floor is sticky, too.
Flashing epileptic lights,
A thousand sardines all crushed into a can,
So hot all you can do is keep on, keeping on.

He’s rubbing up against me
But I’m too far gone to care all that much.
He buys me some cheap shit, very alcoholic
Which I down with a grimace.
Still, he won’t let go,
Movies his face close to mine
And I let our lips touch
Because yesterday I saw my One True Love
Give it up to some jumped up slag.
This is revenge.
On that note, I follow as he leads me from the room,
I’m not ready;
But I know what to do.
Only, everything’s so different with him…
I whimper as his fingers roam
And I get no pleasure, only pain,
Try to make him stop
But I’ve gone too far.
His breath is ragged, close to my ear,
Stinks of tobacco and green,
Hands are rough, coarse,
Tugging at my dress,
How am I lying down?

It’s so dark, but he is everywhere,
Invading my every sense.
My brain won’t function, can’t think straight
God, he’s not even using a condom.
Bastard’s going to knock me up.
Oh, it hurts so much when you’re dry and scared!
Let it stop, let it be over
He’s so heavy,
Didn’t look so heavy
I lie back, try to think of better things;
The One I Love.
But that only makes me cry.
Seems like forever,
But he finishes.

I turn over, can’t even speak
Want to die,
Make-up running like some tortured clown,
Dress God-knows where,
Need to get home,
Cannot move,
Crawl slowly off the bed
And I perceive that he is gone.

Now I am alone.

The cold light flickers on:
Shit, my own room.
At least now I can give into it.
I curl up, foetal
Howl like a new-born.

I am ready.
But the only thing I feel ready for now is the end.
They’re here, they’re back;
My flatmates.
Can hear their laughing, jeering
Drunken singing
Smell the stench of sweat and urine,
Don’t ever want to meet their eyes again.
They can never know.
With one final sniff I lock this up inside.
Stumble over to my desk, wipe the crap off my face, brush my hair,
Pull on soft cotton pyjamas and pad into the kitchen.
Sticky floor on bare feet,
Cups of tasteless tea.
Listen as they recount the stories,
Speak none of my own.
Now, I’m ready again.

Missing

Musik: Polly - Nirvana
Klieden: Pinafore type dress with tartan shirt attached underneath and black tights
Filme: Ed Wood (Burton)
Buchen: The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

I hope you like my new profile picture. It's from Halloween; I dressed up like a doll. I thought it'd make a good picture to accompany my blogs.

This is a poem called Missing.

It is not like before,
When the waves were beating against the shore;
It is not like that anymore.
The wind used to call and call-
Till it would cause a brawl,
Amongst the leaves and trees tall,
That were listening in;
Before it would even begin,
To make me grin,
Make me cry at my own sin.
It will not be like that again.
For now it is winter, it is snowing.
Once I was burning, now I am but glowing.
The waters are eerily calm,
They are soft now; they do me no harm.
Flakes falling from the sky muffle the land,
I leave footprints wherever I stand,
But they are instantly filled
My will has been killed.
Should I recognise this strange place?
When I don’t recognise my own face?
There is nothing wrong with me;
My eyes still work; I can still see.
But no whispers, no-
Ragged corpses, dazzling angels, no-
Nobody to talk to anymore.
I am alone now,
I don’t know how.
Let me weep,
But I cannot make even a peep.
It is not like before.
It is not like that anymore.

My Malaise

Musik: I Want My Innocence Back - Emilie Autumn
Klieden: Jeans, red hoodie and spotty socks
Filme: The Shining (Kubrick)
Buchen: Self-reliance by Emerson (technically an essay but it's hardcore and so the only thing I've been reading this week)

I've been playing with this poem for a while. I wrote it a fair bit ago, just kept on tweaking. I guess I'll probably continue to do so, even after I post it but I am quite happy with this version for now.

My Malaise

Thick sheets of rain, they are the pain,
It falls like lighter fluid, to set me alight, set me alight!
Oh, make my body turn and burn,
To a shrivelled pile of bone;
Then take the bone and crush it to dust,
Then take the dust and scatter it away,
Let it blow in the winds, let the winds choke on me,
For I am noxious, toxic;
I will scorch your very skin.
I will make you hurt.
You cannot imagine my potency;
Screaming, crying, heaving;
You will almost certainly die from it.
Stars like meteors fall upwards from the ground…
Heavy, heavy, heavy,
Blasting the very earth with the utmost mirth.
Molten lava at sub-zero,
Frozen in action, frozen forever.
A soft little rose in the centre,
A soft little rose,
Oh, little rose;
Die like everyone, everything, anything else.
Watch as my skeleton bursts forth from my skin.
Watch as it gets back in.
I have no heart, no lungs, no blood-
Why should I have need of them?
My heart; it was stolen,
By the most glorious ghost.
But she’s a ghost, she’s a ghost-
See-through and, more importantly, dead.
My lungs they were filled to the brim,
With the hot tar of hell,
They melted within me.
And my blood?
Well, I drained it all from under my skin;
It was like a fountain, a river, a lake,
Thick, slow and magnificent.
Exquisite;
How it makes me ache,
It is the most beautiful agony I have experienced.
I only hope one day,
You can feel it too.

National Poetry Day

Musik: Ben Conroy talking XD
Kleiden: Jeans, purple top and starry shoes
Filme: Back To The Future (Zemickis)
Buchen: Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain

National Poetry Day so thought I oughta post something. Just quickly as I'm going soon!

This poem doesn't have a proper title. But yeah...

My heart is like the tide,
It swells and bursts hot streams of blood,
In and out, constant, without…
Constraint to rein it in.
It will let anyone in.
Tears can fill my teacup,
When all is said and done.
I’m alone now, finally;
Time to have some fun
With the silver flash and sultry red,
The adrenaline!
I’m stunned.

My heart is like an anvil;
It beats heavy, hard and dull.
It bruises across my chest,
It is so weighted, so out-dated.
I’ll drink to that, my friend!
I’ll drink to anything at all…
If it’ll take away the sharp edges,
Soften, dull them down to weak water potency.
Acutely aware
That you’re not really there.
Yet softly, in drifts the idea falls into my mind…
That you are all that there is.
Metaphor is literal.
Literal is not real, real is not real…
Nothing is.

My heart is exposed like raw meat,
The slightest touch can sting.
I’ll tell you everything;
Anything you want to know!
No, wait.
Fuck you.
Oh, wait.
I love you.

You press onto my heart like a boulder,
And you are so much bolder
Than I could ever be.
My heart is yours.
But I can’t let you keep it.
My heart is yours,
As long as it is beating.

Ophelia

Musik: Whiplash - Little Fish
Kleiden: Emo trousers, hippy top, spotty socks
Filme: As before
Buchen: As before

Second post in two days! Something's afoot. CREATIVE EXPLOSIONS! I hope, anyway.

Yesterday I went to see a performance of Hamlet at the Crucible theatre in Sheffield, with John Simms as Hamlet. So, my inspiration for this poem is somewhat obvious. And, yes, it is cliched that I would choose to write about Ophelia of all the characters and I cannot claim that this poem is anything other than cliched. It's pretty enough, though.

Ophelia

What say you of this?
My love that is soft, silent and like the whispers upon a breeze that has fallen swiftly from the heavens,
Your love which knows only the occasional spark, like a splint lit in vain for it hath nought to light upon,
What say you of this?
This ill-fated match of the harsh baking sun and the temperamental moon,
Do I burn thee?
For it is certain that I am frozen whereby the volume of your affection.
And yet, I cling to thee;
Warm my hands upon your frail candle light.
Oh, but my love scalds your very skin and so you turn away from it…
It is unbearable to you as are the burning fires of Hades.
Do I send thee to hell?
Then, good. Then, all is well.
I weep, I weep, I weep for thee,
Blinded by my tears; I can no longer see.
Oh, why is it that thou doth toy with me?
Make false fancy rest upon a frail foundation of fondness;
Fondness and only this…a sweet kiss, your sweet, sweet kiss.
I drown within my tears,
After all these years and years-
Yes, let me drown within my tears.
Let me sing till my last breath!
As I sing, I welcome death…

I fake it so real, I am beyond fake

Musik: Doll Parts - Hole
Kleiden: Grey Blondie jumper, grey mini skirt and purple flowery tights
Filme: Brokeback Mountain (Ang Lee)
Buchen: Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist - Rachel Cohn and David Levithan

I scare myself a little sometimes. This poem is about a misogynistic, phycho killer. His name is Bob. Not really, though I'm joking...

I guess I felt like it was the exact opposite of myself, and therefore interesting to write about.

Red Ribbons

I want to fuck you.
Then I want to kill you.
You’re so fucking pretty,
But you’d look prettier in a coffin.
Your long satin ringlets,
Red ribbons in your hair,
Porcelain skin,
Long, batting eyelashes…
The blush of your cheeks,
Does not quite become you.
Better they were pale and thin
Pale and all drawn in.
Better you were preserved,
Just exactly as you are.
Your purpose fully served.
I imagine unlacing your dress,
The curve of your breast,
How soft your cheeks look.
The shining of your dark eyes,
Your teeth biting your lip with pleasure
And then again with pain
As I bash in your fucking brain.
The way you’ll press yourself against me,
Soft, smooth, flawless…
How I’ll make you moan,
Then make you howl,
I’ll make you cry out.
I wonder what your blood will look like,
Staining the carpets, leaking in pools
Shall I make you bleed
The way all of your kind have bled me dry?
No, just death.
That’s all.
And in death you shall be perfection.
The way a girl should be.
Still, silent and
Belonging to me.

The Thrill

Musik: The Necklace of Marie Antionette - Hannah Fury
Kleiden: Pink top, black jeans
Filme: Waltz with Bashir (Folman)
Buchen: Many...all equally unsuccessful

I've considered posting a number of poems on my blog, but never got round to it. For one reason or another the poem wasn't good enough, or I decided I didn't want to share it. It was private. That's the problem a lot of the time. I'm sure I'll get over it eventually.

One of these poems was called 'Supermarkets'. I decided, on balance, that it was better read aloud and not seen written down as it lost a lot of its humour. I have been experimenting with rhythm, however, and have written a number of similar poems with a strong sense of it.

The poem I am actually posting I wrote just today. It is called 'The Thrill' and based on the idea of minute detial that has been in my mind for some time; how we neglect to mention the small things, even our memory neglects them. Yet, they are at the fore-front of all experience. They are the day to day, the tedium. The second poem is also based on this idea but this time on how this can affect our relationships; having to live with the day to day of the person we love. It is called 'Disillusionment' but I do not like the title. I shall think of a better one when I revise it.

I take a breath;
Sharp, short, sudden.
Fingers brush lightly over the rough edge of denim;
Friction leaving a slight burn on the tips.
Hot, burning metal door
Smooth against my other hand.
A sliding action, getting into the seat.
Another, deeper breath reaching into my core
For the smell that hits me; leather, fumes, petrol…
The sweetest scent I know.
I am where I belong.
Jangling, chiming, twinkling in the light
The light grey metal connects and ignites.
The enormous roaring, a great demon springs into life;
And it is mine, mine, mine.
I slam my foot down
Hard.
And all hell is let loose!
My stomach lurches, a cold little thrill, a secret excitement.
I cannot see anymore, just the road in front; blinkers of motion on either side.
Myself and the road; myself and my love.
My love sets me free, we can go anywhere.
For the fun of it I close my eyes
Allow myself to be blinded for a moment.
Laughing, my lips twist into a crooked, daring smile.
SHIT!
Not just me anymore, not just me…
Fast, fast, fast approaching is something, something else,
Slam my foot, try to brake but nothing happens at all,
I am trapped in this perpetual doom,
Time slows.
I see so very clearly;
Bright red metal slowly crumples at the wake of the great wooden imposter,
It is like a wave moving towards me.
My chest is gradually crushed; I cannot see wherefore.
Just know that no more breath will reach my lungs.
Blood, blood, blood hot and gushing; strangely alluring…
It’s so very bright, birds sing to me over the wind.
I’m smiling again because the pain has gone.
In fact, most everything has gone…
Black tunnels, black tunnels.
The thrill of falling!
Suddenly
There
Is
Nothing.

***

Shall I teach you how to be in love?
It is all about being even.
Your faults equate to hers;
There’s a little tally in the corner
Of the enormous chart of your history…
And you spend so long sometimes
Just trying to live in the old times,
That you forget about making any new ones.
Every little thing matters now.
It never used to.
But the way she gets sometimes-
Makes you want to punch her lights out.
The way she
Leaves the TV on, the taps running, the oven burning,
Dirty dishes in the sink, her toothbrush out, make-up scattered everywhere.
How she
Lies there in bed awake; waiting to nag,
Sits there making little comments,
How fucking subtle she always is (or thinks she is).
The way you both
Just sit there, staring at the screen.
Not talking.
And the silence isn’t comfortable anymore
It’s deadness.
THEN THE FUCKING YELLING!
FUCK YOU, BITCH!
SCREW YOU, BASTARD!
Leave me, then.
I dare you.
Then the pity fuck…
Wanting this to work.
Remembering, remembering it…
How she used to be the most beautiful girl
You’d ever seen before.
The way you were so hot for her;
Could hardly keep your hands off one another.
Her smile used to light up your day
And you’d do anything to see it, anything.
Each breath felt like it belonged to her
Each beat of your heart
Each blink of your eye.
The love that used to lift your heart
The love that used to tear you apart…
It’s gone.
You know it; she feels it.
But God, but God, but God
You wish to hell it weren’t true.
You wish you knew how to fall in love again
You wish you knew, you wish you knew…

Endless repetition

Musik: Bravo Charlie - Gregory and the Hawk
Kleiden: Blue jeans and red and white top
Filme: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Cuaron)
Buchen: Not reading anything, to be truthful. I probably will next week when I'm on holiday.

Sometimes I wonder if everything I write is about the same damn thing. I'm pretty sure it is. I have maybe three basic thought patterns and everything that I think, say and do is based around them. It's pretty depressing to know that you're incapable of original thought.

This poem was kind of written in a similar fashion to 'Too Hot', my crazy ramblings basically. If it makes sense to you then there's something a bit wrong with you.

Perfection Unbound

A glimmer, simmer, sinner
Arched feathered wings
Oh, get thee gone, get thee gone
Repulsion, expulsion
From my psyche
Yet adoration
Love, love, love
Baffling, absolute beauty
Perfection unbound
Nails pierce your throat
A necklace of rust
And palms that are not whole
Glowing radiance
You shine, shine, shine
I shiver
I cannot comprehend
Your magnificence
Let the tips of your fingers
Softly touch mine
‘Twill serve, ‘Twill serve
It is enough
How could I expect more?
Adoration, adoration, adoration
You cut through
Blocks of yellowish ice
Melting it with your warmth
Let it rain from the heavens
Soft clouds compose your eyes
You’re but a dream
Life is but a dream, dream, dream
Drift slowly away
On the languid lake
Upon the shore where coaches
Black coaches await
To take us away, away, away
A necklace of rust
Your utter disgust
As they choose to believe in me
Rather than your flawless complexion
A sinner, a sinner, a sinner
Oh, sweet love! Give me my sin again
Gouge out your symbolism
Gouge out your pain
I must suffer it, suffer it, suffer it
You belong to Him
You do not belong to me
But I am so lonely, so alone, alone, alone
Do not leave me, please!
Don’t let me go, I beg you!
Down on my knees, hands clasped, dripping wet with blood and tears
Are you ashamed?
Do I shame you?
I shall do anything, believe me
I throw myself down at your feet
Take what you will
Just don’t leave me
Leave me and I die
I die for you

Catholicism

Musik: Not Like You - Hannah Fury
Kleiden: Black skinny jeans and red and white checked blouse
Filme: RENT (Columbus)
Buchen: The Great Gatbsy by F.Scott Fitzgerald (yes, again)

Although at the age of five I apparently thought about it and informed my Mother that 'there is no God', I've always been fascinated by religion. I suppose it's to do with my interest in history, but also ritual and the fact that religion seems in some sense 'magical'. In particular the intricacy of Catholicism, with its many rites and traditions, makes rich pickings in literature.

I hope you'll understand, then, that I'm not using these latin phrases to be a pretentious twat, but to evoke the theme of Catholicism. This poem is called 'Ille dolet vere, que sine teste dolet' meaning 'That one suffers truly, who mourns without witness'. The phrase at the end of the poem can be translated as 'hell calls to hell'.

Ille dolet vere, que sine teste dolet

In reverence I stand;
Cross myself with Holy water,
Bow my head to Him;
My Father and my only light.
I drink his son’s blood with relish;
It is my poison of choice.
Watch as I drain it from his body…
Let it merge with my own.
Oh, I see that it is good!
I am addicted.
I simply cannot bring myself to cease
This heavenly feast.
My heart is pounding,
Head swirling and full of possibilities…
Yes, I can save you Children!
Please, allow me to save you all-
That’s all I want,
It’s what He wants.
I know; I can hear Him in my prayers,
Every single night as I kneel
And beg for forgiveness.
I sigh at each satisfying laceration,
As I strike the leather
Hard
Across my back,
Sighing as I feel a hot stream
Pouring its way down, down, down.
Now He knows that I am sorry,
So terribly sorry,
For all that I have done, all that I have sinned.
Bless me Father,
For I have truly sinned.
I am in love with another;
A sweet and beautiful other.
That I should be denied the joys of the flesh,
Yet long for them still,
Is enough sin for a life-time.
I can only long, long, long for forgiveness…
Heavenly Father!
As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep-
If He should still want
A soul as black as my own.
Perhaps the pious agony
I have endured will serve.
Perhaps my repentance shall be enough.
My soul, my soul, my soul
Must be saved;
For I fear nothing
If I do not fear a hell
Far greater than the hell
That I am already living!
Abyssus abyssum invocat.

Amsterdam

Musik: Better - Regina Spektor
Kleiden: Pink camisole, blue jeans
Filme: My Sister's Keeper (Cassavetes)
Buchen: In the Beauty of Lilies by John Updike

A couple of weeks ago I went on holiday to Amsterdam. I've now decided that I simply must move there and live there forever. It's an amazing city; I actually love it.

I was reluctant to put this poem on my blog as it's a tad - shall we say controversial? Then I figured: fuck it. I like it. It's about the Red Light District or, more specifically, a prostitute there. It doesn't have a name...the Dutch for prostitute is rubbish. Sounds too cute!

Blood, oh blood
Falling from nowhere
Falling from pubic hair
Look, now it’s everywhere
Dripping down my wrists
Bleeding in, bleeding out
Naked, I am so very naked
I am not there
So I do not care
If you wish to stare
Soft, soft
My breasts are rounded, small
And I am not so very tall
Slender, pale
A feminine form
Stained by scarlet
Tainted, used
My scars are…
Shining and irreversible
I am marked
I am special
I am mad
Mad
MAD
At you, of course
But really?
At myself
I stab, stab, stab
And hammer it in
A thick rusty nail
I shall do it with a grin
As the hot springs rush up
From my palms
And I do mean some harm
Truly, I do

Jesus never endured so much pain
He never suffered as I did
Because he died, he died, he died
And I did not
Mein Gott!

Mary was an old maid
She never did get laid
Then what was the point
In going through that pain?
When she never even got the good part

Touch me
And I will feel loved
If I am intoxicated enough
Sweet saint! Sweet saintly love
It is my cross to bear
And I swear
I cannot bear it
And I’m so full of shit
I’m about to graphically explode

Bleed me dry
Since God can’t fuck me
I’m safe
From bearing his Virgin child
So baby, let’s go wild!

Anticipation

Musik: Long Way to Happy - P!nk
Kleiden: Tie-dye dress with grey lacy leggings.
Filme: Nine (Marshall)
Buchen: Let The Right One In (having another go).

One last post before I go to Amsterdam for a week.

Upon reading this poem you’ll probably think: what is this smut? Then you’ll probably read it again and realise that it’s not about sex at all, quite the contrary. Then you’ll read it a third time and come to the conclusion that it was about sex, after all. That’s because these two themes (yes, I’m leaving you to guess the second one) are inexorably linked; we’re obsessed by this juxtaposition because ultimately it is what everything, the whole of human society, is based upon. I called the poem ‘Anticipation’, since this is what our whole lives are spent anticipating. Take that how you will.

Anticipation

Oh, but I love you!
You are merciful
You do not ask me to endure
What I cannot endure
Softly you call
I feel your breath
On the nape of my neck
Sends a shiver down my spine
God
And I close my eyes
Imagine you encompassing me
Swallowing me whole
Into your black velvet mass
Your nothingness caressing me
Sweet, sweet silence
Not having to wonder anymore
I surrender myself to you entirely
Take me, take me
I have no need of anything else
I am yours
My every pore, every follicle
I press my lips against yours
Tasting the anticipation you garner
You fit me like a glove
We were made for one another
Don’t you see?
I wish to meet you on my own terms
Do not worry, I come to you gladly
To touch you, to touch you
I feel you close, so very close
Soon you shall be
Within me
Wholly a part of me
Not even a part
For I shall become you
Soft, soft
I fall upon you
We become entwined
Oh, be mine, be mine
No longer am I a coward
I stare into your lovely face
See your perfect arched wings
You are liberty, liberty
And you shall set me free
No more pain, no more suffering
Just you and me
Forever and ever
For all eternity
Oh, but I love you!

Writers Block

Musik: Dream On - Matthew Morrison and Neil Patrick Harris
Kleiden: Purple top I stole from my sister, black skinny jeans and super-pretty necklace Laura got me ages ago.
Filme: Nowhere Boy (Taylor-Wood)
Buchen: Fail.

I haven't posted in a while because...well, basically I haven't written anything good. I've written, of course but it seems like everything I was writing was the self-indulgent bullshit I'm prone to at times. I get into this spiral of self-pity and my writing suffers because of it. It becomes very self-involved and not interesting in the slightest.

However, I did manage to create a poem stemming from this feeling...

Not a Bird

So you think, so you think
Well, that’s a new one!
I rather thought
That thoughts appeared
Independently of the thinker
Floating about
Bobbing on strings
That extend from the ceilings, floors and other such things
Peeking out from behind each door
Nevermore, forevermore
Do birds speak?
I certainly don’t like to
I don’t see why they would
But they capture thoughts
In their wings
As they blow about in the wind
Occasionally I reach out a hand
Grasp one as it struggles
To be forgotten entirely
But most of the time I can’t fly
That’s the only problem
With not being a bird
I should like to be clothed
In midnight black feathers
Sludge brown, bright turquoise
Dark tipped, fluffy white
Speckled, plain, striped
Strange to have a beak, I imagine
Peck, peck, peck
Yes, I cannot quite get the hang of it
But wings! Ah wings!
They’re there to let me fly
How high, how high I am
Incredibly, impossibly so
Here are all the thoughts I’ll ever need
Right up here in the sky
Such a shame
I’m not a bird…a crying shame

Refrain

Musik: Asleep - The Smiths
Kleiden: Blue camisole and blue jeans. Feelin' blue, I guess.
Filme: As before.
Buchen: As before.

In my English Literature class last year we studied a poem called Mariana by Tennyson. I didn't think much to it at first; too reptitive and whiny. However, upon further reading I began to appreciate the way in which a refrain can imitate the way the brain repeats certain phrases over and over. I decided to experiment with this. Here's the result.

Touch Me

I would ask that you don’t touch me
The paint isn’t dry yet
And a single smudge would be
A terrible shame

I would ask that you don’t touch me
See, I’ve been standing still
So long that I have worn
A little hole into the ground

I would ask that you don’t touch me
I can see perfectly well
Right where I am
There is no need for any change

I would ask that you don’t touch me
I am an antique
And you would not want
To have to pay for me, would you?

I would ask that you don’t touch me
For I am very fragile
The slightest bump
Might break me into a million pieces

I would ask that you don’t touch me
For a long time ago
I locked myself up
And I threw away the key

I would ask that you don’t touch me
You shall only be
Sadly disappointed
That there’s not much more to me

So don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me
Please
I would ask that you don’t touch me

Isolde

Musik: Isabelle - Gregory and the Hawk
Kleiden: PJs again. Yeah, I need to get out more.
Filme: Paths of Glory (Kubrick)
Buchen: Juggling the three mentioned previously.

It's the idea of isolation, non-events that mean so much more than actual events, pathetic fallacy, expressionism. Things that seem straight foward that are layered with meaning, but at the same time...simplicity.

I think this story is set around 1070, after the Normans invaded England. I'm not really going for historical accuracy, however. I just wanted to invoke a sense of age, myth and lore. That's why I called this: Isolde.


Isolde

All was cold. Flecks of white danced across the dead, leaden sky to replace the stars that were covered by the thick grey clouds. The ground was illuminated by the whiteness. It shone an eerie light over the barren landscape. The air was sharp, cutting and stinging my skin until it was raw and tender. I could not cease my shaking, as I pulled my woollen cloak closer around my light frame. The wind was screaming at me, merciless and incensed. I could see barely a foot in front of me, and didn’t doubt that my horse could see even less. She was a coal black, sturdy mare but she was suffering. I could feel her legs beginning to give way underneath me. She could scarcely lift her hooves over the enormous drifts that were now coming into being all around us.

Her breath was like steam; heavy and thick. She began to stumble. And this was the beginning of the end. I knew at that moment that she wasn’t going to make it. I wasn’t going to make it. She fell, legs giving way suddenly yet surely. I dismounted a split second before she hit the ground, so that I was not crushed under her weight. There she lay; shivering like one possessed, her mane matted from the wind and her body thin and heaving. She was dying. I could feel death surrounding her, making the air thick and congealed like an aging wound. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

I took out my knife, its blade thin and sharp with a faint glint to its edge. I wasn’t going to prolong the inevitable. I knelt, putting a hand on the mare’s long, proud nose. In one swift movement I slit her throat, the blood pouring in torrents over my shaking hands; warming them a little. It stained the ice crimson as it leaked out for what seemed like almost a half league.

I had a good mind to do the same for myself. Rescue was unlikely. I could not walk for long for I did not know the way. The action would be fruitless as I had been relying somewhat on the horse to speed me along to the next village. I hadn’t the faintest idea where that might be. It could be many leagues. All that I could see around me was the darkness and the blizzard.

Yet, somewhere in the distance, something caught my eye. A light. A beacon of hope; my salvation. Somewhat delirious I began to run towards it with an uncontrollable fervour. Though I was beyond exhaustion I must have run for several miles, for in time I reached the source of the light. It was emanating from a window. The window of a small tower; a little bump in the landscape that I had previously missed.

The tower was old. It commanded respect, reverence. The great grey stones whispered stories of ancient times past. The mighty wooden double doors echoed like a thousand voices when I slammed my fists against them, hoping to gain entry. They held fast against my efforts, however. In my waning strength I tried desperately to push or pull them aside, but they seemed to be as solid as the rest of the tower; four square impenetrable walls.

“Help me!” I shrieked in my hysteria, “God help me!”

I lay then against the steps, sobbing until my lungs were in agony. I whispered prayers, chants, poetry, songs…anything that came into my head, until I calmed myself and settled down to only vague whimpers.

Then I heard the singing. Thinking that it was only my hysteria I tried to block out the sound, but it was oddly persistent. It appeared to be coming from the window, the light source which was high, high above me. I caught only snatches of the words…rosemary and thyme…true love of mine.

“HELP ME!” I cried out towards the voice I half suspected I was imagining.

Nothing. Just the song being started again in the same hauntingly melodic tone. Either I had gone quite mad, or the person in the tower had no concept of the term ‘mercy’. Though I suspected the latter, I thought perhaps I should persist in all attempts to save my own life.

“Please! I am dying! Meurt!” I exclaimed, wondering if perhaps it was a French nobleman or his rich daughter who owned the tower.

The voice sounded female, and she was singing in English however. Maybe she couldn’t hear me. But how could I make my voice any louder? I sighed. It was hopeless. I wrapped my cloak closely around me and lay down upon the blanket of snow. Here was to be my grave. My final resting place.

Presently I turned my head and, to my utter astonishment, found that the doors had been opened. With my last remaining burst of energy I all but threw myself inside, kicking at the door to close it behind me. I saw vague flashes of red, orange, black; a fire. I crawled along the floor towards it; my vision blurry and faltering. Eventually I settled down onto what seemed to be a rug before the fire. Feeling the warmth was such a pure, unadulterated pain that before I knew it I had blacked out and knew nothing more for quite some time.

As I gradually came to I perceived that the storm was still raging outside. In fact, it seemed to have gained ferocity if that was even possible. Yet I was safe and warm; I could feel the hot lick of the flames along the left side of my body. I appeared to be lying on a hearth rug, which covered the flagged stone floor of the tower. My eyesight began to sharpen and I looked carefully around the room. Furniture was scare; a couple of worn armchairs just behind the rug I lay on, a small wooden cabinet against the far wall and a squat mahogany table opposite it. The fireplace was the focal point of the room; it was at least six feet high, with a considerable stock-pile of coal and wood beside it.

Of my rescuer there was no sign. In the corner of the little room was the beginning of a winding staircase to the upper floors. The tower was considerably taller than it was wide, from what I had seen in my scant observation. I wondered at how many floors it contained.

Testing my weary limbs I attempted to stand. My legs shook but held firm and I proceeded to walk across the room towards the staircase. As I approached it I heard the same singing as I had the previous night and decided to follow the sound. I climbed cautiously up the spiralling staircase and the sound gradually grew louder, till I reached another chamber.

Here was a single four-poster bed, another fire in the corner and a little wardrobe. Opposite me there was a window, in which a girl who I assumed to be my rescuer stood. She did not appear to have heard me enter and continued her song blissfully. From behind I could see only a thick cloud of matted fair hair to her waist, and that she wore a long white gown about her unnaturally thin, frail frame. She sounded young, and her hands were as lily white as her gown for I could see them resting upon the window frame. I wondered if I ought to speak.

“Hello?” I said quietly, not wishing to alarm her.

She turned, startled nonetheless. Her dark brown eyes were wide as a rabbit, like great orbs within her tiny elfin face. Her chin was pointed, making the shape of her face into that of a heart. Again I observed how pale she was; as though she had never seen the light of day even. She did not speak, only stared as though I were an intruder.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I began.

My speaking seemed to cause her some sort of physical pain, for she flinched at the sound as though it were somewhat alien to her. But she had been singing in English; surely she must have understood me.

“Parlez vous Francais?” I asked, though my own French was limited at best.

The same reaction. I shook my head and moved towards her, wondering if she were a mute. She took several steps back at my approach, however, and so I paused once again baffled.

“I wondered if I might stay here whilst the storm continues,” I said.

There was a long pause as we stood there, staring at one another. She then bowed her head in ascent, very slowly and deliberately. Still, she said nothing.

Thinking perhaps she wished to be left alone, I too nodded and began to walk back down the stairs to the room I had originally been in. As I left she took up her place at the window once again, beginning to sing a different song.

I took to curling up in one of the armchairs by the fire; staring into the flames in deep thought. I did not know what to do. For now, I could only wait.

After what seemed like hours I heard someone enter the room. It was the girl; bearing a tray of steaming hot food and drink. She approached me cautiously, keeping her eyes on mine constantly lest I make any sudden bids to attack her. She knelt, placing the tray upon the hearth rug and then backed slowly out of the room again without a word. Throughout this whole encounter I did not move, for fear of alarming her.

The food she had brought me was a thick meat stew and some strange herbal concoction to drink. I ate my meal gratefully, for I had not eaten for what seemed like several days.

It was in this manner that the next, perhaps three, days were passed. The storm raged on relentlessly; the landscape transformed into but a thick white mass. I kept the fire going, the girl entered only occasionally to pass me meals and so I was left alone for hours at a time. And yet, each time the girl entered it seemed to be with a growing amount of confidence. She would not keep her eyes on me as carefully as she had and might even pass the tray directly to me.

One morning I awoke to a deafening silence. All was quiet; not a lick of wind passed through the drafty tower. The storm had stopped. In my excitement I ran up the staircase to inform the girl of this occurrence. She had been sleeping, so just about fainted at the sight of me.

“It’s stopped!” I yelled, and she cowered in the corner of her bed at the strength of the noise.

When I paused I could see that she was shaking. I had frightened her. The poor girl looked just about at her wits end. I sighed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “You’ll have me out of your hair soon enough.”

I turned to leave the room but to my surprise I heard a soft mutter, much too quiet for me to understand. Yet heard it I did. I turned back to look at the girl, who had begun to move towards me.

“What did you say?” I asked quietly, staying very still.
“Don’t go,” she said, her voice a saintly whisper of an angel.

Hardly able to believe that she had spoken I continued to stand, staring at her in astonishment. I did not know how to respond. She was still moving towards me, as though each step cost her unimaginable bravery. She was afraid, but she was fighting it. Soon we were so close that I could smell her soft perfume, see the thickness of her eyelashes casting shadows across her cheeks. She did not touch me yet I felt as if this were something equally as intimate, if not more so.

“What’s your name?” I whispered.
“Isolde,” she breathed, and I could feel her breath across my face.

I closed my eyes, mouthing the word; tasting it on my lips. Her own lips were tantalizingly close to mine, yet the distance seemed enormous. The tips of our noses hovered so close that even the slightest movement could bring them together.

I took a step back.

“I have to go,” I said, myself now afraid of what was happening.

She did not try to stop me as I all but ran down the stairs, making my way towards the great double doors. I opened them after some effort, and stepped outside into the soft blanketed world. All was cold.

Trains

Musik: Alejandro - Lady GaGa
Kleiden: Actually in my PJs right now...
Filme: As before, no new films recently
Buchen: Hannah Goslar Remembers by Alison Leslie Gold

This weeks writers group was hosted by Matt Black rather than Vicky, since she was on holiday, so obviously we did poetry. The brief was to write a self-potrait style poem made up of metaphors or lies (based on the idea that poets are liars). I quite liked mine so decided to post it on here.

Trains

I am a steam train sighing with weariness;
I have few passengers and even fewer have paid their fares…
Yet still I trundle on, wishing they were gone -
Perhaps they’ll be caught at the ticket barrier.
I’m red so don’t touch me,
The paint is still wet, sticky
But there is a thick layer of rust to be covered-
For I am weathered by the angry pistols of the sky.
Nothing is related to me; I am the last of my kind in this sandy desert…
As I yawn I swallow the dust and choke, choke, choke,
As a child I travelled straight and true, until I was derailed;
I lived in Middle Earth but was expelled like a noxious gas:
One day I shall expire entirely and be replaced
By gas powered trains that use no steam.

Too Hot

Musik: A La Mode, A La Mort - Angelspit
Kleiden: 60s-type top again with demin skirt and black lacy leggings. Basically whatever I could find on the floor when I got in this morning.
Filme: Silence of the Lambs (Demme)
Buchen: As before.

I'm going to whine about how much my face hurts from walking into a glass door, for starters. Pretty hilarious, though. I suppose.

I decided I'm going to experiment with surrealism for a while. I've tried stream-of-conciousness poetry and these are two of the results; the first is called Too Hot and is kind of nonsensical but it's pretty. The second is called Hayfever because I suffer greatly from it this time of year.

Too Hot

Too hot, too hot, too hot
Much too hot
Reality is slipping off, off, off
Reality’s slipping off of me
It’s melting down my face
My eyes, my hair, my teeth
Fall into my palms
With nails through them
For all that I have sacrificed
An antique cross
Oh, agony, agony, agony
Blood everywhere you look
The plants are bleeding
Crimson, soaked with it
Who was it that hurt you?
Whose blood do you weep?
Tears are salt
Tears compose the sea
Stop pestering me, stop pestering me
Like a tattered corpse
A zombie bride
Have you no pride? Have you no pride?
You are my shame
Shame, shame, shame
I shall prove to you
What real blood looks like
I’ll slash my arms, my legs, the skies
Even the skies are weeping for me
Little white specks
A million of them all coming together
A mass of hell, a mass of hell
So you are pure?
But how can you be sure?
Soft, virginal, dressed in blue
And bearing a screaming child
You bear me screaming
Clutching to the dregs
That weigh down my tea cup
A grim, grim prospect indeed
Doctors glaring down at me
I’m young, so terribly young
Then not, and kissing a pair of lips
That want more than just my lips
Roses frozen completely
In liquid nitrogen tubs
Wanting love, wanting love
Wanting hate, wanting hate
Lying still as death, as death
For hours and hours and hours
Pretending that I am dead
And a coward, a coward, a coward
Tears are salt
Tears compose the sea
Look at me! Look at me!
Fucking look at me!

Hayfever

Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Reeling, reeling
Closeness, rubbing desperately
Pain, stinging, watering
Running again from the nose
Quench my thirst
Like a dry bracken thistle
But too late…
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Terrible throbbing in the skull
Unable to breathe
Tissues, tissues
The eyes again, again
Oh, exhaustion
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Taking too much out of me
Restless, restless, restless
Streaming…streaming…
ACHOO!
Medication
Soften the blow
It cannot go on
Adieu

A bit of nonsense

Musik: The dulcet tones of my sister's oboe.
Kleiden: This checked dress, another of Vicky's, and black leggings.
Filme: STILL no film watching for me, as I had to revise today *blanche*.
Buchen: Still reading Let The Right One In...The Great Gatsby is on haitus for the moment.

Yesterday I went to see a new adaptation of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland at the Crucible theatre. It was pretty awesome; an interesting take on the story. I was going to write a review but, as is often the case, I became much more interested in my own work! It reminded me of Carroll's nonsensical style of writing, and inspired me to have a go at it myself. Though, I then thought of another idea I had been playing with - the idea that words themselves only have meaning in context. Following this I decided to begin with conversations of a certain length, and then repeat the same phrases no matter what the situation throughout the rest of the story and see if it still made any sort of sense. The jury's still out on that one.

Madness and (the) Asylum

“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me,”
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,”
“Require! Well, that’s another thing entirely,”

Mulysa wrinkled her nose distastefully at the smell emanating from the delicate porcelain teapot, handing it carelessly to Sendam who drank the thick violently violet liquid with relish. The two of them sat at the head of the table imperiously; absolutely identical yet entirely opposite. Mulysa’s shocking pink head of hair curled down her back over her lacy, white nightgown and in one hand she clutched a small, beaten-up old teddy bear. Sendam cleared his throat whilst stroking his equally shocking pink beard, totting his tall yellow top hat to a passer-by who happened to catch his eye. Their guests were a rag-tag bunch of perfectly orderly misfits, each flagged by a disgruntled footman with a charming little dove grey waistcoat. It was an altogether splendid affair.

“Did someone say require?” enquired a somewhat distressed looking man to Mulysa’s right. He wore a polka dot one-piece suit, a red curly haired wig and a mess of multi-coloured make-up appeared to have melted down his old, wrinkled face.
“Someone, or indeed…if you require your subject to be a somebody you will be sadly disappointed yet equally gleeful,” Sendam replied.
“I see,” said the clown. Mulysa glanced at him furtively. She did not like the look of him one bit and said as much to Sendam.
“My dear sister…sister dear my!” he chuckled, but did not continue; himself giving the clown a suspicious once-over.

Mulysa was fairly sure that this clown was an imposter, for he didn’t look at all like anyone she would have invited. Come to think of it, she hadn’t invited a single solitary person to this so-called event. It was all Sendam’s doing, the dandy fool.

“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk,” announced an extremely pale woman in a large, extravagant wedding dress; a veil obscuring her face so that Mulysa could only tell that she had jet black hair which contrasted terribly with everything else about her.
“What a shame,” said Sendam politely.

“Goodness! Is that the time?” said the bride.
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me,” said Sendam.
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,” Mulysa replied.
“Did someone say require?” said the clown.
“My dear sister…sister dear my,” Sendam sobbed expressively.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk!” the bride shrieked.
“Require! Well, that’s another thing entirely,” Sendam was now rolling around on the floor, in an ever growing puddle of his tears.
“What a shame,” Mulysa said, attempting to console him.

The bride and the clown looked at one another.
“Did someone say require?” asked the clown of the bride.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” the bride nodded.
“I see,” the clown shook the brides hand, smiling sinisterly.

Not liking what she saw one bit Mulysa said as much to Sendam.
“My dear sister…sister dear my,” he replied, having recovered himself from his bout of uncontrollable sorrow.
“What a shame,” Mulysa whispered conspiratorially.
“Someone, or indeed…if you require your subject to be a somebody you will be sadly disappointed yet equally gleeful,” Sendam explained his plan slowly and clearly so that Mulysa could understand easily.

She approached the clown, fluttering her long dark eyelashes attractively. She placed her teddy bear onto the table just to his left, upon which his footman placed a saucer of milk in front of it should refreshment be required.

“Three red crosses, just typical really if you ask me,” she told him.
The clown froze as though he had been struck a blow to the head. The bride rushed over to him, for there was now blood pooling out of every crevasse.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk!” the bride said fearfully.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” Mulysa said, Sendam appearing at her side. The two of them smirked gleefully at their victim.

The clown breathed his last words out slowly and beautifully.
“I see…,” he exhaled before ceasing all movement and words.

“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,” shouted the bride, as she fled the scene before any further damage could be done.

Mulysa handed the porcelain teapot to her brother, a satisfied smirk upon her face.
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me.”

Asylum

Musik: The Last Song I'm Wasting On You - Evanescence
Kleiden: This awesome '60s style top that Vicky gave me, denim mini-skirt and lacy white leggings
Filme: As before, not watched any new films today
Buchen: Let The Right One In - John Ajvide Lindqvist

The whole Emilie Autumn thing yesterday got me thinking...I have some friends who go 'urbexing', which is basically going to abandoned buildings where they take photographs and such-like. It's pretty cool. But yeah, in particular there was the idea of going to an abadoned asylum that seemed really creepy but interesting, too. I mean, there's got to be a lot of bad memories there. So, I wrote this poem about it as I do.

Asylum

A noxious stench
Congeals the air
Though it cannot be seen
I know it’s there
Yet can I know
With certainty
When forced to doubt
Every sense
I’m aware
Of fresh blood
Oozing everywhere
Along the bars
All down your chair
It tells of all the life you drained
It is a stain
You cannot refrain
From touching me
Can you
Doctor dear
I; your greatest love
I; your deadliest fear
Lock me up
In your asylum
Where you can stare
And let me
Let me rot in there
Tell me I’m quite mad
Plenty of evidence;
Bet you’re glad
In my spare time
I like to let the world
Overcome me, chill my spine
Then scream along
In thrilling sadness
At how very wrong
And bad
Things are
But not for long
You see
I plan
To leave here soon
Someday
When death
Can be no threat to me
What, then, do I have to lose?
I think as I stare up upon
The blackened sole of shoes

Inspiration

Musik: Emilie Autumn - Shalott
Kleiden: This ancient orange top I bought in France when I was around twelve, light blue jeans
Filme: The Reader (Stephen Daldry)
Buchen: The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald

This is how I plan to begin every post (the film, by the way, being the last one I watched whilst the rest are all current). Don't ask about the German. Unless you want to, of course...

On Saturday I went to a Young Writers festival in Sheffield, featuring poets such as Matt Black, Rommi Smith and Dorethea Smartt. It was one amazing day - I was very inspired by all of the extremely talented people there. In particular, my conversation with Dorethea Smartt was very enlightening. I asked her for advice on how best to perform my poetry and she asked me to think about performers I admired and what it was that made them great. I immediately thought of Emilie Autumn, whom I went to see perform in March and found to be utterly breath-taking.

That's kind of the back-story to this poem I wrote about Emilie, eponymously named.

Emilie Autumn

I

What inspires me about you?
The theatrical abandonment;
The utter sincerity with which
You give yourself entirely
To the moment
As though every one
Might be the very last-
You hold onto it tightly,
You scratch and you claw,
So not a single second is let off lightly.

It is as though you and I
Were the only beings living.
And you stare blankly;
Screaming like all hell let loose,
Not caring that, in fact,
There are so many other people there,
Thinking the exact same thing-
That you are singing for them
And only them.

II

Your soul is laid bare.
You are naked,
You have not a care,
As the passion erases
Any shame that was there.
It makes you more beautiful,
More perfect, more unbearable,
More awe-inspiring, more intimidating,
More breath-taking, more shocking,
More melodramatic, more controversial,
More…more
More than I can stand.

III

There are so very many lights,
A magnificent set
Of a quaint Victorian asylum.
And the fantastical costumes,
Of corset, tights and garters.
The great clock of rats head
And the theatre mask you wear.
The shocking bright red of your hair.
Your girls; sexual and sensual.
The enormous exhibition of it all.

And I stand there mouthing every word
That exits your windpipes,
Marvelling as you play
With a demons aptitude;
An electric violin
As though it were a sin:
Oh sweet love, give me my sin again!
For I could listen for all eternity,
And never tire.

IV

I can only stare
And long for your confidence…
The way you just don’t care.
For I can claim it all I like,
But it is not so,
That the people’s eyes don’t scare
Me to the depths of my soul.
I like to bottle it all up;
And I don’t ever want to let go entirely
For I do not dare.
I can only stare.