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…