Cluck Thiswhen circadias begin to float
upturned on a stagnated river
and you yourself are heart down
with your crest fallen about you
then look for the end in me.
when closing your eyes brings light
and the sun kisses carrion
with your heart clucking openly
about some misdeed, some old seed,
of misfortune from its past - then
then, look for the end in me.
GrowthI remember the day I caught him 'gardening'. His cheeks stained cherry with the brisk wind that trotted beside him up and down the smothered garden path. He dropped a seed as his feet brushed past each other. Up and down he walked, a solemn lieutenant. I asked him what he was doing and those wide sky eyes reflected the ice as he told me he was trying to grow flowers for his mother. I looked at the seeds spilt on the snow and told him that they could never grow in these circumstances. I will never forget the clench in my heart when he responded, with a child's tongue; "I know".Growth2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Of Nuisance LeavesHear me read it!Of Nuisance Leaves2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Leaves clutch their ropy fingers around the tree's limbs. The zesty leeches bloom, crack open overnight and slip silently up the nearest oak or maple. They pierce the crunch of bark and penetrate deep into the rubbery veins.
They feed. They pauperize plum and peach until they are heavy and brown; heavy laden with the stolen sap.
When at last they reach their fill the tree can finally shake them off emphatically, desperately, until at last it is clean again. The tree reaches its black bones to the sky in praise and as a new year begins vows never again to be the victim of leaves.
MatterIt is only a matter of timeMatter2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
until the stone lays down with the sheep
Rested firmly above the holes
where our eyes used to be.
It is only a matter of matter
until epitaph and eulogy diminish to dust
becomes the eternal home,
not where our souls used to be.
It is only a matter of fact
that our words will become reductionist, redundant,
the world will forget
where our words used to be.
Flora at the PassHear me read itFlora at the Pass2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I will never write of the cherry tree,
or think again on its impermanent beauty;
its delicate and breakable bones
or the pale flush of it's cheeks. I will not.
I will never again be pleased
to see its arms outstretched to embrace.
I won't call it my favourite,
or dream of it's presence at the momentous;
but at my wedding, there will be spring-bloom.
In my bouquet, my hair, my heart.
Enthralled in every quiet bud
of every quiet moment, cherries will be.
At my funeral, similarly,
entwined through my white coffin,
there will be the soft reflection
of its frostbitten petals. Even then.
For no matter what I am, or who,
there will always be blossom in spring.
There will always be cherries in my life;
and there will be flora at the pass.
The DescriptionHe drinks coffeeThe Description2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
its the art of seduction,
and quite honestly
when he does it
it might as well be.
You'll catch him
frowning into it
as he hastily scribbles
in a notebook
to make the world
El cambia a español
en la mitad del frase
and I don't think
he even realises.
He loves the world
that to be a part of it
leaves you feeling
He makes the world seem
to contain his love
and when he smiles,
because he reminds me
that there is hope
to be had.
For the world,
For people like us.
He is soil,
Salt of the earth,
of everything good
that will grow from
He is a ramshackled
waking up to
the realisation that
he is an innovator;
and that his passion
could change the world.
SpellboundI am not enchanted.Spellbound2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The dreams come
but they are not dreams at all
and I am not asleep.
Your hand sliding up my thigh
and your groan slicks itself onto my neck,
embeds itself into my skin.
I wear the remnants
of your ecstasy in my flesh still.
It crawls when any other nears it.
It came to be that your bed-side clock
replaced my fearful heartbeat
as I laid in stasis and hoped -
for a passing; of time, of fingers, of life.
I cannot sleep with ticking in my ear anymore
I don't think of time running out, but of paralysis.
I think of lapses of concentration,
I think of those slow burning moments
that stretched out longer than I wanted
and lasted longer still. I think of the tears.
I am not enchanted.
The days pass
but they are not days at all
and I am not awake.
I am pacified by the numbness
of lobe or cortex that controls memory,
a self imposed strike out against you,
a strike my hand should have made.
Regret is buried
six feet beneath my fingernails.
Cavities1. One 23 foot length of intestine. Only one small knot in the system. £3006. Free shipping.Cavities2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2. One kidney. (2 available from this seller). Each with a centimeter of renal artery included free! Order now and we will throw in a free gallbladder in near pristine condition! £2700.
3. One brain (faulty) with scratches in the frontal lobe due to patching of a minor issue from warehouse. Refurbished by a licensed neurosurgeon. Not fully functional but perfect for parts. Serotonin not included. £18200
4. One vertebral column with or without spinal cord to suit buyer. Can be gift wrapped to taste with a personalised card. Leave your message at checkout. £14020
5. Bundle offer! Dignity, artistic integrity and skill available to any loving home. £1 or nearest offer. Will negotiate.
Undying LoveShe screams, pain holding her, hands holding her hair and pulling tight, each strand reins to her conscious will. The drugs running through her system become a geas, an imposition stemming from the necessity in her soul.Undying Love2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The tetter barked and shouted it's way down her arms, her misery congealing in her wrists and at her throat, forming a lump that pressed down weightily on her trachea until clawing a breath in was more effort than she had energy for. She choked on a sob and the angular bite of the sound released some of the tension. She fell.
The beige, tiled floor rose to greet her decrepit, falling form. Undone, as if a string on her soul was pulled, undoing the knot that was -that could've been- her life.
On the ground, she weeps as quiet as her ragged breath – or lack of breathing – and she turns, turns on her swollen elbows, and kicks with her swollen knees, trying to stand. Her head hits the bathtub side, and she sees stars, and darkness, cloud her vision. Her dizzy t
BathAn untidy circle of golden peaksBath2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with shimmering gems tumbling down
that thrum through with shafts of sun.
How welcomed I feel when I see
the emerald shrug draped about
your fine matriarchal shoulders
reaching out to draw me close.
The sapphiric glint in your eye,
you invite me in and give me shelter.
All through your house you're present
every corner shines antique brass
and the small blemishes I see
only endear you to me further.
Settled on your asparagus bedding,
with the sweep of ruralesque tones
down the front of your stately dress,
Austen's own, I desire you.
I want to steal you.
Pluck you from your landlocked throne
and throw you hard into the minds
of a new generation of romantics
who will bend at the knee and call you
"her Majestic city"
I will thief you in the night
when no one is looking for me -
mark my words as I mark your streets
with my impatient footprints settling;
and soon you will be my very own, Bath.
In absence of a poem.I chewed my pen to the nibIn absence of a poem.2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
and swallowed the ink thoughtlessly,
but no matter how long I thought,
I couldn't say what you mean to me.
I tried, I tried and I tested,
every word in my diminutive range,
but I screwed up more pieces of paper
and happened upon something strange;
I noticed words, which have served me,
for all of my formative years,
had no power to convey my gratitude
for the times that you dried my tears.
Whenever I doubt myself (often),
You're the one who tells me I'm wrong
You lift up my chin and remind me, wait
for the good things that will come along.
I can't find a way to express how
you are the saving grace in my head.
So words can't tell you how I love you -
I hope my silence will tell you instead.
Mother EarthMy body is the earth;Mother Earth2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
See how under this bruise
A seed of malcontent sleeps.
See what grows out of each pore
As the pain pours over again.
There is rust in my fingerbeds
That poisons the roots
Of all good that hopes to grow here.
I am the convulsing, revolution
of the convoluted Earth...
I am the tectonic blades that clash
and shout when I curl up and hide.
You will feel me when I tremble,
and fear me when I explode
for under the magmanimous skin
There burns a core of hate
That can't be marred by human hand.
CrucifixionWrists skyward she began to beg; "Please, Please God, I can't do this anymore. I don't want to be.. a prophet, or a messenger of peace and love or whatever it was that you sent her to me so that I would become. I don't.. I can't.." she broke off, broke down, and her mind crumbled around the excruciating wondering if she was experiencing a new type of crucifixion. If God existed, and if he was purposefully keeping her in pain for a bigger plan, and if, ultimately, she would ever know the luxury of a spinal cord snapping open and exposing the bare wires beneath.Crucifixion2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She pressed her hand over her mouth to keep the words inside, and when the tears landed on her fingers and hung for extended moments before they fell, it looked like ivy creeping over the door of a great empty house. Her eyes so dark and lonely. The shaking shed the ivy leafs and when she spoke it was as if a random series of words had tumbled out from the hurricane inside, a cough, a wretch, a sentence; "I think I'm dying".
After the BeepI am an answerphoneAfter the Beep2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you have connected only
to pre-recorded messages.
Epitaphs of my happiness.
They stand solidly
against all resistance
they are like proud nails
that the wind batters
deeper and deeper
into solitary confinement
of a singular plot coffin.
I am voicefemail,
hear me lie.
SolitaryTrigger warning: Discussion of sanity and suicide.Solitary2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The plan had been so simple. Thirty six hours in solitary confinement, Meredith was struggling. Last week this had all seemed so simple. So obvious. It seemed like she had devised the perfect escape plan. Things weren't working out as intended.
Firstly, and above all else - even breathing or thinking - there was the thirst. Her throat roared with it and she could feel its acidic anger snarl its way up and down her throat with each breath. She'd imagined discomfort, but not pain. She was starting to reconsider.
Her tongue was sore. The slab of meat in her mouth felt like unswallowed food as it got drier, and the taste when she could summon enough saliva to swallow was rancid, and reminded her of her ex boyfriends unwanted dry probings. In a desperate bid for freedom a few hours ago she had tried biting through her tongue, people did it in prison so she knew it was possible, but the pain was too sharp to work through and she didn'
AfterIt follows me.After2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My silver skeined ghost.
An almost imperceptible thread;
only visible when you shine light
directly upon it.
It follows me.
It rides the underground.
It hides under bridges,
It is woven into the spools of tar
that form the roads between.
Inevitably if I walk too fast
it reminds me -
Like the tug of stitches in your cheek
that reminds you; you have lost your wisdom.
It reminds me.
It trips me in doorways,
when my mind is elsewhere.
If I look away from it -
- it slips round my neck.
Another knot to throw over the beams
it mauls me without a fair chance.
I tried to sever it. I can't.
Only the corrosion of time has a chance.
So for now, I am tethered
to the fragment of my heart
that I tore out for you.
Although we have placed it in a shroud
and declared it dead,
the umbilical thrumming keeps me awake.
It does not desist;
the connection to that unwanted slab of meat.
Childish Literary GamesAll my life I have dreamt of love. I repeated scenarios in my mind until they sang pitch perfect a vibrato across an otherwise empty stage. Two particular fancies stayed in my mind often, lingering long after closing time to comfort me. I would dream of a man's confettied confession of love. He would cough it out and the blood of it, the reality of it, would slide down his chin and onto his shirt. It would be a palpable, palpitable love. He would say it to someone else and not know I was listening, and in turning our eyes would meet and the world would drain away, as a body prepped for fire.Childish Literary Games2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My other dream was better. I would dream of a complicated scenario in which this man had to deny his love for me, or else I would be killed. I thought of filigree tangled emotions and situations and his looking me in the eye to tell me that he never loved me since the moment he saw me. I dreamt of knowing, and of allowing the truth to remain hidden, a seed tucked under a lung, under a rib, u
BuriedUnder the paprika house,Buried2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are the bones of my father
and nestled between rib
and reason, is our love.
The EditorMakeshift by the lake,The Editor2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I watched you finish my sentence
- Hastily retracting the bitterness
and editing out
my overstated meaning.
A fly serenaded you,
As you derooted the root,
- Deflowered the bud
and edited out
every semblance of a meaning.
I allowed it, in the summer haze.
For you to slather me
- In someone elses
soaked in someone elses feeling.
But when you slept at last
I arose, painted bleach by your tongue
- Shook off your petty rules
and crossing outs
and ran away, free - and feeling.
Our biggest fanHear me read itOur biggest fan2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I pity the sky.
Even when all else turns to dust,
And debris, and dies,
The sky cannot move,
Cannot look away,
Or do anything but weep ever after
And ache to wrap those it loves
In lonesome clouds and carry them away.
I pity the sky.
Double NegativeI have never loved you.Double Negative2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I did not love you from that misty
September morning when we met.
I did not love you the first moment
I gazed into those saccharine eyes.
I have never, in fact, loved the roughness
in your soft voice when it says my name.
I have never loved the look on your face
when you smile over your bagel at me.
I don't love the cocoa streaked in your hair
or the way it ruffles its feathers upright
when you fall from your warm bed-nest,
half asleep, vulnerable and shy in the morning.
I do not love you.
I did not love you in that very moment
when your breath snagged against my lip
as it finally brushed yours - no, I did not.
I did not love you the first, second, or last time.
Listen to me carefully, my sweet -
I have never loved you, I will never love you.
I will not love you until my very last breath
and the absences of breath beyond that.
I will never love you for all that makes you
the warm, compassionate fighter in my corner.
I won't accept you for all your innocen
Marmalade for Isla - Ch 6Marmalade for IslaMarmalade for Isla - Ch 62 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It took six seasons to build the wings. Isla complained about the metal skeleton biting into her arms and ribs so they had to be adjusted several times before they were content with them. As Noah and Mr Francis worked on the skeleton she began to collect feathers. If they didn't need her for a fitting or to hold something down or to hammer something, she would find her way to the river and extract duck feathers from long grass or nests around the waters edge. Once an angry mother duck almost bit her. She was more careful after that.
They had just begun sewing the feathers together and winding the strings of them through the skeleton when Mr Francis died. It was a terrible shock and for many weeks the work stopped completely and Isla did not see Noah.
Weeks later, passing the bookshop, Isla glanced in habitually and saw, to her astonishment, Noah inside. She pushed on the door but it was locked, she knocked on the glass pa
Chalk OutlineA chalk outline waits for meChalk Outline2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sometimes it slips into bed with my shadow
and I can do nothing but roll my eyes
like a mis=abused and weary parent,
but every night when my shadow
merges with the edges of the day's page
and blurs into a dirty midnight orange
I lie in bed and shudder;
without my shadow's protection I feel it,
a chalk outline waits for me.
An Autumn Night with Thoughts of DyingSeraphim rusted and hung upside in a tree,An Autumn Night with Thoughts of Dying2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lit umber as a lantern, spitting sparklers out.
We sat and watched fizzied children laugh
and clap together hands and happy mouths.
She told me oxygen is slowly setting us on fire
and as my blood oxidises into a heavy cop-iron
I thought to myself that if I burst into flames
it would be the most honest thing I'd ever done.
Marmalade for Isla - Ch 1Marmalade for IslaMarmalade for Isla - Ch 12 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl called Isla who lived in a poor town called Epolina. Isla had been born in the same house she turned eighteen in, and for a time she had been very happy there. Before Isla celebrated her twelfth birthday her mother died, the body was buried and Isla felt sadness strangle around her heart. Isla's grief was overshadowed by the grief of her beloved fathers however, who the townspeople said had gone mad with grief. He wept for many weeks.
One day Isla, being a good hearted girl, decided to bake her father a cake to try and cheer him up. In the previous few weeks she had visited an elderly neighbour often in exchange for a dozen eggs a week for herself and her father to eat. She didn't mind this chore as the elderly lady, Ava, was very kind to Isla. Isla had watched Ava bake all sorts of cakes; vanilla cake, scones, and once a chocolate cake. Ava baked the cakes for her daughters, bu