Ok, in some bizzarre way, I can sorta see why some people need more than one relationship. What I don't get, is why they have to lie about this to the people involved, particularly the 2nd person; specifically Me. MissBitch, as she'll be known forever, trapping me in her web of beauty and charm, doesn't even flinch at unpredictable hours, or my endless screams of terror as I battle with Life-As-It-Is. And then, just as I get used to feeling lucky, her girlfriend's back in town, and my voicemail is full of messages questioning why I hung up! Honestly!
So, I haven't written anything postable recently - only some obscene content which I contemplated mailing her.
The aim of this post, which seems to have been buried slightly, was to thank everyone who's trying to drag me through everything with humour still in tact. No, really - I dont know what I'd do without you.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Thursday, October 14, 2004
I know.
If there’s one thing this has taught me,
It is that I am lucky.
It could have been the other of the pair,
And then where would I be.
Without my agonising rock within this strange façade.
I know that I am lucky,
For I have my family –
My family.
Complete with criticism and dementia,
And undying refusal to bend.
And I know that I am lucky,
For I have my friends.
Now this one is a sweeter tune.
Somehow, they put up with all my screams,
Turn them into howls of humour when they can,
And never let me throw in soggy towel.
But if there’s one thing that I know,
It’s that I have to face it all alone.
Because there’s no-one who can swipe the pain, the images,
the contemplation from my mind.
It is that I am lucky.
It could have been the other of the pair,
And then where would I be.
Without my agonising rock within this strange façade.
I know that I am lucky,
For I have my family –
My family.
Complete with criticism and dementia,
And undying refusal to bend.
And I know that I am lucky,
For I have my friends.
Now this one is a sweeter tune.
Somehow, they put up with all my screams,
Turn them into howls of humour when they can,
And never let me throw in soggy towel.
But if there’s one thing that I know,
It’s that I have to face it all alone.
Because there’s no-one who can swipe the pain, the images,
the contemplation from my mind.
Winter Blues
The sparrow sat impatiently upon the wall
As the frost moved in,
Awaiting mist-free morning light
And worms above the frozen ground.
Ruffled feathers underneath the wind,
It hovered in disgust
Above a peanut feast,
Beneath the flakes of snow.
Pecking angrily at berries red,
Its song was harsh and cold,
Anticipating spring.
And in the icy storms which fell,
The bird grew thin,
As it refused to thrive in absence of the sun.
And before the warmth could rise,
Its sorrow ceased, unnoticed.
As the frost moved in,
Awaiting mist-free morning light
And worms above the frozen ground.
Ruffled feathers underneath the wind,
It hovered in disgust
Above a peanut feast,
Beneath the flakes of snow.
Pecking angrily at berries red,
Its song was harsh and cold,
Anticipating spring.
And in the icy storms which fell,
The bird grew thin,
As it refused to thrive in absence of the sun.
And before the warmth could rise,
Its sorrow ceased, unnoticed.
The shoes that rocked their worlds.
Pink school-style kickers.
Rounded at the toe and heel,
One faded from the sun.
Spotted in an afternoon of laughter,
As they trailed through city shops in search of fun.
A source of pleasure,
Bargain-hunt galore,
but who’d have thought they’d be the final crack
A whip of stinging blended sentiment as box embodied form.
And on she stares.
Rounded at the toe and heel,
One faded from the sun.
Spotted in an afternoon of laughter,
As they trailed through city shops in search of fun.
A source of pleasure,
Bargain-hunt galore,
but who’d have thought they’d be the final crack
A whip of stinging blended sentiment as box embodied form.
And on she stares.
Heads or Tails
The child,
Laying on a slab,
Because her life was hard.
Or the woman in her prime,
Who dies a little every day,
Unable to pre-empt what will be next to fail –
Some major memory, or ability to walk, to talk or hold a spoon,
The woman who can’t ask for help,
Because she’d disappoint her family.
Laying on a slab,
Because her life was hard.
Or the woman in her prime,
Who dies a little every day,
Unable to pre-empt what will be next to fail –
Some major memory, or ability to walk, to talk or hold a spoon,
The woman who can’t ask for help,
Because she’d disappoint her family.
Won't Somebody Stop the Juices - How they Flow!
It just keeps on coming - hold your hats, it's all going up here!
PROMISES MADE.
I promised I’d look out for you, that I would keep you safe.
But there are some things that I cannot fix.
A battered knee from sliding low –
That I can bless with magic touch
And in a little time, it heals.
A bruised heart and tormented mind –
I can offer solace. I can give advice.
And I can bitch for hours about the whore that gave you pain.
Boredom –
Sorted, I’ll be there with chocolate mountains when you call.
But this thing inside you –
Which furls in anger in your blood,
That, I can only watch.
Sure, I can be there on the bad days,
Grapes and comic books in hand,
And I can cheer you when you’re down.
I can pester you to do the dreary stuff,
Like eating well, and sleeping every now and then.
And I can be there on the phone with each set of results.
But every time, I see the pain is more.
And someday,
My promise isn’t going to matter.
PROMISES MADE.
I promised I’d look out for you, that I would keep you safe.
But there are some things that I cannot fix.
A battered knee from sliding low –
That I can bless with magic touch
And in a little time, it heals.
A bruised heart and tormented mind –
I can offer solace. I can give advice.
And I can bitch for hours about the whore that gave you pain.
Boredom –
Sorted, I’ll be there with chocolate mountains when you call.
But this thing inside you –
Which furls in anger in your blood,
That, I can only watch.
Sure, I can be there on the bad days,
Grapes and comic books in hand,
And I can cheer you when you’re down.
I can pester you to do the dreary stuff,
Like eating well, and sleeping every now and then.
And I can be there on the phone with each set of results.
But every time, I see the pain is more.
And someday,
My promise isn’t going to matter.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Exhibit A:
When I opened my mouth to sing.
I opened my mouth to sing, and out came a silence so sombre, so solid, it would make a spider wilt.
My blackened eyes closed, willed my voice to fill the space before me, but nothing save a crackle of despair proceeded from my lips, as dry as desert wind.
My fists clenched; grubby ragged nails gouging into sweaty skin as I tried to claw out noise. And my dead, unsparkling eyes gaze out at hordes who watched.
No melody would fit emotions I wanted to scream, no words to falsify my honest praise, my disappointment, or my fucking rage.
So, my face louder than I could ever be, I walked away. And they watched me as I left it all unsaid. Because it matters too much, but it doesn’t matter anyway.
I opened my mouth to sing, and out came a silence so sombre, so solid, it would make a spider wilt.
My blackened eyes closed, willed my voice to fill the space before me, but nothing save a crackle of despair proceeded from my lips, as dry as desert wind.
My fists clenched; grubby ragged nails gouging into sweaty skin as I tried to claw out noise. And my dead, unsparkling eyes gaze out at hordes who watched.
No melody would fit emotions I wanted to scream, no words to falsify my honest praise, my disappointment, or my fucking rage.
So, my face louder than I could ever be, I walked away. And they watched me as I left it all unsaid. Because it matters too much, but it doesn’t matter anyway.
The Colour is Black, The Hue Finality.
Something good should have happened today. I had the day to write. And I can't actually remember what I have done, but on the occassion that I sat, keyboard in hand, to create more of the colourful post-folk planet's story, all that appeared was questionable shady poetry.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Bad Bananas
Just when you think things can't get worse, some little shit goes and dies on you... ok, that's really harsh, and I didn't mean it. Now I feel really guilty. But my grand-parents arrival coupled with my family's hypocritical duplicity, long shift patterns at work, and no escape have riled both me and my Muse.
Some bizzarre spark of emotion lights the fires of inspiration, and intense, passionate words are left to dance around my rotting brain because I can't enter my room - inhabited by aged Southerners - or leave Them to trip up on the banana skin that is forced-love and faked existence.
Some bizzarre spark of emotion lights the fires of inspiration, and intense, passionate words are left to dance around my rotting brain because I can't enter my room - inhabited by aged Southerners - or leave Them to trip up on the banana skin that is forced-love and faked existence.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
The writeathon that never was.
BITING MY TONGUE/WHY I AM NOT WRITING.
I'm not averse to 14 hours of scrubbing at sticky orange kitchen cupboards (once white) and removing dog-fur from the saucepans, but when my mother, daytime-tv whore (bless her) pokes her head around the door at 15minute intervals, either smirking or rolling her eyes at me, then snorts, slams the door, and proceeds to ignore me until her next visit, the cheerful diplomat inside me starts to wither.
I know she gets insulted and defensive when people clean, or shop, or anything she believes she's doing - so before I started, I set it up as a favour because I know that 'she's really busy, and it shouldn't have to be her that does all the cleaning'. And I've tried to include her by asking her what she wants keeping, or where she thinks the best place for stuff would be. The most response I've had all day is an aggitated "Whatever!"
There's only so many times a girl can say things like 'I KNOW you've only just done it" and "Don't worry, you don't have the time to do it all yourself either!" convincingly.
Now, after a whole day, and the prospect of a repeat tomorrow, no amount of coffee, noisy upbeat rock, or ben and jerry's cookie dough can lift the cloud of unappreciated gloom.
I sacrifice my weekend off, and does it matter to anyone except my Muse? Does it bollocks!!
I'm not averse to 14 hours of scrubbing at sticky orange kitchen cupboards (once white) and removing dog-fur from the saucepans, but when my mother, daytime-tv whore (bless her) pokes her head around the door at 15minute intervals, either smirking or rolling her eyes at me, then snorts, slams the door, and proceeds to ignore me until her next visit, the cheerful diplomat inside me starts to wither.
I know she gets insulted and defensive when people clean, or shop, or anything she believes she's doing - so before I started, I set it up as a favour because I know that 'she's really busy, and it shouldn't have to be her that does all the cleaning'. And I've tried to include her by asking her what she wants keeping, or where she thinks the best place for stuff would be. The most response I've had all day is an aggitated "Whatever!"
There's only so many times a girl can say things like 'I KNOW you've only just done it" and "Don't worry, you don't have the time to do it all yourself either!" convincingly.
Now, after a whole day, and the prospect of a repeat tomorrow, no amount of coffee, noisy upbeat rock, or ben and jerry's cookie dough can lift the cloud of unappreciated gloom.
I sacrifice my weekend off, and does it matter to anyone except my Muse? Does it bollocks!!
Sunday, September 19, 2004
A Curse so Precious it Won't be Denied!
Sometimes, when you've got some virus impersonating flu as it line-dances in spiky heels across your limbs; when you've been mauled at work, and up for hours, all you want, all you really, really want is a good book to take to bed. And then, as you scurry about in icy sheets, desperate to warm up your cocoon, it happens again.
A small, whinging voice pelts from the shadows in your head...
"Write. Write now. The Legends need you... You need them!" More persistant it grows, until you can hardly hear the silence, and your inner skull feels filled with wasp-venom. Futility hits, and shell-shocked by the prospect of another day at work on little sleep, you stumble to the keyboard, dragging the duvet behind you, toes curling squeamishly against the cold wood floor. Settled roughly in the chair, your head itches as you wait for Windows to awaken.
Then you begin.
A small, whinging voice pelts from the shadows in your head...
"Write. Write now. The Legends need you... You need them!" More persistant it grows, until you can hardly hear the silence, and your inner skull feels filled with wasp-venom. Futility hits, and shell-shocked by the prospect of another day at work on little sleep, you stumble to the keyboard, dragging the duvet behind you, toes curling squeamishly against the cold wood floor. Settled roughly in the chair, your head itches as you wait for Windows to awaken.
Then you begin.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Bend over, bitch!
Well, I’ve just reawakened the Infant Blood Omen, and it seems that the good-for-nothing contents of my spawn have sat around motionless, waiting for instruction from their creator, in a bar no less – alright for some! Whatever happened to initiative? And what would become of us if we waited for some Supremacy to guide us through every little thing?
I sense a little butt prodding is in order - Think cattle. Big, fat, disobedient cattle beleaguered day in, day out by a short, fat farmer, chewing grass in an uncouth, cud-like fashion. Or, think sultry leather-clad mistress, lovingly honing her slaves for Life as it Should Be, with her sharp silken edge. Whichever you prefer.
I sense a little butt prodding is in order - Think cattle. Big, fat, disobedient cattle beleaguered day in, day out by a short, fat farmer, chewing grass in an uncouth, cud-like fashion. Or, think sultry leather-clad mistress, lovingly honing her slaves for Life as it Should Be, with her sharp silken edge. Whichever you prefer.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
The Wanderer Returns!
Ok, so I've been ridiculously slack, and not just with the blog - I've done hardly any writing except journal stuff, which doesn't really count. At first, I admit, I was Embodiment of Sloth. Then I discovered The World and some semblance of a Life - Hey, it can only help me in the long run, right? And spent almost a month in the depths of Borneo and changing my perspective - scary isn't it! And when I got home, well, I kinda moped about wishing I hadn't.
I've been plotting a new chapter for myself - StoryBoards R Us - and at the same time, putting the new me into old situations without somehow losing myself, and am now residing with my folks - long story, which could no doubt sell but is not for public viewing yet. And I've just set up my pc, dug out a new notebook, and a little willpower and spent an hour putting rusty thoughts to paper.
Blood omen may be stationary, but the Creator's back!
I've been plotting a new chapter for myself - StoryBoards R Us - and at the same time, putting the new me into old situations without somehow losing myself, and am now residing with my folks - long story, which could no doubt sell but is not for public viewing yet. And I've just set up my pc, dug out a new notebook, and a little willpower and spent an hour putting rusty thoughts to paper.
Blood omen may be stationary, but the Creator's back!
Friday, May 14, 2004
Wednesday's work
day off on wednesday (!) so I went over to Mark's - you'll probably hear a lot about Mark - God of Inspiration, Sacred Keeper of Grammatical Knowledge, Kitchen Conqueror and Awesome Host. Did a boat load of work on Blood Omen, the latest hatchling. I feel I have redeemed myself after the latest works, a rush-job of a fairy tale. We don't need to go there.
Maya (evil cow) is becoming far too jealous of the Male, and He's becoming clingy. If only they'd listen to the Mother-mind and go where the plot wills. *humph*. It took me three days to get them on the Hopper to escape the arthritic grasp of Fallon (aka Hitler's Granny).
Who said parenting was easy.
Maya (evil cow) is becoming far too jealous of the Male, and He's becoming clingy. If only they'd listen to the Mother-mind and go where the plot wills. *humph*. It took me three days to get them on the Hopper to escape the arthritic grasp of Fallon (aka Hitler's Granny).
Who said parenting was easy.
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