Literature

Salt into Soap

By the paper-thin light of flickering shadows

She sinks, against porcelain skin

Eyes unblinkered: closed lids, sore

Her hair a tumble of fragile knots

Lips submerged beneath perfumed foam

Fists bobbing on water like impatient buoys

The muffled sounds of music skim the surface

And without warning she finds herself humming

Frowning lips: half mouthing the words

‘Your love puts me at the top –

of the world’

Night Sprites

My eyes flicker open in lazy surrender

The shadows dance on the wall

Thoughts disappear  as I try to remember

If that really happened at all

 

The shadows dance on the wall

They play on my fears and doubts

If that really happened at all

My brain never working it out

 

They play on my fears and doubts

Those mischievous sprites in the night

My brain never working it out

So I snooze in the gaze of the light

 

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Image: Shadow people

A Promise of Relief

Sleep does not bring relief: you sir, have lied!

I cannot lie down and forget the sight nor sound

As memories of days in my mind abound

My stubborn heart clings to times, she has sighed

Days hauling through weeks, vision denied

Voice growing weary, I sink and you drown

But whisper an echo and I am spellbound

Ethereal you become, though inside you reside

I hunt you in dreams, stalk you as prey

Catch you in situ, suck the warmth from your skin

Hold you entirely, wear your body like fur

Savour your morsel,  alike connoisseur

In slumber, all manner of joy on display

Yet never has  sleep brought relief  therein

 

Deliberation from a Doll’s House

What is life without a voice?

Can’t take a stand,

can’t make a choice.

To hear the words and know the way,

but never have the strength to say.

Wishing your thoughts were always heard,

Wouldn’t that life be so absurd.

Writing Bad

Bad writing is better than no writing, that’s what some people say however they have never read my bad writing obviously. As I type with my awkward slow hands, fingers struggling to hit the correct keys and making mistakes that I know I should ignore yet cannot help to go back and correct..The ‘ in the that’s..the capital in the I, does it really actually matter in the grand scheme of things. I decide that to me that it does, as I begin to hit the backspace key and correct the mistakes so that I no longer have to look at the little squiggles under my words (not that I actually look at my screen whilst typing which is kind of my problem). I could of course just save all those red zigzags up until the end and then auto correct it all yet there is something about them just being there..hovering…waiting…tutting with disdain that my typing is actually this bad…and so too my writing.

It’s the constant flow that is the important thing they say. That constant notion of typing..just something anything. Some random rubbish that pops into your head as you sit listening to the tip tip tap, annoying your own ears with the repetition of sounds and the soft thud of the L key as you hit it and then have to wait for it to …erm what’s the opposite of compress again?.. so you wait for the key to pop back up yet instead it lingers, held down against its will due to repeated drops of coke, trickles from wine spillages and full on torrents of cordial being knocked over and over again. I make a note to be more careful with drinks in future yet it never happens..I just can’t help it, I’m clumsy.

I think I was just born clumsy, I’d like to say that I came out kicking and screaming and was clumsy enough to kick someone in the face which would have made a great entrance story. However I cannot lie, my clumsiness was only my own issue, having gotten so tangled inside that I arrived into the world with a cord wrapped around my neck, no screaming, no kicking but silent..silent and blue.

Maybe this accounts for both my love and hatred of silence.

Yes, both!

Do you ever get the need to just want complete silence, to block out the world and all its annoyances. To get rid of the tapping and clicking, rattling and humming. To do away with the noises of society, the buzz of the lamp post, the clink of the gate, the constant droning of the heater or the washing machine or whatever it is that the upstairs flat dweller has that makes my teeth want to grind against one another. Of course not everyone can hear these things, not everyone notices the slow shifting of the world, the low undulations of life whirring in a constant circle..whirling in my head. And if you cannot hear them you will most likely point out that I am hearing things or have tinnitus or some such infliction because you can hear nothing but the sound of silence.

I would love that, to not hear these sounds that echo in my brain and drag down my thoughts to the paranoia of a basset hound awaiting an intruder. I would love to be able not to hear the flicker of the lights as the computer churns and the whistle from the monitor that can drive me crazy if I don’t catch it early enough.

I would love that silence…until I get it.

Then as soon as the silence comes and no noise can be heard, I am unsettled still. For in complete silence there still exists a slow thud of heartbeat, the soft murmur of being, that something which is overpowering and constant that coats my hearing and needles it’s way… into my soul.

Then I know that I am done for.

I’m only sleeping

Glassy eyes devoured by time

Sweet caress to you align

For years I have sat in silence

Whilst moss enveloped my soul

Tread carefully across my old limbs

My little feathered invaders

For tonight I am only sleeping

Your lips my lips have kissed

Your lips my lips have kissed I can’t deny

I’ve not forgotten your arms in which I lay

Your warm skin under mine til break of day

Nor the rise of your chest as you quietly lie

Until we both move and you softly sigh

And in my cold heart grows a lust I obey

To hold you close so you don’t slip away

Not wanting to hear those words of goodbye

Clinging like ivy, I curl round your frame

Absorbing your heat, the touch of your skin

Breathing your sweet scent fills me to the core

In your absence I yearn for this over again

This flame ignited,it burns from within

A fire to hold me still wanting more

 

 

Inspired by the wonderful Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Unspoken

Ginni bites!

We sit – in silence

It stands between us like a wall of ice,

muffling our low clicking sounds.

It has always been there

That soft, sultry notion of nothingness

It has always been curled around us

watching us go about our days.

Yet it was never visible before,

This silence which squeezes itself into our world

It was never so clear, to the eye,

to the ear.

Never before had it announced it’s presence

so loud.

And now as I breathe in our life

I hear the silence.

It pursues me with bells,

Lights a beacon under my chair,

Forms an exclamation mark in my mind.

I am deafened by the lack of sound.

Yet opening my throat to speak

only produces a soft click …. click

and so is the music of our subsistence.

But turning, I see your smile

glowing in satisfaction.

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To be a real writer

A real writer bleeds onto the page.

That’s what they said.

A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .

Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.

Only then shall I feel like a writer.