Annoyance

The Harpy Upstairs

The high pitched shrill, the clog of feet
Signs of neighbours home
Try as I might, I just can’t write
For bristling at her tone
She squeaks and screams just like a child
That’s tickled constantly
The nasal sound, heard through the ground
Instills a chill in me
I cringe to hear her loud fake laugh
The shrieking makes me growl
I wonder if she’d carry on
If she could see my scowl

It suffocates me

The constant beating of your heart in your chest

Thumping away like hammer drill

Tearing into my mind

Like a paper bag packed to burst

The sound of you breathing

Gruff and rasping

Grating on my ears like fingernails down a blackboard

Smashing my barrier of comfort

Self awareness

It suffocates me

The aura of you hanging

Cushioning me in your rich coat

Scratching at my skin as if you were barb wire

And I were a rusty pan

Voice ringing out like loud whistle

Insulting the very being of me

Forcing me to grind my teeth

Against my lips

Causing me to bleed

Blood filling my mouth as you kiss me

And I swallow

Eyes flat against your love

Drained

From all feeling

Numb to the touch

Yet still you persist

Still you want me

Against all the warnings

Against all resistance

You are here

Waiting for me to return

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.

A dish best served hot

I offered you my heart on a plate
Hot, heavy…heaving
Sizzling full of passion
Yet you refused

It was too much for you
Too rich
Too raw

You just didn’t have the stomach

But with time passing you feel the urge
to re-evaluate
Crave the flesh of desire
Ponder your transformed taste buds
Regret not sinking your teeth into the unknown

So I offer you my heart
Tepid, tired…temperamental
Congealed in place

I wince as you lift the knife

WIP – First Class Overspill

They sit and snigger
Like infants on a fair ride
Clasping greasy brown bags
In their manicured hands
The smell of fat and fries
Wafting down the public car
Following the notes of their laughter
Filling the quiet zone
They should know better
These adults dressed up as men
With Gucci suits
And polished leather shoes
When standing
They wobble
And sway
Until one of them topples
Creating a burst of taunting

This was a part of something I wrote during an uncomfortable train journey, – Still some more to work on though