Tightroped

Tightroped

I treaded carefully

Upon the Tightroped leaves.

But the shadowed weeds

Caught me by the ankles.

Biting into my Dimpled Feet,

They bled with laughter,

They wouldn’t let me go.

 

I smiled at the worms,

As they slid into my shoes.

I’ve never had such Friendly Neighbors-

who bathe in the rainwater of

Demonic Smiles.

 

God laughs too,

But mines the last.

 

 

 

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Puzzling muzzle.

So through snide remarks

A sharp smile bites your spiteful words

Apart.

 

Like a dog, with a beautiful muzzle,

The sparkle, the dimple, hides his

Carnivorous appetite.

 

Those sharpened ‘canines’, ready for

Something red to tear apart;

Your dimple. Thread by thread.

 

Skin deep

Skin loose

Skin thin

Skin clinging on to mean utterings,

For the noise of words and a break from silence.

 

For silence, bleeds the skin drier and quicker,

Then spiteful spit’s percussion drums,

Keeping that bleeding pumping organ

Alive.

 

Feel that beat.

Feel that beat quicken.

As you strap on your lousy muzzle to fight;

Leather latches tighten around your clenched jaw.

 

Strap goes snap.

Scratch away at his skin too

Blunt nails still scathe

(even temporarily, teeth chipping away,

bit by bit

jaw by jaw)

Temporary bites soon turn to scars.

 

Till you hear his purple red vessel pulse in your palm

Quickening to a silence.

Then you know, the job is done.

21st century husband.

So, what if you just swiped left on the potential future love of your life?

Shit.

Can’t go back, unless I pay £3.39 a month.  Paying to meet my future husband feels so cheap but surely it’s worth it?

What do I tell the kids?…

‘I swiped left on your father at first, because photographic evidence of his face didn’t initially captivate my attention in the two seconds that I had to subconsciously decide whether or not to swipe left or right and spend the rest of my life with him.’

Ah these life situations really do test your reflex skills and determine whether or not you’re more of a fight or flighter- I wonder if Darwin would have ever used Tinder? I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where he got his theory of evolution from. I mean, the men, just grunting for sex, like apes, barely capable of starting conversations unless aided with a mediocre meme or just a simple four lettered ‘Hey’

‘‘H.E.Y.Y’’…

to seem cool and not too invested but not too dis-attached; not too far a fetch from a bunch of cheeky baboons after all.

Swiping left or right, supposedly, subconsciously, determines whether or not to fall madly in love or to not, but to pass safely on the danger of being

Just another hook up.

Or kidnapped.

 

Either way, I either dodged a bullet or dodged the love of my life.

But aren’t’ they the same thing really?

And so, I didn’t pay my £ 3.39 a month out of the hopes of meeting my future husband.

I’d rather spend that on a box of ‘Wasabi’ sushi instead, because it will never fail to make my heart skip a beat as I devour its deliciously, delicately wrapped salty and savoury contents, which with a zing of green wasabi sauce sprinkled on the side, sends a wringing sensation of fire through my burning

mouth.

And, if that wasn’t enough, I know it’ll never be just a

One-night stand.

For there are many ‘Wasabi’s’ open which I can return to at any given time, between 8 am and 9 pm in London: Hammersmith, Chelsea, Oxford circus…

50 shades of seaweed any day over a potentially grey

 future husband who will only end up

cheating on me or, being a

massive, boring cunt.

So sushi for one it is again tonight.

£3.39 wisely spent.

 

Moonlit reawakening at Midnight

  Midnight stars shone as her body fell backwards into the moonlit waters of her mother’s womb. Floating weightlessly into the vast sea, as waves carry limbs in and out; currents dictating in which direction the milk skinned body travels, a peaceful coffin ready to be sucked in. Dark pools of reflected stars, drown in their own milky way of her pale skin, nakedly free from the ‘civilised’ oppression that is disguised in the name of ‘fabric’. A body re-born, baptised amongst the assembly of fish and lemon grass seaweed, dancing in a waltz beneath her feet to the sound of classical guitar played two feet down the beach, yet refusing to become tangled amongst her flesh. As hazel eyes hover to meditate on the sky, stars naturally become the ceilings décor, natures painting lit amongst God’s smile.

   Meanwhile, an atheist sways back into believing in something simply more. However why should this magnificence of science not be enough?

  All sound deadens, as water crowds into ear drums and droplets of sand particles accompany the melody of her thoughts; a discordant minor, majored by the dribbling bubbles of nemo fish and the distant strums of an Italian 80’s ballad. As little suns flicker in the black vortex above, one becomes magnificently insignificant. But that is all there is, and somehow it is enough.

Changing eyes

Can eyes really change colour in the span of just a day? Can brown flicker into green, then into a meaner gray?

Can pupils which spun as wide as orbits shrink into the smelly size of a small , mundane plug hole sink?

I think. I do not think. I think. All those empty thoughts swirl down your throat along with your midnight drink.

For to see those eyes of hazel brown; for to see those small jewels of earth and bark stare into your own- would lift the furrowed brow from that aged face.

One more look, although never will a glance suffice.

 

One Breath

One Breath

 

Inhale (slowly)

As the old man hunches over at his desk

And cries escape, whist aging solid beams

Crumble under his stone body.

 

Inhale (slowly) now,

As Felis Catus claws scratch at young child skin

And fragile wings whimper at the stroke of his silver scythe.

Preparing now, for its jellied membrane to face his instrument of

Love.

 

As tweezers pull apart the delicate strings of her laced corset body

Watch patiently,

Watch graciously,

As the white blood pours crumpled little stars onto the brick brown desk

And the tangled mesh of rainbow pattern deflates in seconds.

Exploding in unison, with the wilted candle flame,

Burnt out by the dancing wind.

 

Its neon tinted ashes-

Remnants of those clipped fairy wing-ed bones,

Which were not blown in an instant

But rather tortured in his dusty chamber.

 

Stretched to a plasticine consistency-

With little, gentle stabs, pricked, daggered into the center of

Her heart core.

 

Now,

Stare through his metallic frames, to pierce the depths of his enjoyment

Watch his blubbering black beads of ecstatic eyes

Carefully observe his pulsing, pea-sized pupils

As they enter the thrill of it all.

 

Simply aroused by its (silent) suffering and

the beauty of its

last

breath.

 

As it rests now (finally) in the glass coffin.

Exhale.

 

‘Bigly’

usa-flag

You say ignorance is bliss,

but sometimes it’s the hiss of a gun

being reared up with thick bullets

waiting to be fired into the neat, pretty, white holes

of tasty empty heads.

Such a pretty victim, such an easy one.

But just you wait, for the blood to run down those outer city streets,

until they trail right into your home.

But they all say how juicy it is

when you get to the bone.

Such delicate marrow for teeth to sink into

as cries blow outwards.

Baby

You wanted her to call you Daddy
even though you’d never be her Father

You wanted her to be your baby girl
But all you did was push her to grow up faster

‘Princess’           ‘Princess’

She wanted to be your Princess

Not some ragged, rotten, rascalled, enslaved
Damsel in Distress

And when you tied her up
You tied yourself down

Revealing how you’d never be able to
reach your thin, spindly fingers
up to the jewels in that crown
which you so wanted to wear
to be her king.

But, we all change our minds some day

And as she coughs, she tries
to push out the virus
Those little dots of green
to match the lining of her little dress.
So she can feel space within her body
So she can feel something but your
Dirty Fingers- stuck up inside HER….
Throat.
Crawling in and out
as they try to replace that Dummy
which she never had
and which she never needed
but which she now desires

Raising this blank canvas now to show
the picture, that he wants it to

But Daddy, you are no Rotcho
and neither am I your muse-
Turn to the bleach blonde straw
stack of hay instead
she’ll bend and do what you want her to.

So go
Leave your Baby
to grow up
on her own.

And chuck those faulty training wheels
to the side
For your baby’s made up her mind.

Chips for two

A tragedy, in other words, of love

Two candle lit faces dance in the mesanscence of the café where

Children writhe in their seats; babies cry from their high chairs, man and wife, boy

and girl, boy and boy, hold hands across the wooden block upon which their elbows so rudely rest.

Smoke from the kiln in which crust and dust mingles into the room, burning to the brim of the invisible incense stick- its just their breath.

Savouring the sweet salty combination of their words- aromatic, acrobatic with his wit and with her judgement,

Lingering on their savoury thoughts.

A swift gesture of the hand as yellow speckled stars of parmesan

Decorate the delightful dish, made by gentle wrists as taste buds touch the terracotta plate. Her eyes envious forever of his eyes- opposite

so blue. so marinely exquisite. so true.

From that moment the incarnation was made complete,

as the hearts ribbons unravelled down towards the street. Waltzing cells searching for hotels, empty without the two, an appetite unsatisfied, oh to filled with you.

First

Grey sleeves, catch on tops

Strings unravelled, tied in a knot

Buttons opened, tight, now closed,

A secret entry, for only us two to know.

Pristine white, crumpled grey

Stained with fire- liquid, nay-

Tear drops of youth, quenches their thirst

Exciting passages, will always be her first.