Almost

Lying here without you, I can almost taste your scent

I can reach up

And out

And steal it

Your essence

Your very deepest, darkest essence

Now belongs to me

It is all I can own of you

Here, now

You have me enslaved, ensnared

And I am a willing prisoner

Not for me, however, the cold ball and chain

The heat of our furnace has warped them

Into fine chains of silken-light dreams that settle, glinting,

On my heart

And now, lying here without you, I can almost touch them

A Word's Worth [+...]

Merci. La confusion reste sur la scène, mais il y a une boîte vide dans mon théâtre qui vous attendra.

A Word's Worth

Another combination of words

Or a new set of lyrics

Twisting adjectives to flatter, verbs to hurt

One more noun for what is

Or the next description of what isn’t

The flick of a tongue

The tap of a key

And the flowing, scratching, twirling, stabbing

Exploding lines

Of lead and ink and thoughts

Try, we do in vain, to find a better way

And though actions may speak louder than they

And though a picture may say a thousand

They are my companions, and -

Remember this: the pen is mightier than the sword

So long as one’s wit is sharpened.

Confused

The reading of my heart was your job

Accidentally commissioned to do it, you were relied upon

Every time the numbers changed I got a new sparkle in my eye

And yet suddenly my audience is gone

                    Alone in the spotlight

                    Gazing out at empty seats

                    The plush velvet begins to rot

                    And words start to collapse

Your words still touch me, you know

And I still read your heart, even though it's not my job

And I want to understand the turn of events;

Why the walls of the city fell down.

The Lake Of No Importance

I know it's been a while, but I swore I wouldn't do what I always do and start this without finishing it. So, new post. Huzzah!

Speaking of starting things and never finishing them; I wrote this beginning of something ages ago, and I still have absolutely no idea what to do with it next. Therefore, internet, NOW IS YOUR TIME. I need help...

The rain falls down in sheets of steel on the Lake of No Importance. Thin, grey clouds scurry across the skies, trying to escape as they are replaced with huge, rolling, thunder-bearing versions of themselves. The willow trees creak as they bend to breaking point in the biting wind. And cowering under them is a small boy, violet eyes wide with terror and a dark halo of hair framing a pale, tear-stained face.

I have no more. You get a pickature though. Completely unrelated, of course - just a sketchy self-portrait.

Toxic

So, I finally wrote a new piece that I don't hate and that I managed to finish. This is nothing short of a miracle, so be gentle.

It is about something specific this time, but once again the reader's perception matters more than the writer's. The words should really speak for themselves.

Toxic

The sordid air clings to everything; all-pervading

Swirling, curling, twirling crushed diamond blocks

Streams of red satin and conscience

Laughter and burning eyes

 

We are the life and soul

And the ghost in the corner smiles benevolently

She knows that soon we will touch the sun

And as wings are flicked into a pile of ash,

We fly on

 

With terms of endearment and echoes of youth

One dormant heart now erupts

Tides are turning, and we are suddenly scented

Tainted

 

Eject an apology from a rear window,

And leave for the lamplight-sunrise, far away

Wander across the endless dust to a destination revisited

And finally find, prostrate upon wilting petals,

We linger on

And I Never Understood Really...

No pictures today; I want these words to be concentrated on.

The piece of poetry I am about to present to you is one of my favourite things that I've written. I wrote it a few months ago, I guess, and in a really odd way. I simply put pen to paper and wrote exactly what came out of my mind. This is why I have absolutely no bollocking clue what it's about. But that's good, 'cause it means you can decide for yourselves.

And I never understood really

what time and elegance would bring,

and with it, the soft surrender of darkness

 

My eyes are not yet accustomed to the dim light around them

and so shapes move in colours that don’t try,

and the cool, cut-glass sun streams music onto unsuspecting faces,

upturned and glorious

 

To strive for that day, when man is free –

and woman alike – will come to naught

without the silent tick-tock of the wandering clock,

that sleeps so swiftly

when the neon brights and shining lights are gone

 

The bubbles in the rose-water burst like thoughts and dreams,

and so much else that is fragile and so easily lost,

while machines turn the tide of man

and the warmth of hearts

 

Breathe, for now is when you smile and wonder why

 

The revolutions of every wheel that slaps the backs of innocents

cannot compare to the revolution brewing in the hearts

and minds

and teacups of so many

 

May we one day explode our ugliness,

may we one day throw caution to the wind,

and play with the flames we create

 

May one day the soft beating of the drums warm our souls,

that we make take flight and scratch the stars

 

In their difficult way they gaze their star-gaze, until

with a flick and a kick they spiral away to dance with the gods

Pride & Poetry

'Twas Pride at the weekend (no longer am I a Pride virgin!) and although it was only my best friend and I that were available to go, I had a lot of fun and many pictures were taken, including the one to the right. I have no idea who the arm belongs to, but credit goes to them for waving that flag so well.

Not much in the way of wordiness today, just a wee scrap of poetry-ish-ness that I think complements the picture quite well.

How can you know what I am when I am so lost in time and stars?

We are never far from meaning in our daydreams

We bring the effervescent light of sound; so hard to see

Blinking, and brushing away whirling colours

War On Terror - Chapter I

So, time to start chronicling some story/novel stuff. This is the first chapter of a story I wrote for my English Language coursework last year, and then continued writing because I liked it so much (I only needed to do an extract for my coursework). It's written in the style of Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four or Huxley's Brave New World. Here goes:

Chapter I

It is six o’ clock on a Wednesday evening in early October, and somewhere a young man is walking jauntily down a narrow side street. His eyes are ocean-blue, sparkling with sun-crested waves; thoughts of the girl he is on his way to see. He flicks his freshly washed hair out of his face, and rolls up the sleeves of his regulation white shirt. It is warm for so late in the year. He takes a right-turn towards the city centre, and accordingly, so do his shadows. He is being followed. The youth, whose mind is on more important matters, is blissfully ignorant of this fact and continues to swagger along, whistling broken tunes from times gone by. He walks between two identical rows of tall, sunny-coloured blocks of flats with identical white curtains shut behind every identical square window and breathes in the cool, processed twilight air. He is carefree – confident that Alyce will enjoy his company tonight. She is one of the forgotten generation, like him. Generation X, as they are known. The ones who can still feel the illegal emotion. Joss – for that is the name of the young man – thinks of the way Alyce’s unorthodox spectacles slide down her nose when she is concentrating, and how he laughs at her warnings about Fear. To him, she has always seemed over-cautious; nobody had been Found for months – nobody taken away for treatment to return soulless and empty...

          But thinking about it too much only puts him in more danger – the sniffer dogs could be anywhere – so instead he watches the sun dip behind the skyscrapers and quickens his pace. He ducks into yet another narrow alleyway as he nears the Latin Quarter just outside the city centre. It is without the clean, fluorescent strip lighting most of the rest of the City is continuously bathed in, instead using old-fashioned electric streetlights to illuminate the dingy signs of cafés that still serve caffeinated coffee and bars that still serve alcohol. There are fewer cameras here too. The establishment he is headed to is in a cellar under a fairly orthodox-looking club that advertises the usual vitamin-enhanced beverages and Decaffee. It is a meeting place for those of the forgotten generation brave enough to defy Them, and it is Alyce’s favourite place. There she writes and recites unlawful poetry, sings long-forgotten songs in a low, melancholy contralto, and quietly becomes intoxicated, surrounded by illegal substances such as caffeine and chocolate and the members of Generation X. They who did not come willingly to be treated, unlike their elders, who were desperate for an end to the fear that had stalked them for so many years, and they who did not unknowingly receive the treatment at birth, unlike the infants of now. They are the ones too young to have lived through the horrors of the yesteryears, yet too old to have never felt afraid.

          A soft sound behind him jerks Joss awake from his daydreaming. This is not an advisable area to be in if you are about to be the victim of one of Their ‘random checks’; it would mean an automatic black mark on your personal record. Joss instinctively puts his hand in his pocket to retrieve his ID card, and as he does so there is another sound from behind him; the ominous click of claws on concrete. This is no random check. The creature behind him is one of Their dogs. Suddenly the buildings on either side of him loom menacingly, silhouetted against the dying lights of the sky. He feels a familiar sensation creep up from his stomach to his tightening chest. It slams his heart repeatedly into his ribcage and his eyes widen in panic. Dread courses through his veins and he feels sick with the realisation he is afraid. He knows what this means. It means they want him. This is the War on Terror.

Presenting...

...the words and pictures of me, R. An unimportant sort of person who spends most of her life drinking tea with a pen in her hand. Poetry, essays, emails, articles, pointless prose, blog posts, stories that are mainly unfinished, forum posts, letters, Facebook messages. Digital paintings, sketches, photoshopped pictures, doodles. On my hand, on paper, on tables...and now, on Electric Paper.

J’écris, donc je suis.