Lancaster bore him—such a little town,
Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead
And sends the children down there with their mother
To run wild in the summer—a little wild.
Sometimes he joins them for a day or two
And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near.
They meet him in the general store at night,
Pre-occupied with formidable mail,
Rifling a printed letter as he talks.
They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so:
Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat,
If not at heart, at least on principle.
Lately when coming up to Lancaster
His train being late he missed another train
And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction
After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired
To think of sitting such an ordeal out,
He turned to the hotel to find a bed.

“No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless——”
Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps
And cars that shook and rattle—and one hotel.

“You say ‘unless.’”

“Unless you wouldn’t mind
Sharing a room with someone else.”

“Who is it?”

“A man.”

“So I should hope. What kind of man?”

“I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man.
Separate beds of course you understand.”
The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.

“Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair?
Has he had the refusal of my chance?”

“He was afraid of being robbed or murdered.
What do you say?”

“I’ll have to have a bed.”

The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs
And down a narrow passage full of doors,
At the last one of which he knocked and entered.
“Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.”

“Show him this way. I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not so drunk I can’t take care of myself.”

The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot.
“This will be yours. Good-night,” he said, and went.

“Lafe was the name, I think?”

“Yes, Layfayette.
You got it the first time. And yours?”

“Magoon.

Doctor Magoon.”

“A Doctor?”

“Well, a teacher.”

“Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired?
Hold on, there’s something I don’t think of now
That I had on my mind to ask the first
Man that knew anything I happened in with.
I’ll ask you later—don’t let me forget it.”

The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away.
A man? A brute. Naked above the waist,
He sat there creased and shining in the light,
Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt.
“I’m moving into a size-larger shirt.
I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it.
I just found what the matter was to-night:
I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree
When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag.
I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having.
’Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back,
Not liking to own up I’d grown a size.
Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?”

The Doctor caught his throat convulsively.
“Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.”

“Fourteen! You say so!
I can remember when I wore fourteen.
And come to think I must have back at home
More than a hundred collars, size fourteen.
Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them.
They’re yours and welcome; let me send them to you.
What makes you stand there on one leg like that?
You’re not much furtherer than where **** left you.
You act as if you wished you hadn’t come.
Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous.”

The Doctor made a subdued dash for it,
And propped himself at bay against a pillow.

“Not that way, with your shoes on ****’s white bed.
You can’t rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off.”

“Don’t touch me, please—I say, don’t touch me, please.
I’ll not be put to bed by you, my man.”

“Just as you say. Have it your own way then.
‘My man’ is it? You talk like a professor.
Speaking of who’s afraid of who, however,
I’m thinking I have more to lose than you
If anything should happen to be wrong.
Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat!
Let’s have a show down as an evidence
Of good faith. There is ninety dollars.
Come, if you’re not afraid.”

“I‘m not afraid.
There’s five: that’s all I carry.”

“I can search you?
Where are you moving over to? Stay still.
You’d better tuck your money under you
And sleep on it the way I always do
When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.”

“Will you believe me if I put it there
Right on the counterpane—that I do trust you?”

“You’d say so, Mister Man.—I’m a collector.
My ninety isn’t mine—you won’t think that.
I pick it up a dollar at a time
All round the country for the Weekly News,
Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?”

“Known it since I was young.”

“Then you know me.
Now we are getting on together—talking.
I’m sort of Something for it at the front.
My business is to find what people want:
They pay for it, and so they ought to have it.
Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor—
Feel out the public sentiment—he says.
A good deal comes on me when all is said.
The only trouble is we disagree
In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat—
You know what that is, sort of double-dyed;
The News has always been Republican.
Fairbanks, he says to me, ‘Help us this year,’
Meaning by us their ticket. ‘No,’ I says,
‘I can’t and won’t. You’ve been in long enough:
It’s time you turned around and boosted us.
You’ll have to pay me more than ten a week
If I’m expected to elect Bill Taft.
I doubt if I could do it anyway.’”

“You seem to shape the paper’s policy.”

“You see I’m in with everybody, know ’em all.
I almost know their farms as well as they do.”

“You drive around? It must be pleasant work.”

“It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun.
What I like best’s the lay of different farms,
Coming out on them from a stretch of woods,
Or over a hill or round a sudden corner.
I like to find folks getting out in spring,
Raking the dooryard, working near the house.
Later they get out further in the fields.
Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn;
The family’s all away in some back meadow.
There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes.
And later still they all get driven in:
The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches
Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees
To whips and poles. There’s nobody about.
The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking.
And I lie back and ride. I take the reins
Only when someone’s coming, and the mare
Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go.
I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one.
She’s got so she turns in at every house
As if she had some sort of curvature,
No matter if I have no errand there.
She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am.
It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though.
Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep,
All in a family row down to the youngest.”

“One would suppose they might not be as glad
To see you as you are to see them.”

“Oh,
Because I want their dollar. I don’t want
Anything they’ve not got. I never dun.
I’m there, and they can pay me if they like.
I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by.
Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink.
I drink out of the bottle—not your style.
Mayn’t I offer you——?”

“No, no, no, thank you.”

“Just as you say. Here’s looking at you then.—
And now I’m leaving you a little while.
You’ll rest easier when I’m gone, perhaps—
Lie down—let yourself go and get some sleep.
But first—let’s see—what was I going to ask you?
Those collars—who shall I address them to,
Suppose you aren’t awake when I come back?”

“Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.”

“Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.”

“But really I—I have so many collars.”

“I don’t know who I rather would have have them.
They’re only turning yellow where they are.
But you’re the doctor as the saying is.
I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me:
I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep.
I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door
When I come back so you’ll know who it is.
There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people.
I don’t want you should shoot me in the head.
What am I doing carrying off this bottle?
There now, you get some sleep.”

He shut the door.
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.

i

She isn't thy average
Typical being;
She sit's upon a loft
Only made for a queen.

ii

Her bedstead is mine
We shareth ourn pillow;
I've never been so happy
Her love, pure as a meadow.

iii

A battlement coordinates
Wherein we shalt be protected;
She's spiritually awoken me
Hari and his reyna, ressurected.

iv

I shalt beget her, from her painful sleep
Now she's awoken, her face none more weep's;
Other's shalt Bestir us, from what they can't get
Though we shalt prevail, with love, forgiveness, them to forget.


v

Brigandine silver, shalt dress me in battle
For If beast's cometh close to mine queen, their boot's shalt rattle;
A Gilbertese I wilt carry, known as a shark tooth weapon
Mine Filipino empress is mine all, no faltering, none question's.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/Filipino rose......

I

SWEAR by what the sages spoke
Round the Mareotic Lake
That the Witch of Atlas knew,
Spoke and set the ***** a-crow.

Swear by those horsemen, by those women
Complexion and form prove superhuman,
That pale, long-visaged company
That air in immortality
Completeness of their passions won;
Now they ride the wintry dawn
Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

Here s the gist of what they mean.

II
Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
Whether man die in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
Though grave-diggers' toil is long,
Sharp their spades, their muscles strong.
They but ****** their buried men
Back in the human mind again.

III
You that Mitchel's prayer have heard,
"Send war in our time, O Lord!'
Know that when all words are said
And a man is fighting mad,
Something drops from eyes long blind,
He completes his partial mind,
For an instant stands at ease,
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
Even the wisest man grows tense
With some sort of violence
Before he can accomplish fate,
Know his work or choose his mate.

IV
Poet and sculptor, do the work,
Nor let the modish painter shirk
What his great forefathers did.
Bring the soul of man to God,
Make him fill the cradles right.

Measurement began our might:
Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
Forms that gentler phidias wrought.
Michael Angelo left a proof
On the Sistine Chapel roof,
Where but half-awakened Adam
Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
Till her bowels are in heat,
proof that there's a purpose set
Before the secret working mind:
Profane perfection of mankind.

Quattrocento put in paint
On backgrounds for a God or Saint
Gardens where a soul's at ease;
Where everything that meets the eye,
Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
Resemble forms that are or seem
When sleepers wake and yet still dream.
And when it's vanished still declare,
With only bed and bedstead there,
That heavens had opened.
Gyres run on;
When that greater dream had gone
Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
Prepared a rest for the people of God,
Palmer's phrase, but after that
Confusion fell upon our thought.
V
Irish poets, earn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the peasantry, and then
Hard-riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into the clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irishry.

VI
Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!

Fresh from the lathe
Your bedpost pillar stands
In support of the canopy above

A quarter of the strength needed to Elevate You upwards from the
Floor below

A wooden column polished and
Created to collect
Hurt souls in notches

A monumental mast to be
Molded by martyred men
Out of love for You
-•-

So it begins
It's first nick comes as
A scar that dents the fine finish
An eyesore incision

The same as trash to treasure
One mans pain becomes
Your pleasure portrayed as
A slash across the room

Etched so deeply
The engraving as an epitaph for
A damaged embrace of failed love

With chisel in hand
You prepare Yourself to
Chop and hack Your way
Through honest men's lives

Consuming all in a
Sculpting effort to find what
You are truly looking for

Unknowing Your actions are a
Mere aimless diversion from
Living and existing as
Your own shallow self
-•-

This is just the start
As more come and go
Loving hearts are carved in
One by one and staked down to
Your ground

Chipping and scratching away
Bits of wooden passion
Fall in flakes and splinters that
Gather to cover the carpet

With good looks and a shiny smile
The gaps in Your picket post grow
Gashes that grind down and
Gnaw away with sharp selfish teeth

These grooves are reflective of
Your own emotion
But You refuse to let Yourself
Slow the pace until
You have reduced this
Upright support to a skinny stick

Your bedstead now an homage to Constantly diminishing attempts to
Shape Your life in love
-•-

When will You be satisfied that
It's finally been cut down to size?

Each slice doesn't change the score
Every sliver shaved away leaves Your heart
Your will
Raw and sore

Trimming little by little
Allowing hearts to crumble
A work of art You've whittled in a
Destructive stumble through
Crushed people

The indentions You've made
Are what have disintegrated
Your shame

You've let them erode
Eat and wear away
Weaken and grind down
Your heart and souls true desire to
Devote Yourself to
Just one man who will stay

You thought You could never align
With a single indent for all time

Now do You would realize that
You should have waited to
Watch what You'd been
Creating all along?

The bed has collapsed
Your bedpost is now
A jewelry box
-•-

Kneeling in reverence
Apprehensively opening the lid to
Reveal its contents

You find nothing except emptiness
The same as the
Company of the room You're in

No more places to tally tick marks
No more hearts left to hurt
No more bodies remain to
Cut and burn

Let the leaning sleep and the
Loneliness serve as a
Reminder of Your reckless abandon

No ring will ever reside in Your box
Your finger will be bare forever

As punishment for Your
Torment and misery
Anguish and agony
Sadness and suffering in
Perpetual heartache

A box from a bedpost
                 </3

The old iron bedstead makes a good bed at
the bottom of the white cottage garden,and
out from it sprouts,
stinging nettles and a solitary tiger lily,
a filly among the rough,
nature can be cold hearted and tough.

Nesting in an old tub underneath a mulberry bush,
a blackbird sings songs in the morning which longs
to be older,
and an old well now dry but once wished upon by
ladies in crinoline
sits and silently cries out its thirst.
This was the garden to be in the cottage where we
had such sadness and joy.

Many years pass and the footpath falls under the fast rolling weeds,
the cottage now empty is still and
surprisingly white as if
the passage of years has been a delight.

Strange though that I still go to meander,
pander to melancholy in the place where
we kissed under mistletoe
so long ago.

Rain pounding on the roof wakes one in slumber
A toss in the bed to grasp for warmth from the covers
Fire in the chest of longing fueled by memories strong
A ring hangs on the bedstead in reminder of a song

Memories of warmth sooth the fire give aid to sleep
A smile spreads across the face breathed by peace
Vacant place still in waiting to be filled by a touch
A simple remedy for the lover who is near not far

Letter’s lying on the floor from the previous day
A pen with paper waiting eagerly to send care far away
One more day with promises  for the famished heart
A love so strong with busy hands for ones kept apart

Lover across the sea or land fighting for thy country
A hand is waiting a God is guiding for desire is of His making
One in waiting for the homeward message stand by proudly
A strength unknown is aiding the wait for one cared for fondly

And so it came to pass that I was offered a floor in a room in the elevator winding mechanism shack which was on a corner of the roof of the Edicifio Ganem. This was an elegant nine story tower that had been built in 1948 in the middle of the old city in Cartagena de Indias in Colombia. The rent was a dollar a day and I was entirely responsible for me and mine. The elevator worked sometimes; if it did not it was a long slog around and around and up and up the interior staircase till one got to the top.
The views from the roof were superb in all directions. The sunsets were shared with God.  When the trade winds blew it was “cool” meaning the breeze evaporated your sweat. It was never less than 90 degrees whatever season of the year. In the rainy season it rained and for those people from more temperate countries the rain was a wonder.  On one occasion I was caught out in it and survived only by steepling my fingers over my mouth so that I could breathe. But it cleaned the streets wonderfully and even washed the cucurachas away in the drains for a while until they returned no doubt well refreshed after their swim.
There were drawbacks of course, chief amongst these were these same cucurachas which are the insect kingdom’s equivalent of ninja warriors. These four inch invincibles could sprint, walk up walls and across ceilings, swim and fly. They were also difficult to **** since their carapaces were thick and shoe resistant. I found in the end a delicate touch with a mallet was best. If one hit too hard the body would burst and a mess would ensue; not hard enough and the nuisance would scuttle away.  Once killed the body would be kicked aside and the night staff cleaner ants would move in and eat the husk clean.
Again being entirely responsible for me and mine meant that I had to buy my own bedstead. Iron of course with iron legs and metal springs and a mattress all brand new and all hopefully bedbug free. The iron legs would each stand in a can of kerosene which was the ant and cucuracha moat. I was late to this concept of insect defense and only adapted it when I woke up one night with a cucaracha in my mouth having a drink.  I sought advice from my “landlord and ”landlady” and was told to go to a man in the mercado - market -  who sold empty cans; I had always wondered about this obviously niche trade and was very happy to go there and be advised on the right width and depth to create the necessary defence. Four cans and a litre of kerosene and I could sleep free from attack.

The iron bedstead creaked and the buckets underneath the leaks up in the ceiling gave us a feeling, of being on a movie set,
the flicker of light from the candle,waxed magnificent across the film of grime,a window to another time,a line up in the make up shed,the freshly made up bed,everybody said,
'down in the Hacienda where the cockroaches defend ya, against the desert rats,where nocturnal bats then eat the desert rats,you'll feel at home,

No coffee bar,no public phone,no concierge,you're all alone and feeling tender and that is life down in the Hacienda.

We took a walk through tumbleweeds and in this town that leads us to despair,we found we did not care,we two, were already there,at the end,where cockroaches could not defend against the things that lived within,the sin that kept us pinned against the ropes,the hope we had against all hopes that somehow we'd escape,be free,could settle in obscurity.

This Hacienda is the place where you must meet your demons face to face,unearth the things you'd rather not,
down in the Hacienda is where we learnt a lot,stopped the rot,oiled the bed,noted what was said,
but it's hardly worth it going to, the Hacienda just to view,you have to go and do,to see and be the changes that are made,
and as the Hacienda fades into another scene and plays into another screen,I lean across to her to share a kiss.

She waits behind the bedstead
as a young boy falls to dreams
Though he cannot see her
she keeps him safe from screams.

Her one and only purpose
to bring him, finally home
that one day, when his time comes
his heart won't stray or roam

And softly in a golden glow
old eyes will see her there
a weathered hand placed inside hers
he leaves without a care.

Behind him on the bed
an old man lies in state
as a young heart travels with her,
his Angel, who did wait.

Lin Cava©

5 a.m. had surfaced
Weary I ascended from my bedstead
Keen I rose the first of many cancer sticks
to the sleek rift of my lips
Oh, how the flavor of fresh, young smoke
Knocked at the base of my esophagus
Caressing my uvula with infinitely
Unfathomable mountains of beauty

The museum was deserted at mid-noon
The summer sun more than his taste for history
Drove him in for a stroll among the dead faces and objects.

His eyes caught the two warnings
Photography prohibited and
Don’t touch objects

He furtively cell-clicked Dupleix’s Bed
Solid 18th century teakwood
Carrying stains of his passions on white linen
Imprinted with the motions of his emotions

There he saw the ruler on the bedstead
With tender touch of fingers on his head
One svelte hand on the dark wooden stand

His hand involuntarily touched the wood

A small chunk fell into his hand
And without a second thought
In a forbidden impulse
He shoved it inside his pocket

He came out from the musty smell into the sun

A chip of Dupleix in his pocket
His passion’s outlet
Escapes from the ravages of war
To find solace
From the tender hands around him
Bought by force of wealth
Far far away from home.

Away from colonial past he breathed deep

The little wooden chip would be a memorable keep!

He likes pretty blondes with painted faces.
Long legs, open purses.
Smiles wide, teeth a little like diamante.
Superficial features, almost made of wax.
Melting in the summer's heat
Hot bath makes her glisten.
Friends told her but, she wouldn't listen.

He's just a user, an abuser.
An amuser, who plays with himself regularly.
He'll scribble his name on your bedroom wall.
Reminds you, he's been there before.
Keeps a tally graph, inside his bedroom drawer.

He'll etch his name in scented blood upon your bedstead.
While you're playing with his head.
He'll play with yours as well instead.
In and out of opening doors.
Never ending flirting circles.

Wanted yet another lover, found a blonde.
Another one with a melting face, made out of wax.

You love him, you pay.
That's the only way.
For in the coldest light of day, the plain girl with the auburn hair skin one lovely gets his care and makes his day.
She's another sucker.
Being played as always, by her ever loving leech.
(c)Livvi

I did it momma, I stole the candy bar
from your bedstead, so let my brothers and sisters go,
yes, I am the youngest, and I give myself up
don't whup them no more
I eat it and proof, is in the pudding
for I found out it was ex-lax,
so whip me all you want.

We drove, down to the place where a ghost-forest slumbers as fossils on a silent beach.

To the tiny house: two-up, two down, only one way in. There may have been a piano. There was definitely a small, hard narrow sofa and the kind of paintings popular in care homes.

Playing ‘house’, we nested, in bed by eight with the portable TV - ignited into life from its hiding place beneath the stairs - balanced on a rickety, ring-marked side table, the varnish long worn through.

Watching Saturday night game shows, but not really watching.
Acutely aware of the space between us, your arm touching mine, tiny hairs meeting nervously before began the careful rituals of first interaction.

And. I never did ask you, how or why.
All sense of purpose faded with the dusk as the scythe of May’s cloudless moon unveiled herself to keep watch. Our chemicals clouded and mixed together.

Those mornings were fresher than any since, feet dappled in dew to collect the milk, with a sky so clear my heart aches to think of it now. A sense of something breaking and spilling warmth.

Flatness surrounded us on all sides in an absence of remarkable geography. A view of forever, greenly laid and pocketed over gentle Sussex’s motherly folds.  

I don’t recall us faltering upon the path, laid clear and ever-lasting.
It was to be for all time and, for nine-and-a-half months, it was.

Secrets abounded; what became of those diamond rings we shall never know. Great and glassy, boiled sweets of riches that vanished years later under a dark and terrible history.

Back then, they rested. Hatchlings of a future wealth that eventually eluded us.

I regretted every second of our hiding in that place. Each little step of second a tiny slice of time disappeared of holding you, of holding onto you.

Whenever I hear an old bedstead creak, I remember.

When hung in that moment between sweet spring and the blast furnace of summer, I….

And when the curved bone of May’s dying moon slices the speck of heaven high above me, I sleep with the curtains wide open to her voyeuristic gaze.

The boogey man is not a man,
But a monstrous cavity in the minds of the men.
Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What deamon, boggle, hobgoblin the bedstead-dark holds?


Eyes are sticked on the darkness,
Noble nowhere: the wide pupil is seeing far less,
While the truth is under your nose:
Thousand lies' eyes lie upon you that no one knows now.


Spiders? Rat snakes? What's hidden there?
No one knows and no one cares by-chance you barely dare;
It's you and your mind - your demons
Who barely care - its self-destruction deepens itself.


Dark room, wardrobe and under-bed;
Darkness dwells in none of among them, but in your head.
Empty-headed pics of crassness,
Made by no boogey, but an ignorant's recklessness.


Put away your holy water;
No need for illusive Jinn-conjurer Gin-tonics.
Darkness knows one weapon: homage;
Nightmares can be killed only through the light of knowledge.


Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What morbid poison, what fearful drug your brain cells hold?
Embrace no torch, no crucifix;
The thirst of knowledge dries out every grim-naughty pics.

good, our first catch of the day has shined away
awoken on a dreamy bedstead made of fluffy plume
feeling your delicate body weaving softly with mine
touching your sensitive breaths with my face
pushing your lips to mine and feeling your taste
life of lovers, dreamers of forsaken history




so meek, so mellow, you are my special mistress




memories, like scars, will never fade away
so i'm here, sitting alone, but don't worry
i'm feeling fine, the heart is bandaged gently
like your soul, it mayhaps will never be healed
but you gave me the memories i cannot forget
and i want to thank you, even if you hate me

you can tell me about that long dark path home
and lead me somewhere else where i'll wander
in research of your heart, of previous you
for the lady that has pierced my heart with arrow
for the lady that made me realise what real love is
and for you, you helped me find the right path




i sat silently, smiling to myself, drinking last bit of my wine
the memories came back but i don't regret the choices anymore
i think you and i will do better, separated, aloof from each other
i still love you but i hope you will find the right person now

Every waking hour
and every living moment
suspended in reality
is the truest nightmare

for I am now awake
and the dream is not over
the ceiling is a flash of white
the outside world a breathless scream
there is no truth to it
yet it comes back to haunt me
in a house that is not my home

in the days and years
with every sun and moon
I have done everything
faced the dark side
burned every bridge
there is no rhyme or reason
a simple melody
the littlest things to numb the pain
and so it persists still
gone but not forgotten
twisted in its nature
a personal purgatory of sorts
a hand clenched ever so tightly
around my throat
or perhaps it is only
a faceless demon
crawling in my skin
stalling my every move
a devil on my shoulder
and ironically so
it feels right

for I am not the hero of this story
never have been
the life as I know it
has never been kind
in the desire to take
what could never be mine
an ordinary life
an easy way out
so instead I took lives for myself
for money
for prestige
for infamy
and I deserve every nightmare
as there is no way out at all
I cannot take it back
or start all over
it is too late
I’ve come too far now

I say so to myself
a chaotic mantra
echoing within these empty walls
so why am I trembling?
I have no fear
and I have no faith
I have faced death
but I will not go anywhere

how could I believe in
the faintest sight of Heaven
if life put me through Hell?
The merciful one cannot exist
for my only companions
are the demons from the past

and yet
there is fight left in me
I will not bury myself
in the guilt and shame
this bedstead is not
my tombstone
or my legacy
I am still alive
I will step out into the world
and dip my toes in the sunshine
I will not give up
not ever
not now.

wander I will
eyes to a northern star
alone, again

nine days gone of heaven's gift
a rift in the new
curtains.... show

me time, make a place
where the moon
graces my face

where a slice of life may be eternity-
a day....like her cries in the
dark nights

bothered flames of
bedstead candle
wicks

like the breeze of a day coming
cold and shallow
as my world

come Saturday
afternoon
shall make lights grow dim

but hearts fire grow
in all distance
in memories

glance

I thought you were gone
Closer than the most distant star yet
Further than any constellation
Lost in space, floating
Somewhere along the bedstead.


But then
I realised that it was not disinterest
Because even though loving you was a frozen lake
Melted awake with every touch of your fingertips
To you, loving me was the sight of sea
In which just being side by side was as natural as breathing
Or the waves gently washing ashore.

I will be your calm before the storm
The quiet moment before the waves come crashing down
Tearing apart our illusions of the peace
And the sunshine on ice.

You, my dear, are a ****
You flaunt the fact that
You flout the rules
That other people live by.

You smoke and drink and swear blue air
Truck drivers learn new words from you.
The ones who are not boffing you
Are writing your name on men’s room walls.

You, my dear, are a *****
Society’s precepts mean nothing to you.
A wedding ring is but a challenge;
Another notch on your bedstead.

You pose and you preen
And you bat your eyelashes
But on a coming day not too far away
You’ll finally get your comeuppance.
           ljm

and silk sheets
cocoons of pillows
covers and quilts
edges sanded off
the bedstead smooth
all prepared
for you

Within a few moments after awakening, and still lying in my bed. i watched, as a strange looking creature flew about me. it was no bigger than a dormouse, and it appeared to have some strange webbing, in the shape of a funnel, caught on its wings, and one thin thread of this, was hanging down, and was caught on my bedstead.
So firstly, i tried to release the thread that had anchored it, as i gently pulled the creature in, like a kite, and spoke gently to it, so as not to cause it to panic. as i pulled it closer, i began to realise, that what i had at first thought was funnel webbing caught onto its wings, was actually part of the creatures body, growing from it's wings. the creature gently landed on my quilt.
Upon closer inspection, the head of this creature seemed to be similar in shape to that of a crossbreed of a kitten, and a dormouse, and i had to admit, i was overcome by its cuteness, but also perplexed at its strangeness!
It then made a sound, which again aroused some more deep curiousity, as it sounded much like between the appearance, a purr, and a squeak. The funnel web attached to its wings, was slightly tacky, so presumably could catch insects mid-flight, within this web, but i saw no evidence to support this theory, as you would a spiders web.
Its wings were similar in appearance to that of a butterfly, and the same colour as the rest of its body, a kind of translucent magnolia. but its eyes, oh, its eyes! these were a multitude of swirling colours, and seemed to float within their sockets, as though in orbit, and their depth seemed infinite.
Although this creature seemed alien to me, and perhaps was in some way, or had come through a portal from a realm of the fae, i was initially tempted to photograph it, then decided it would be wiser not to, as it would be hunted down, captured, pinned down in some science lab, and, or a specialist dish served up with oysters, or caviar, or caged within a zoo, or some such thing, and i had not the heart to be responsible for such a thing
Instead, i opened up window, and let the cool September air filter in, and i saw the creatures ears twitch, as it purred, and squeaked, whilst gently taking flight. it then flew around me thrice, before flying out of the window, into a ray of sunshine, then suddenly, it was gone.
When i went back to the bed, and looked at the part of the quilt it had rested on, i noticed a small circular webbed shape object there, no bigger than a pea, and at first thought, that i suppose even fantastical creatures have to poo somewhere! but then realised that it was some kind of egg that had been deposited, lain there. so with care i placed this upon an old gold coloured, silk tie, and some hidden instinct told me to do no more than this
I checked it regularly, and was amazed at how quickly it grew, and by the time i'd gone to bed, it had grown from a small pea to the size of a marble.
Yet when i woke up next morning, it had gone! i searched everywhere for it, and was completely puzzled as to what had happened to it, or if it had escaped the flat, how? as my windows were closed. i puzzled over this for many days, but supposed after all, it could quite easily have some kind of magic, in which case nothing should surprise me.
What i hadn't realised at the time, was that during my sleep, it had separated into small parts, and gently entered my mouth, as spiders are sometimes known to do, and i'd swallowed this. and slowly roots began to spread within me, linking up these small parts, within my own body, and within a few weeks, i'd noticed strange growths appear on my back, but they caused me no pain, and weren't even itchy, and within a month had formed into wings. and in the deep of the night, i would venture out, and fly around the town! no-one seemed to see me do this, and after a week of practice, i soon took to taking off from my balcony, it was truly exhilarating!
Then on my birthday, in early November, the creature appeared in my room. this time it spoke, and offered me the opportunity to join it, in its distant realm, but would not tell me where this hidden world was.
I have now left this world, and leave this 'tale' to explain my disappearance, be sure to know, that i will relish this new world, but will also miss my loved ones, friends, and family very much, farewell, or perhaps only adieu

by Jemia