A virgin countryside
Beneath the charcoal grey,
Whose bottom is alight
Shrouds the valley,
Blanketed in snow
Still and cool and quiet.
Gentle snowflakes kiss my cheek
Sitting fireside, with hominess
Warmed at the hearth of the sky
Hushed, the world, laying asleep
From holy halls, their lullabies
Smile, do the elements,
Their dream is what has become.
And so it is,
A dream, a dream,
Though I am awake
These little souls, their lanterns bright
Hold me to the end, across an endless earth
White in winter’s hollowness
I dream of you for all it’s worth.
Brave, must I, the motherly whitened path
And dream of distant you—
It keeps me warm, fireside
I thank the treasures, soul supplied.
My hearth is cold
With none to share
The brilliance of a chaste expanse
With none to help me stare.
I have a long way to that hearth
That I’ll call my own
The souls, the winter—Carry me home!
Soon, we’ll go
Your hand in mine,
Accoutrements of clothed embrace
We’ll go, so soon
Once I’ve stepped from this dream,
To have heated hearth of our own.
But now, I can’t
I follow the souls’ little lit lanterns
Through the valley in the snow,
I go alone,
In their solemn palms
As they carry my lost one home.
love like just know time feel way pain world heart think eyes day oh night away things words say need left thoughts mind life sun want good inside body lost new true damn light make head beautiful stop free hands right small hard loves today little fuck morning thought sweet moment times bed tell dreams long white truth thing song really skin slowly start deep woods silence lies look better lay sleep realize fall sky memories far gone green breath held room dark doesn't hold dream run thank end past dead open begin knew tears yeah hear cause air blood earth self beauty real days finally care big cool north 10w turn walk lips kiss dawn remember sound making hair fingers felt door water woman black outside large she's let's tiny window face bit speak play slow god teeth smell wish heard rain tired silver great bring wants low there's won't soul got tongue live arms red house close girl years letting note music universe man soon clean trees wood thinks post stolen you've gray clouds home ones hot soft wet hate desire warm trying mom comes longer sea thinking darkness hand shore leaves broken glow fool second knows rock read cold stare feels took father sing bag release crazy stone mouth wake forever dust watch came wanted stand help use place needs brings suppose believe laugh shit seen having ways leave weight perfect stars drive miss higher high ocean feeling memory makes present view page bear wash loss snow hell aware constant magic
Woke up in a darkened room,
with a smell of bitter gloom.
Searching for some kind of light,
no match or lighter to ignite.
Felt around for a switch,
sometimes life is a bitch.
Stuck in a room with no door,
like a canoe with no oar.
Voices I can hear faintly,
all I can do is wait patiently.
Yelling for help with no reply,
left in the dark with no supply.
Not any food, not any drink,
just plenty of time to ponder and think.
In the corner I took a piss,
how did I end up in this abyss.
Hoping this is only a nightmare,
knowing soon, I'll run out of air.
Banging my head up against the wall,
air inflating faster than a punctured beach ball.
As I start to pass out,
I can hear people shout.
Woke up in a puddle of smelly sweat,
it was just a bad dream,
just not my kind of wet.
i don’t care if you’ll never see this. but if you do, here’s what i was thinking about last night.
i love you.
i can’t take it anymore. i’m so head over heels, i’ve fallen harder for you than anyone, i just cannot fucking act like i haven’t anymore. you’re the definition of perfection, the epitome of greatness, the quintessence of beautiful, all of the above, everything, and anything. i get jealous whenever i see other girls, or even guys talking to you. i just want to be with you all the time, or at least talking to you. it’s so hard to express over a simple text post but i’m going to try to. i wish i could just be able to go up to you everyday and kiss you without even thinking about it. you’re amazing. i’ve told you this before but you, first of all, don’t believe me, and second, don’t think it of me, so i can’t tell you to your face. if i could, i would. if i could just have all of you all the time i’d never ask for anything else.
it seems as though “starring role” by marina and the diamonds is a very fitting song. you tell me sweet things (sometimes) when i’m fully clothed but when i get undressed you say them more often. you don’t have anyone right now, and even though that goes against what the song is portraying, i’m still not the “starring role in your heart”.
i swear if you were to stay here things would be different but considering that can’t happen, we’ll most likely never know. my heart breaks just thinking about it, i can’t even bother to, or the salty tears from my eyes will break my keyboard, there’s just so many of them.
i just don’t want to lose anyone else. and if whatever is between us is strong enough to withstand that much of a distance, who knows what could happen.
the funny thing is that once i realized how hard i fell for you, all the past relationships and heartbreaks and current “crushes” or thoughts of flirting, or just even looking at anyone else in a lustful manner just seemed to fade away, and it all happened so suddenly.
if you never see this, oh well. you’ll eventually find all of this out.
and if you do, at least now you know.
if nothing ever came of us, just remember this. you’re my best fucking friend, whether or not i fell for you. if you never feel the same way i completely understand, i probably wouldn’t feel that way about me either. whatever you do in life, i hope it makes you happy. i hope good things come your way, and i hope everything works out for you in the end. you deserve nothing less than perfection, so don’t ever settle for anything.
keep in mind that i’m going to be here every second of everyday, most likely thinking about you and hoping you’ll be doing the same about me. i’m never going to forget you, and i pray almost every night that you’ll never forget me. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. you’re the reason that i’m typing this right now, actually, because if it wasn’t for you i’d be in a casket buried six feet under.
always remember that i love you and i always will, whether you’re here or not.
now is a good time to put my knowledge of pierce the veil lyrics to use.
so, in a literal sense…
without you, there is no me.
These paper cutouts of their lonely lives
Bricks crumble among the uprising skyline
Yet everyone wanders towards the dark hued sky
For questions that are asked with unknown mystery
Sometimes the intrusive thoughts lead nowhere
But I have to know what the world hides out there
Sometimes I wonder if an answer will end my despair
If the undisclosed is yet to become History
Winter, now, from the upper pole
Turns back his face to see no one escapes
While whistling low to minions cold
To curtain lands beneath his icy cape.
Summer's fled now, with her mentor
Autumn in a crisping coat of brown...
Fled southward to the vernal center;
Little sister Spring cannot be found.
Unsettling old white-bearded man
Blowing icicles and snow
Driving tender and aging feminine
Before his storming blows.
Yet for all his windy work, how well we know
Now gloaming sisters shall return,
For Spring shall ever end the snow;
Warm Summer's glow and Autumn's burn
Return, return, return, return.
Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm dirty and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.
It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.
where was I
in Mile end?
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.
I have a scar
For every name
that you called me
I have a scar
For all the times
I was guilty
I have a scar
For thinking I'm worthless
I have a scar
For feeling that helplessness
I have a scar
For wanting to end my life
I have a scar
For failing with a smile
I have a scar
For not knowing what to do
I have a scar
For everytime I missed you
I have a scar
For being forgot
I have a scar
For that piece of your mind
That I never really got
In the moments that are waiting, crisply, to break into floods of
daytime-issues of deadlines and dirty dishes,
In the moments where procrastination is a smile and a fine lie nestled
tight between hope and reluctance
this will happen:
thoughts of warmth, glory and wisdom will flutter
through your spirit- rare beasts, jeweled fruit-flies
waiting to be caught, just as long
10 minutes left
you struggle to hold to you
hours of wonder, days of mirth
all felt that one September night, when the rice had warmed your belly
and softened your eyes
and the sky was kinder reflected in the city drains
because at that particular hour at hand, they were rivers of a foreign land
saturated with dreams and magics-transmuted by the rains.
6 minutes left
caught the last train
home waited behind a line of tired women without eyes
they were trees maybe
or rushes by the river whispering of a home before a
home before this one,
some ancient stony place of arches and pools
i don't quite know
as the tracks beating under made them hard to hear.
4 minutes left- does thought really
cross at 'the speed of god'?
Such lines from plays by beloved men haunt one at the strangest times.
Thus, inspiration once struck, dims.
Thus, the end of the page approaches.
"Thus." cruelly, super-ego laughs.
Thus, work begins.
Anne crutches herself into Sister Paul's office. The nun is sitting in a chair behind a desk, hands folded on the table, eyes stern, lips a straight line. Anne stands before the desk, taking in the huge crucifix on the wall above the nun's head.
- You can sit down, Anne, the nun says, eyeing her firmly, watching the 12 year old girl, as she manoeuvres herself with one crutch onto the chair.
Anne sits down and puts the crutch beside the chair and pulls her red skirt over her knees, covering the stump where her leg had been.
- Do you know why you're here? Sister Paul asks, unfolding her hands, and laying them flat on the desk top.
- No, Anne says, looking at the nun's black and white headdress, the thin features of the face, hawk-like nose.
-There has been complaints made about you, the nun says. She watches as the girl fidgets in the chair, lifts herself with her hands, back further, on the chair. - Are you not comfortable? She asks.
- No, Anne says, My knickers are too tight.
The nun sighs, looks at the wooden ruler on her desk, wishes she could, but knows she can't.
- Complaints made by other children here and staff members, the nun says, toying with the ruler with her fingers.
-What sort of complaints? Anne asks.
-The worse sort: bad language, insolence, rudeness. It has to stop, Anne, do you understand? The voice sounded like grit poured into a bucket.
Anne fingered at her backside. -Ah, that's better, sorted it out now, she says, putting her hands together in her lap. - I can't recall any rudeness, she says, acting miss innocence, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, kind of expression and pose.
The nun looks at the girl and inwardly is glad she never married and had children, especially if one had been like this.
- Sister Bridget says you called her a dried up prune, the nun says, looking at the dark hair and eyes of the child, the insolent way she sits and looks.
Anne frowns.- Me? To Sister Bridget?
-Yes, to Sister Bridget, and Sister Mary says, you exposed your bottom to her when she asked you to take your afternoon sleep. The nun looks at the girl's expression, her frown of brow.
- No, not me, Sister Paul, must have been some other kid's backside she'd seen.
-Are you calling these two nuns, liars?
The girl looks at her hands in her lap, raises two fingers upwards, out of the nun's sight.- No, not liars, just mistaken. We all make mistakes, Anne says, we're all human, after all.
Sister Paul's eyes darken, she grips the ruler tighter, pushes her toes to the end of her sandals.
- And some of the children have made complaints, too, the nun says, the words hard as nails from her lips.
-Ah, you know what liars kids can be, Sister. They couldn't tell the truth if it came wrapped in yellow paper saying, TRUTH. She smiles at her wit.
Sister Paul doesn't smile; her lips tighten, her eyes scan the child, if the girl at been at one of the schools, rather than the nursing home, she'd be well on her way to a sound caning.
- I know children, Anne, and liars, the nun says, eyeing the girl firmly, tapping the ruler on her palm. - You are a liar, and I know you. I have read the reports on you before you came. I was reluctant to take you in, but had little choice. You will behave yourself or be expelled from the nursing home. Is that understood?
Anne senses a fart coming on, but holds it in. - Yes, Sister, sorry Sister. It's my leg you see, it gives me pain, and keeps me awake at nights, and I get tired and I get irritable. She puts on a hurt expression.
The nun sits upright and stiff, an expression of dislike etched on her features.
-We are given pain, by God, for a purpose, Sister Paul says, it is a gift we ought to shoulder and bear with gratitude.
-Like haemorrhoids, you mean? Anne says, fiddling with her fingers, a blank look on her face.
- You know what I mean, young lady, pain in general, not in particular. At that moment the nun feels a great urge to inflict pain on the girl sitting in front of her. She can picture it, the whole scene, the satisfaction.
Anne shifts in the chair, steadying herself. - Can I go now?
The nun sits back in the chair, eyes focusing on the girl, her face straight and stiff as a board.- Your leg has been amputated, so how can it give you pain? the nun says, her words pushed from her mouth as if they were sour.
- Nerve endings, they don't realise the fucking legs gone, oops sorry, about that it kind of slipped out while I was engaged in thoughts, Anne says, looking at the nun's reddening face. - Didn't mean to, it's my leg you see, it gets me all uptight, and wound up like a clock, and then ping! Out it comes.
The nun sighs deeply. The word hammers inside her ears and brain. - I won't have such language, do you hear me, not another rude word or expression.
Anne clenches, the cheeks of her buttocks tightly, to hold in the the coming wind. She nods, gives an expression of remorse, allows her eyes to water, takes out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wipes her nose. - Sorry about that, don't mean to be such a bad girl, my apologises to all. She wipes her eyes, lets herself go, does her acting bit, slumps her shoulders, weeps softly.
The nun is confused, sits up, feels an urge to go around to the girl and embrace her, say, there, there, dear child, but she doesn't, instead she stares at the girl, at the slumped shoulders, at the dark hair, the sight of neck, and wonders what kind of mother she would have made had she married, would she have coped with the nappies and sickness and foul smells and dressing and undressing a baby and the disturbed nights, and a man touching her, and doing things to her. No, she couldn't have married, nor had a child. She sighs and softens, -OK, Anne, lets say no more about it, and she gets out of the chair and walks around to the child weeping, in the chair, and puts an arm about her, feeling the shallow shakes, the sobs, the sight of the one leg, knowing a stump was beneath the skirt. - There, there, calm down, it is all too much for you after losing your leg, I'll have a word with the children and staff and explain about your pain. She holds the girl close to her breast, feeling her there, the catching of breath, the sobs, the shaking shoulders, and plants a kiss on the girl's black hair and head.
- Sorry, Sister Paul, Anne says, between her acted sobs, sniffing, wiping her nose, feeling the fart go away silently, like sneaky hound, all without sound.
The nun feels her heart open and close. - All right, Anne, you may go and rest your leg or stump, she says, going back to her chair and sitting there, watery eyed.
Anne lifts her head, pushes her hair from her eyes, sniffs and wipes her nose. -Thank you, Sister, you're like a mother to me. She pulls herself up from the chair with the crutch, feels the pain shoot through the stump, rubs it, pulls a face. - I'll go and rest it, she says, soft voiced, sobs held in check, head lowered. She crutches herself from the room slowly, sensing the nun's eyes on her, feeling a sense of fulfilment, like passing an audition, and lets the door click gently behind her.
Sister Paul sits and fingers the ruler. Sniffs and coughs softly. Feeling the girl's shoulders in her hands, the gentlest of touches, the sense, momentarily, of being a mother, compassion, concern, yes, it is there, she says inwardly, maybe I might have made a good mother after all had it been God's wishes, even if I had to put up with a man's touch for the duration. Thank God, she says softly inwardly, for my vocation .