Bardic pretensions aside
I am full of dejection
Blue devils plague me
Night and day
Playing with my mind
Circles of thought constantly turning
Whirling and whirring
Worthless, self loathing, aggression
Manifests along with tears and
screams, let me go, let me leave
but, you won't.
Pop a pill, then you'll be less
Possessed, but I'll still be depressed.
It's not a tap, I cannot turn it off
Do you think I want this?
Remembering sunnier days?
My life event of being diagnosed with MS
caused this, do you not think I want it to go?
Stressed, bereft, dispossessed you call this life?
I am enmeshed by a web of my own brains doing.
Descending faster than a broken elevator
down, down, down all the way to the bottom.
If I hear that the only way from down is up
I will scream, and scream, fight and bite
Scratch and holler until I am a hollow husk.
Oh, no wait, I'm already a hollow husk of a human.
All I want is to disappear down the rabbit hole.
Un-whole, lost in the twilight zone."

Cloaked in anonimity she walks the halls
Cloaked in solitude and an aura that repels
She walks in heels, clipping the wooden floor
She is an enigma, she is known, she is the girl that no one knows
Knowing her is a privilege, it means she acknowledges you
You, look at the long hair dyed to hide, her lips painted to entice and repel.

The blood red lips, black hair, heels and sneers, cloak her
Talk to her and she may answer, she may just walk on
Ignoring the occasional stare she melts into herself
*****, is whispered, she inwardly smiles, searching for a face
She wants to be new. She wants to be herself.
She wants to be alone, she wants to be in a group
She wants to be somewhere new.
She wants to be with him, but, she never will
She knows the meaning of being lonely
It's her cloak.

The smile on my face is for no one but me
A mirror, a smile, as wide as can be

Take a look at its curve, a half moon of red
You’d never believe all the things that it’s said

You’d never believe how easy parting lips can be
The sound of satisfaction, lapping at me

Go to bed with a smile, go to bed sated
Never go to bed with a smile unabated

Dream deep this night and don’t take fright
When I visit you in Lethe with my lethal red smile

Reflecting on life, on becoming a wife
Constraints of a marriage
That will end in a carriage
And me in the back boxed in
Awaiting the ground all damp and brown
A coffin with flowers atop
Flowers not in the ground growing,
But, dying and withering along with the cadaver
Already dead, already going off.

Do you think of the body in the box?
Do you reflect on a life that is lost?
Or do you just turn up on the day
Stare at the display, and know sooner than you think
It'll be you in a box, full of stink?

I consider perfection a collection,
a collection of never to bees
buzzing over ridges, known as
wrinkles.
Singletons looking for systems in
order to find
the right one
Not the right now
Millions of kisses going amiss
Reclusive, exclusive people
unobtrusive civilians, waiting for
the impulse to collect and recollect,
the calluses of love.

We are the tellers of our own story
The makers of our own destiny
We are the sharers of a cast
The cast of us
A stellar reservoir of superstars
We don't appear in magazines
We are the figurines that stand in life
Watch dreams get smashed to smithereens
We follow the theme of living, occasionally giving
Kissing,wishing,missing,loving,kicking,killing
Anatomicall­y the same yet unwilling, fearing living
Whilst each of us unique we all are composed of stars
We all hold within us the chic mystique of being human.

Murdered, disappeared, lost
What would be the cost if I just ceased to exist?

Did I cure the common cold?
Did I succumb to becoming old?

The answer would be no, but this you already know.
The cost would be that I'd lost you.

He loves me
I love him
He annoys me
I annoy him
I hate him
He hates me
I need him
He needs me
I want him
He wants me

We don't want anything
Or anyone
We don't need help
We don't want sympathy
My disease is our disease
Dr's call it MS
I call it love
He knows where the door is
He is his own person
It takes more courage to live than die
He and I know this, we together are invulnerable.

Every night before I sleep I pray his love is mine to keep.

We are born, with nowhere to go but into death's arms.
Milestones lay ahead to meet us as we get older.
Sweet sixteen, the key to the door, getting blind drunk,
and ending up on the floor.
Marriage, divorce, a kid or three, slowly you fill up the ancestry tree.
Not understanding that as we get older, we begin to get colder.
Colder and closer to the grave.
The grave awaits, if lucky to live a span of time.
But spare a thought for those that are caught
by the reaper early.
The murdered, the suicides, the accidents, the ill,
all have been called to return to him.
All have been, Born to die.

Let me clarify, I'm not here to prettify life.
Amplify your ego or nullify your beliefs.
I'm here for me.
Dignify for me your response without a lie.
Can you? No?
Then in my best of Anglo Saxon do me the favour of
"******* the *******".

As I lay me down to sleep I pray the demons from my door will keep.
As I drift into unconscious, I pray the monsters aren't adventurous.
As I remember all I love, I pray a hand to guide from above.
As oblivion takes its hold I hope a beacon takes to light and gives the demon its own fright.
As I softly slumber, I pray the demon he doth lumber back to whence he came.
I've fought this day long and hard, today I stay, and that demon he will weaken and allow me and others to fight on, and see dawn's light as confirmation that we did all flee the monster's mausoleum.

Naïveté played its part, when you almost took my heart.
I was flattered that an older man found something in me.
I heard the gossip, heard the remarks, but, our friendship was to last.
I so naively thought.
The fact that you were married, and I was just 18, meant nothing.
The fact that you were an authoritative figure, also meant little.
We were friends.
But, married men soon need to make a decision
Family or friends?
I loved talking to you, I loved your uniform, I loved our secret.
The way we'd talk all night, your car parked outside my home.
The way I'd come to the old Victorian station, and share a cup of tea.
The way you told me things that you said you couldn't share with her.
The tour of the old holding cells. Eyes lingering on the mattresses.
The kiss you gave me whilst on duty, the blush we shared.
Less than 10 years stood in our way, and a wife.
Then, the crushing blow that she was pregnant, due that snow.
Was I a distraction? From coming to terms with fatherhood?
One last fling, before that ring bit deep on your finger?
I told you no. You transferred. I alone endured the village gossip.
Secrets like ours are doomed before they start,
you were another's.
The ring on your finger played a part in my never giving you my heart

In soot black darkness we lie
between thin, worn out sheets.
A cheap hotel, false names,
cash only, no trace.
Our bodies became a canvas
to sin. We pivoted on an axis of
need, our madness and sadness
lost amongst the tobacco stained walls.
From chin to shin we've tasted,
tainted lust, clung mewling to each other
anchored in this, coal black, soot black,
ebony black night.
Skin to sin we wait for daylight, its
redemption, and chagrin and sadness
to leave. Anxious and unbalanced
we wait for planets to align, so that we
may await the day that this darkness
fades to grey

You left under the cloak of night, again.
To return with your excuse as to why you are late.
What once was harmless, is now unfair, unjust, heartless.
Not on me or you, but her, the one that truly loves you.
I'm the harlot, the iniquity in your life, wickedness personified.
I remove your garments, deal with your hardness and
send you back to her, the promise you made to her broken.
I listen to your moans and return you whole to her.
I'm a social worker, a lover, a comfort, a *****.
You are a client, a bore, a job, a *****.
Our consciousness of what we do is monstrous, yet we do it over again.
I don't love you, you don't love me.
I'm a night deposit banking facility.
You drop off a deposit, leave, and go home.
What lies do you tell her?
Does she believe you?
Is paying for me cheaper than a divorce?
We both are heartless under the cover of darkness

Opposites attract.
Sameness detracts.
Love fades.
Life wanes.
Darkness can warm.
Light can freeze.
Caught in life's cycles,
Spinning outward to the end.
Caught within a breeze.

Why is darkness treated with fear?
As much is done in the light as in the dark.
Much maligned our primal senses heightened we see no light in the dark.
Yet, in the dark we are rested, in the dark we test our senses, in the dark we are even, in the dark we are one.

Foul deeds may require the blanket of dark.
But the reaper calls at any time, ready or not he will come, his scythe sweeps and you are gone.
Light or dark, love or hate in each opposite you make a whole you.
In the light we see the dark.
In the dark we see the light*.

Indefinite black pervades the air,
a darkened sun casts no shine
luminous black, like concrete surrounds you,
light is absent, Cimmerian shade is all.

Sonorous, sullied, sooty black cloaks all.
Shimmering, in the corner is a jet black,
obsidian hard sparkle, it's just a puddle.
A puddle made to sparkle in the street light.

A joyless sight in the darkness of a Stygian night.
Indistinct figures rush by, oblivious to the sparkling puddle.
Somber souls,mournfully groping homeward in the false electric light.
Home to a comfortless home, having failed to see the sparkle in the dark.

Shoulder to shoulder you bands of brothers landed.
Code name Operation Neptune was underway.
You noble breed, not knowing what lay ahead
Just knowing that your duty was called upon.
The bugle sounded, you all answered the call
nobly you waded those waters for all.
06/06/1944 was the day.
The largest seaborne invasion in history.
Yet, you brothers in arms were not caring of history making
Just making it to the beach, alive.
I can but humbly thank you for what you all did that day,
you that lived and those that died.
What thoughts must have played in your mind.
A lone piper played throughout, what courage you all displayed.
No wonder we that came after you, leave you feeling dismayed.
Many wars have been fought since, their courage is also undenied,
but, you, you thousands on those beaches showed the world the meaning
of pride, respect and warrior.
On the beaches of Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword,
you carved a way in. To end the war.
Nobler people I doubt exist, and soon this 70th anniversary
will fade in time, but not that date of June the sixth (1944)

Decaying
Eroding
Composting
Organically
Murdere­d
People
Oxidizing
Souls
Eternally
D**ebauched

It's hard to hide a smile
When you should feel defiled.
Is it wrong to give my soul,
act as a ***** in the bed and
reconcile your acts as nothing but
worthwhile?
My skin and mind are afire
we're lying side by side respirating shallowly
admired, reviled and inspired I let myself wander
with thoughts of our beguiled afternoon.
Love affairs are seedy, needy and just
without my lover I'd feel nothing but bile
for the man I let slip a band on me.
I want to stay awhile, but the room will
be needed by the next coupling.
And, until next time I have to veil my
vile, yet necessary secret
And that I do with guile and style.

You can philosophise all day long,
this world contains more than we know.
More than we see, and in some cases
some things we've already seen.
That strong sensation of having been somewhere,
of knowing what a place had once been.
Never getting lost in new places, of remembering old faces.

This precognition scares science, they label it
'Schizophrenic', 'anxiety' and my personal favourite;
the 'dissociative identity disorder'.
Here's a straight jacket for you!
I prefer déjà vu,
such an elegant French description,
even better, they don't hand out a prescription to 'cure' it!

Déjà entendu, "already heard",
the experience of feeling sure that one has already heard something,
ever thought your name was being called?
That you heard whispers in the night,
Only to be told it's the 'house settling'?
How many of us have shook our heads,
and said 'I'm getting old, I'm hearing things!'

These phenomena don't come and go
they stay, they are older than time,
they've always been, just never seen.
Platitudes placate your puzzled mind,
but what if these things are just rips in time?
A leak from the past, occasionally a glimpse of the future?
Or maybe it's all just history's forgotten soft sighs*.

Floating like Dandelion florets caught upon the breeze
Thoughts scatter to the four corners of the world
Lucid dreams dragging ecstatically at the seam of self
Unpicked nightmares rearing up and roaring
A lions roar, a cats purr fangs floating in a pool of perfume
Cannot obscure the golden tower of blow *****
Seed dispersal through rosettes
Disturbed paw printed earth receives seeds.

A coldness creeps through my body,
enters and, seeps with its icy fingers
down, down into my core.
Clasps my heart and takes hold,
glacially traversing my mind, body and soul.

I feel, wait, no, nothing. I'm in a dream.
Induced by drugs that calm and hold you down.
I'm Alice chasing the rabbit, but the rabbit is bold,
and I am cold, behold your cold frigid Alice!
Frozen, addled brain, makes no sense of the dream.

I'll stay awhile in this winter wonderland,
this, emotionless, frosty, heartless land,
and dream of sun, and hope and gold.
Upon waking the dream will dissipate,
leaving a shivering, controlled me.

I stepped through the door
Knowing you were no more
I was no more, I was less

No more in this veil of reality
Knowing there were thousands more
Of different hues, different airs, different seasons

This door leads to OZ
This door leads to freedom
And this little doorway goes all the way home

This doorway is occupied
A stranger sleeps fitfully
***** hands clutch its vestments

This door is open and singing can be heard
This door is closed, knock it might open
Open Sesame, Open says I

Duck through this doorway
A wardrobe door, is Narnia waiting?
Doors, doors everywhere and not a lock to pick

Do you see the child you were? loved? Teased?
Do you see the adult you are? Responsible? Tired?
Do you see today's society? Disintergrating? Not caring?
Do you see the past, and miss what's gone?
Do you see the future? Is it bright, or bleak?
Do you history repeating itself?
Do you see the chasm between the rich and richer?
Do you see the poor?
Do you hear the politicians lies and promises?
Do you fear tomorrow?
Do you watch the world and think why? What's the point?
Do you self medicate? Drink, take drugs just to ease the pain?
Do you sleep peacefully? Fitfully? Not at all?
Do you fear the day that you realise you could be a part of Armageddon?
I DO.

Like fairy dust caught in dappled sunlight they dance.
Swirling gracefully like a ballerina pirouetting
on a child's music box.
Graceful specks of fine dirt engrossed in cloaking
surfaces smooth and coarse.
Like petticoats caught in a summer breeze
rippling, and dipping, causing a sneeze.
Dust motes like a kilt swirling,
whirling in the kaleidoscope of daylight,
engross you in devoting a poem to their dance.
Those molecules, atoms of time passed.

Intricately laid by a master mason centuries ago,
the cobbles have become shiny and worn through use.
If we listen closely at the  echoes contained within,
what would we hear? The din of old, the clatter of hooves,
the patois of tradesmen, the fisher wives bellows?
Or, just life as it was, moving along at a pace we today find slow?
The sun beats down on the Spanish stone, firing them hot and
languid, pace has slowed, need has slowed, greed has slowed.

Dusty cobbles leading to cool houses, siesta has called and all obey.
The midday sun beats down, only tourists looking for quaint shops
remain, decrying the heat, ready to swoon.
Sweat drips onto the dusty cobbles, and is soon boiled away.
Blood has dripped on these cobbles, human and beasts.
Only to be scrubbed by the crow black crones that sit and watch the day.
Afternoon lull, boats bobbing slowly up and down,
babies rocked by a quiet lullaby.

The sun lowers bathing the cobbles in a pink, orange glow,
quiet now, Spain is sleeping, forgetting her past, the Moors are long gone,
the Armada been and gone, bullfights are frowned upon,
their Kings and Dictator laid to rest, only foolish tourists throng the
dusty cobbles, oblivious to their history, looking for that awful gift.
Spain's pain is echoed in her cobbles, few hear it, but know this,
if you listen you'll hear the heat, the pain, civil war,
pride and flamenco feet*.

Emotion, is like a ship caught in a squall.
Battling the elements, one minute up, one minute down.
Quick, sudden changes crash through you, like wind in a sail.
Pity, is an emotion perceived of misfortune,
Rage, like the tempestuous thunderstorm has it's calm moments.
Tenderness, that rocking motion of a boat on the ocean
The rocking of a babe in arms.
Joy versus sadness.
Anger versus fear.

Love, comes on a beautiful calm blue sea.
Comes from you to me.
Hate, comes on a storm far out to sea.
Slowly gathering pressure, like a weather front, imploding,
destroying, corroding landscapes and souls.
Love versus hate.
The story of time immemorial.
Humankind, 60/65% water, tied forevermore with the tides.
Compassion, comes at the price of surviving all other emotions.
And let's not forget, both humans and the weather suffer depressions.

Like an albatross around my neck it sits in the room.
Devoid of warmth, lacking a purpose.
It defeats me every time I enter.
The clean white sheets greet me with a mocking crispness.
Clean, virginal, untouched, unused sheets.
My energy and resolve are depleting,
what I nearly was is fleeting.
Time to concede these empty sheets are never to be filled.
Time to retreat, concede defeat and take the cradle apart.

Those days where cutting off your nose to spite your face
is preferable to the fake smile?
The inane chat?
The constant hum of banality?
The pretence that all in the garden is rosy?
The surrounding of people you would cheerfully ****?

Where the slightest word sends you spiralling?
Where even "friends" drive you screaming for the hills?
Where silence is all you want, need, crave?
Where were it possible you'd scream not talk?
Where you'd get your bucket of regrets, and throw them to the wind?
Today is that day for me.

She walks down the corridor
back straight, immaculate.
Heels tapping a regular rhythm
heart beating a tattoo of nerves.

nerves

She can hear the wishers of spite
whispering, sneering, delivering splinters
of withering, scathing remarks at her back
behind masks of smiles and false friendship.

friendship

She hasn't been aboard a ship of friends
in quite a while.
Transistors in her head have picked up the
whispers, the predictors have spoken.

spoken

"She only got the promotion on her back"
"Like she has the qualities for the role"
"Well she does have qualities for a roll!"
"She does like rolling on her back!"

back

Back home, she sits at the mirror in her room
shivers whilst remembering the sniggers and
whispers. The slingers of whispers and dirt
have hurt too deep this time.

time

Time has passed, and the only dirt thrown
Is the handful by her sister, on top of the box
her sibling lies in, lies in because of lies.
She espies the work colleagues, watching and grins.

grins

Grins because it's not often you see the twin
of a suicide victim.
The victim of evil whispers, furthermore
she starts work in a week, with these weak whisperers.

**Killers

Fallacy, a deceptive, misleading, notion, of 2.4 kids and parents
Atrophy of the idea Family
Majestic man and wife, mother and father together
Infallible,infinite,until divorce
Liberal, loving, lying, until divorce
Yearning for truth in a world of lies

Theatrically monopolised by ad execs the concept of family
Inception of children, duty done
Eternally bound by DNA if not love
S**iblings, searching for a childhood that doesn't exist

Every Sunday without fail,
my father would set about getting us on the
family visiting trail.
A picnic was packed, along with our macs,
(Just in case of the rain) and into the car
we were packed.
A beautiful drive through winding roads,
over a bridge that made your tummy lurch,
onwards, to the Pen-y-Fal psychiatric hospital.

The Tudor Gothic style hospital loomed large to a
child in a car. Like a silent waiting beast from afar.
A Charming gathering of gables and chimneys,
disguised the interior of quite simply "the madhouse".
Set in grounds of 75 acres, patients played bowls, cricket,
and croquet. I thought the people and the grounds magical.
There was this secret place with adult children,
smiling, and talking to the trees, knowing of fairies,
I never heard their pleas.

As I grew older, I grew bolder, the same Sunday jaunt,
to our familial haunt, but now I was an explorer.
I was allowed in. In to the centre of the Gothic beast.
Green tiled, with brown heavy doors, antiseptic smell
that clung to every pore and cell of you. Stark walls,
scrubbed nurses, white coated Doctors and thuggish orderlies.
And after your eyes took in those sights, your nose that smell,
the noise crashed into you. Moans, cries, wails and pleas.
The sound of a thousand lost minds.

My aunt was one of the lost.
She never went home again.
She never visited her children.
She never visited her eleven siblings.
She stayed, stayed with her friend Pearl.
Who once told me I had Vivienne Leigh eyes.
She stayed with the randy Italian, the piano player,
the Downs people given to that 'hospital', that smell, that Hell.
She was in the belly of the beast.*

The Grade II Listed Building has been converted into luxury accommodation now, but would you sleep there?