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.

Cigarette smoke curls upwards,
spiralling into the ether and downwards into my lungs.
I sit looking at the cigarette packet
reading the warning:
Smoking seriously harms you and others around you
How true.
Except, it isn't the cigarettes that have harmed me, it's your lies.
Did you think you'd be able to keep me in the dark?
Did you think me that stupid?
Tut tut, lending me your car, not emptying the ashtray,
didn't think you wore lipstick whilst driving, just sunglasses.
The colour wasn't mine, too brash.
I take the last drag, watch the tip flame orange, and feel the nicotine calm
I pick the Marlboro's up flip the box over, and smile at the irony,
there in bold reads Choose freedom, we'll help you
if I rang the free phone number will they help me dispose of your body?
Your staining my kitchen floor, the nicotine is staining my fingers.

Now, today has been a **** day in every single way.
Today was the start of my holiday in Spain, until French strikes,
caused me pain. We were not flying.
Now, I did not weep, wail or flail my skin, instead, I said c'est la vie.
They are so very French.
Reminded myself that the French are cheese eating surrender monkeys,
awful at football (soccer) dreadful at tennis, middling in rugby,
and tend to suffer delusions of grandeur (**** a French word!)
They lost at Agincourt, Waterloo, WW2, think snails are a delicacy,and  allowed Mr. ****** in to rub their bellies.
But, I am H.A.P.P.Y.
Home
Alive
Prompt
Proud
Y?
Because­ I'm eating strawberries and cream, whilst watching Wimbledon.
How very British!

H.P. Lovecraft's most famous quotes about the horror genre is that: "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land, T.S.Eliot I. The Burial of the Dead


As a child I was never fearful.
Not of the dark, spiders or ghosts.
In fact I was wilful.
Hard hearted, cold.
I liked that about me, it was a barrier to the outside world.
I was the loner, the malcontent, the strange spooky one.
I loved it more as a teen, embraced the Gothic, elevated the bizarre.
I smoked, it was cool, I drank, it was cool, I was nihilistic, it was cool.
Popular meant conforming, how that repulsed me.
Why? Because conformity meant no individuality, no soul.
My Grandmother said once "be careful what you read, it becomes you"
Yeah right, look I'm Pennywise the clown!
But she was right in a way.
I became repulsed by myself.
I had no compassion.
No true love to call my own.
I was alone with my fear, my fear of loneliness. Irony.
I had no true identity, I hid in horror, then became horrified.
I didn't know what was coming, where I was going, who I was.
I was afraid. Truly afraid for the first time.
Afraid of my shadow, of not knowing, of returning to the grave.
Fear is a loathsome creature, devouring love and hope.
Yet, know this, we are born to die, the clock runs down, no appeals.
So fill up on love, fill up on warmth, for Hell maybe hot, but alone,
it's cold*.

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

You lie next me
I smell your scent
You drift into sleep
I watch you breathe slow and deep
You mumble words that I strain to hear
I lean closer, feel your body's heat
You drape an arm over me
I start to drift away on the sleepy tide
You mumble once more
I hear the words now
You say her name, you nuzzle my hair
I fade into the darkness of sleep
I fade into obscurity by your side
You've forgotten me.