The bombs already drop in rhythmic succession, brewing but little condemnation. Millions bleed the colour of soil - impoverished by rich mans toil. But not a tear, not a song is shed - unless, they bleed the colour of the dollar bill.
Ripe and seductive, looming enchantment. Tethered to the Earth, gravid in forbidden fruit. Gifts from our fore-mothers, the curse of Eve. Flirtatious and charming is she, selfish and heartless she is. An acquired taste for the verboten, tempted by Adam's betrothal. And flee he did, his little honeybees, to feast upon her ruby nectar. Have you ever heard the honeybees cry? neither have I. The apple never falls far from the tree, ruby and ripe like my mother. My father was a honeybee, and I am my father's daughter.
Crowns embellished with ebony bewitching. A sliver of gold pierces the veil. Stalemate defined by velveteen seas. Eyes of steel incandescent under the blacksmiths hands. The finest sapphires inlaid. A woman in hand the mightiest of weapons. Snowy mountains nourished the victory of Man. Gravid in mysticism keeper of seeds bloomed the Kings strength.
A man and wife go to lunch. Premium burgers, shakes and fries. It's cheap and he can wear his sweatpants. For every one couple, there's twenty single fathers with his children. (a depressing ratio) It must be custody weekend. At the Heartbreak Hotel tables for two occupy singles. The men picked out their best shirts and the women painted their lips. Looking only for a conversation, they leave with a bill priced with another Sunday of shattered hope.
How peculiar it is, all that we keep alive with our thoughts. I wonder, whether it is as photosynthesis is to the plant and a flower is yet to bloom, or whether our faces will become blue in the name of fallacy.
Vapid people dribbling vapid ****. A society of ****-eyed, drunken infants debating politics memorised from Fox News.
We, the awakened, plastering social media with doll-faced mannequins captioned with some Eastern Philosophy we read in Cosmo, enhanced with a filter titled "Who The **** Is Lao Tzu?" Comments read: goals af. (Insert emoji here)
And praise the Indigo Children! It's a true gift indeed to talk about activism until blue in the face. My, what a spiritual hue, are you. Are you?
A generation of craft makers, weaving their way through the alcoholic labyrinth, drawing the Hungover Man from a Rider Waite tarot deck, for another episode of Dull and Duller next weekend.
I've seen you there amongst the lavender fields when you thought no one was watching. Memories that dance a longing daydream, weaving strings of lilac through my veins. I knew you would plague me, but my eyes supped upon you. Supped and supped again until lavished by an allure a thousand French patisseries could never usurp. Your taste inspired madness - a craze you too endured. We turned over pages and bewildered them with Eden's of ivy that flourished within our skulls. If Van Gogh were a writer he'd write like us. A fable of seraphic beauty and lucid insanity, knotted together with existential philosophy. "Being and Nothingness" (Sartre understood) but we were 50 years too late to the Café de Flore. Those were memories of yesteryear, sealed with the rosy hue of antiquity I was always fond of. I can almost lick that scent of lavender that clings to the photographs, but I fear my tongue may bleed. So I admire them on a mantelpiece in a dust-soaked room where all that I love (and have loved) may live. I know that room not by daylight, for I dare not be seen to enter. Only the high rise moon knows that those footprints belong to me.
With a little bit of bleach and a rounded *** they think they can be Marilyn Monroe but never strive high enough to **** a JFK, instead they're down on their knees for a Trump refreshing their Instagram.
I'm easy to fall in love with. (I shouldn't be) I'm not easy to love. (My God I wish I was)
I'm the kind of lover that will waltz the streets at 2 a.m just to see you. The kind of lover that will write you poetry from across the seas. The kind of lover that sheds a tear as my fingertips graze your skin. I'm the kind of lover that loves fiercely. I'm the kind of lover that hates ferociously.
I'm the kind of lover that will pour fuel on your jealously to feel the heat of your love. The kind of lover that can turn to ice and freeze your heart with one touch. The kind of lover that at any instant can become no lover at all.
I'm the kind of lover you don't want to love. I'll elate you and destroy you. I'll give you the stars and make you watch as they collapse. I'll gift you roses and watch the thorns bleed you.
I'm the kind of lover you love to love. I'll drive a thousand miles away and walk back home to you. I'll burn every poem I wrote you and hand write every one again. I'll push you down and bear the sky to stand you up. I'll destroy you and rebirth you.
I'm not easy to love, and my God I wish I was. One day, I know, I will be. My psychiatrist said so. Just you wait. I promise, I'm worth the wait.
I told him “I’m going to buy lots of make up, some expensive clothes, you know, the ones that come with logos, and get a proper hair cut. That’s how you like your girls, isn’t it?” He walked over, planted a kiss on my head and said, “I like them smart, which you’re not being right now.”
I've been lost in time these last few months - with clocks that won't tock and days that won't stop. And I was happy. Or maybe a little too comfortable. It's all the same - because the sun won't always shine and you can't stop the rain. But time will always find you and I'm here now. So where are you? Are you hiding too? Running from the monotonous chime - the one that dictates your waking and your slumber - your not so silent slumber. Trapped within the walls of time, is this living? Or is this death? It doesn't matter, the trees will still grow either way. And I'm here now - I wear bells now - to throw that monotonous chime out of time. So where are you? Do you wear bells too? I don't weep - no, I don't cry. Because tears don't harmonise with the monotonous chime.
tiny hands place wooden eggs inside empty play dough cups all in a row. mummy which ice cream you like? I smile before answering, the flower and vitamin c one please okay good he says. i place a beeswax crayon inside tiny hands in exchange for my ice cream.
i watch as he drops tiny, special things inside a tiny bag. a very hungry caterpillar bag.
a wooden tool, a waterlemon jigsaw piece, tiny plastic spoon and empty tic tac boxes. so many tic tac boxes.
i regret that i am an impatient woman and some days forget the beauty in these little things.
i watch as he takes sweet breaths with eyes closed, through cupid bow lips. i am reminded these are not the little things, but the big things.
if there was one thing, one big thing, i could bless him with, it would be that he may never lose his eye for life's little things too long.
Somewhere between not yet and no longer. Do you know it? You can find me there. Sit, please, tell me how you hurt. Share with me all the thoughts that keep you up at night, and indulge me in the little quirks you've mastered to fill that space between not yet and no longer. I have cigarettes and all the time in between.
I believe some people were born to be lonely, and I'm believing more and more we were born to be seen, and not understood. But I don't want to be seen or understood. One is too humble, the other too grandiose. I long for some place in between - I long to be heard. What an incredibly lonely place that is.
I know not how to remedy the gaps between two opposing chemicals. Too happy. Too sad. Too alone. Too needy. The cycle goes on and carries me from here to there, too quickly, or too slowly. I just do what I'm told and take my pill. 'ONE at night' and self medicate with caffeine and nicotine in between.
Now I smoke more than I ever have. I don't know if I'm trying to fill a space or **** something inside of me. Either way it passes the time between now and finding out, between not yet and no longer.
We're all hypocrites preaching word of God. It's not what you do Monday to Friday, 9 - 5, that interests me, it's how you choose to spend your Saturday nights. And more times than not, you'll find the preachers spanked up in a brothel or in the neighbours bed when the one who placed that ring upon their finger thought they were walking the dog. Wear an 18 karat gold cross, hang all the Live. Laugh. Love pictures around the family home and go to church on Sunday's, but everyone knows they sit on that prostitutes hand print she left on his ***. They sit lopsided too. That handkerchief doesn't fool anyone. They only carry it for the paranoia that residue ***** they snorted off her chest still lingers around their perfectly trimmed nostrils. We're all hypocrites preaching word of our own religions and changing the bedsheets every ******* morning.
Contentment? Who needs contentment. Let's burn this ******* house down so our skin swelts from the heat and our egos can cry for our lost possessions. Who am I without my Things? Who is Sisyphus without his boulder? A man now content with only himself? ******* Absurdism.
The town still drips with last nights alcohol consumption, effervescent with AWOL brain cells. Romance viewed from the inside of a glass, vanished in its absence. Neon bar signs became the stargazing of the twenty-first century and hangovers a fast burning cigarette, leaving romance to pile in a duotone of grey in the ashtray of our heartless society.
Touch me, like the quiver of my body is a lyre that you must strum. Speak to me, like my voice is a psalm you've never heard. Kiss me, like you're a desert wanderer and my lips an oasis. Love me, like your heart is a wardrum that will thunder without me.
I remember the summer holidays. The heat intense without air conditioning. Our days passed by on that old swing set, weather beaten to a faded green. We’d build houses out of boxes our mother would never let us take home. My sister called your home “the fun house”. I would say “plastic fantastic”. We’d build vintage dirt bikes in the garage, eat apple pies for dessert, and fall asleep beneath the peach tree.
I remember the escape, when home was too violent. You once told me you stopped drinking so you could always be there when we needed you. And you were. To distract. To listen. To protect.
I remember the way you cradled me that night as blood flowed from my wounds, and the way you sat beside me in the hospital for hours and never complained. To distract. To listen. To understand.
I remember your chair and the sadness I felt when we were not there. My mind riddled with images of you in that house, lonely and alone. I knew your heart ached. I felt it. I knew your smile a façade. I saw it. Overworked for a life that never came to be. Groundhogs day for 13 years.
I remember that shipping container in the driveway, accumulating your possessions one by one. I remember the brisk autumn morning driving you to the train station with your makeshift bag from rope, tape and plastic. The weight of the grief that fell from my eyes too heavy to hold. I remember how you walked away, and never looked back.
Here, I stand in the wooden doorway of the house now empty. The memories pounding against the walls. Your chair remains in the corner. It still smells of you. Words of love fall from my lips and I close the door, to what was, and what is no longer.
My body burned - a fire I'd never known. The pools in my eyes commanded me to swim, my heart wished to lay down beside him, but instead I just drove.
Headlines that read Missing Man From Mt Martha circulated for days.
She told me he'd often spoke of running away, and her love for him clung fiercely to the fairytale in vain. Perhaps we should have known better, but the tales fooled us. Prince Charming will save the maiden but who is going to save him?
The floors caught me as I collapsed under the weight of a phone call.
They found him in romantic slumber among the forest - a tree and his throat playing tug of war with a length of rope. It's hard to say who really won.
The chaple was too small to cradle all who loved him. Red work shirts lined the doorway like poppies. Friends wore top hats embellished with ribbons and sunflowers. Sisters consoled their grief in suits and coloured bow ties. An old music teacher played a violin, so haunting and beautiful.
I've never known grief. Memories of his smile and hazy nights in his car have seen my every sunrise since. I see him in strangers and passers by on the street and my heart stops in these fleeting moments of illusion. Resuscitated by reality, they're gone as quickly as they came.
I often think I should visit his grave, place a flower on his tombstone or just have a conversation. I regret that only after he'd died I realised we might have understood each other better than we knew.
I glanced at you - an expression of calmness. You hold your alcohol well. You hold yourself better. Art holds me together, but it's all a waste. Paint left to *****, ***, expended energy, words that will fade, alcohol ****** away. It's all a ******* waste. A taste of escape short-lived. Some hands were made for rings, others to wave goodbye. Love is art of a devilish kind. Survival of the fittest became a game of Russian roulette in the players hands. And we play forgetting that the bureaucrats are masters of counting cards. The barrels will fire either way. Sobriety will not save you and wine will deceive you. It's best to leave them for the masters and play your hand anyway.
She was but a sonnet like no other, With a tongue of rose and hands cold as snow. And happy were we, I and my lover, Wandering land our souls could only know. For flowers so picturesque there did grow. O' but one morning the weatherman said - "Halt! Winter is coming, beware of snow." Listen we didn't but read books instead - Ignoring the voices inside our heads. The lands deceased as the Winter drew nigh, Now brown and withered are the roses red. Alas came sorrow and the Heavens cry. Nightingales rise from within her heart - Sing to the moon "thou shall not fall apart."
I make a lot of marks. I'm good at making marks. On paper. On canvas. On my skin. I'm one of those people that folds the pages of a book. (I hate those people too) I searched for my place in this world but it only confused me further. So I decided to etch my own place. Luckily, I'm good at making marks. I've made a lot of marks.
My Saturdays belong to a quaint Parisian cafe. I only have to think about carrying coffees and baguettes and they pay me for it. It's the cheapest therapy I've had.
I've come to know some of the regulars. Some days I wish to tell them I love them and I don't quite know why. I suspect they remind me in some part of myself, or how I wish to be.
An almost elderly lady always comes alone. Her hair still retains some of her blonde youth. She orders two very weak flat whites and sits for hours, writing letters to distant loves and reads the paper. I clear her cup and she smiles with both her lips and her eyes. She makes you feel like your job means something more than it probably does. I bring her a second coffee, a very weak flat white.
In the afternoons a couple comes in for coffee. She is quiet, the artistic type, and wears their son in a sling. A sweet little thing with cherubic cheeks. The father is a darling man with a softness many men resist. I watch the way his eyes sparkle when he tells me of his sons milestones. I make an effort to see them smile, bring them water on hot days or just talk. But sometimes I leave them be, watch them from a far, and let myself be swept up in their love, before they leave.
My Saturdays belong to a quaint French cafe with dark timber floors and French antiques. I haven't quite mastered the art of conversation but I'm adept in the science of smiling and that's enough to get me by for now.
The leaves will soon turn shades of auburn for the twenty fourth time in my life. Darkness descends earlier now than it did only a week ago. I understand autumn but I do not find comfort in that. Some days you can feel her clinging desperately to the warmth of the sun but she was not granted that power.
The days roll on and slowly her grip is gone. Death prevails through the lands planting frost where life once grew. The birds don't quite sing like they used to.
But earth read the book of living and knows when the magnolias must bloom. I sit with her, my mother earth, in hope she will one day impart me her wisdom. For I cling desperately to the sunshine when I am blessed its presence, but I too was not granted that power. I know no winter, only the storms of Jupiter and I fear one day he will take me before I learn when my magnolias must bloom.