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 Sep 2013 pookie
Sadie K
I don't know.

Maybe it's just the way
You made it sound,
Like some infectious disease and
I'm the infected.
It made me feel funny,
Suddenly conscious of my
Slowing down breathing.
I didn't want to talk

Not at all.

I wanted to go home
Alone
 Sep 2013 pookie
A Mareship
1.  Understand Weather.

(Strangers on a bench,
Looking up.)

“Cirrus, I think.
Cirrocumulus?”
“Stratus surely.
Or altocumulus.”

(You must also hate the cold
And the sun,
And always wish the current season
Was a different one.)


2. Never Be Honest About Stuff That Hurts.

Pain so bad
Can’t even **** –
“How are you, Arthur?”
“Brilliant, thanks!”

3. Have An Opinion On These People

Katie Price (Feminist? Witch?)
Kate Moss (Goddess? *****?)
Stephen Fry (Snob? Wilde?)
Frankie Boyle (Offensive? Mild?)

4. Never Talk About Money.

“So.” An American asks. “How much do ya make?”
“I…I…Oh My God look at that dog over there that has a face like a pancake!”

5. Learn How To Apply The Class System To Cigarettes.

Pipe – Monty Withnail
Silk Cut – Comfortably Middle.
Lucky Strikes – Probably not British.
B&H; – Shops at Lidl.

6. Secretly (Or Openly) Enjoy The Royal Family

“So, did you hear what they called the baby?”
My boyfriend shrugs and says -
“I don’t give one tiny ****.”
“They named him George. Isn’t that twee?”
“Aw ******* hell, I had a tenner on Louis!”

7. Hey Jude.

If all else fails,
At the end of the night,
Sing na-na-na
And it’ll be alright.

8. Never Complain About Your Meal

“Hm. These mussels look a bit suspect.”
“How’s your meal, Sir?”
“Perfect!”

9. Always Hate The French, (Even If Your Own Mother Is French)

Numberplate 'F'
On an articulated lorry.
“Stuck up…onion…*******.”
(I’m sorry mum, I’m so sorry!)

10. ‘Jerusalem’

Mime a sword in your hand,
Bang your chest with devotion,
Wave the sword about,
Sing with emotion.
All in jest.
(my bf smokes B&H; and before giving me one always says ' these are real man's ****. Feel it hit you? Yeah? REAL MAN'S ****.')
(I also understand that in America the term 'real man's ****' means something entirely different.)
 Sep 2013 pookie
Atlas
Whiskey has become my new obsession
I drown and drown in its meaningless stinging
I am lost but always found
Drowning somewhere beneath the ground

The whiskey burns within me
It is coursing through my blood
My heart is beating one last time
Before I crash to the ground

Whiskey has become my best worst enemy
Its always ready for my cries
The bottle fits my hands so nicely
I cant resist its alluring smile
Such tragedy
That this bottle of whiskey
Became my best friend

Last night was full of hope and desire
But then I started to cry
Because even the greatest things have flaws
And guess what? You are mine.
 Sep 2013 pookie
Life's a Beach
Don't tell me that I'm overreacting,
you who, without a care,
do send me into the past.
You wouldn't know, you were not there.

Fine, in presence you were plenty,
but in comforting voice, you sure were rare,
you were present in my past
but that was when you chose to stare
away from your sins

Which you'd cast down upon my head,
through the way you'd made your bed.

With him
Surely he was your greatest sin

Why did you need to cast your lot,
with that ham ******, emotionally unstable
clot of a man.
Did you choose him "because I can."
or because you really were such a fool,
as not to listen to your offspring, who
could already sense his chill.

"You'll regret this, mum."

But you didn't,
so we did instead.
This blame of yours fell upon
our heads.

You kept him for me,
my brother
and every other whom you
could muster up.
But, in reality: yourself.
You just couldn't bear to be left
on the shelf.

You allowed a viper into eden,
a snake into the nest.
You took all words of positivity,
and you ignored the rest.

I suppose a part of you wanted to test
my limits.

It turned out: none.

You watched, unseeing, as he
wormed his way in.
You watched as my affection
he won.
You watched him glow brighter
than the sun, in my eyes.
You watched him scheme, and hurt, and prise
away my shell of protection.
You watched as he turned me into
a projection, of his tainted reflection.

You watched as love, turned to rejection.

You watched as he lost control.
You watched as I shattered, and was
pushed by him to fall.
You watched him cruel.

You watched, yet somehow recall
me as forever being glad.
Never recalling all the bad,
and the sad, which
you forced me see and hear.

No wonder I don't remember you,
as ever being near.

The striking times I heard your
voice
you were crying or in deep pain,
at times and places
where I had no choice
but to hear you.

Unlike with him, I could never fear you.

Sad, lonely figure.
Desperate for a love
which no ******* from
above
ever chose to give you.

I hope that you know
that I forgive you.

Oh Mother, I will always love you.
Even if it somehow has to be in spite,
of you being one of the causes of my
eternal fight.

I'll always somehow need you
Whether or not you're wrong or right.
 Sep 2013 pookie
A Mareship
Happy thing -
Come fiercely.
Bend me like a tulip at midnight,
Make something out of me,
Smoke out my *****
And saddle it in gemstones,
Gallop me like a tongue-twisted
Traveller into the
Whole globe’s bedrooms.

Happy happy thing -
Push me!
Make something out of me!
Kid me,
Front me,
Strike me dancing like a hot
Stone,
Hand me cigarettes that I’ll light
From the last one,
And the second to last one,
And the next one.

Happy thing!
Ohhh come colourfully!
Make the world all-a-bright,
Make red as red as a big red love
Or a spitsuckled cherry gumdrop
Of red-red-red-red-red,
Make yellow smear itself
like crushed cats eyes,
Make pastels all pennysweets
And green so luminous that
Clock hands can’t even dream of it.

You beautiful
*******
Happy
Thing!
You happy happy happy thing…!
Songs are burning!
And planets are droaning!
And London is sleeeeeeping,
And the morning is leaping at me!
Is it leaping at you?

My happy thing,
Come noisily.
Sit with me jabbering,
******* with me,
Snog me,
Pull apart my face and
Absolutely ******* drench me
In come.

Happy thing,
Pierce me,
Make me a Sebastian,
Riddle me with spears and watch me
Laugh out the blood,

Happy thing,
Come quickly.
Take my hand and run with me.
They’re shooting at us,
Making saints of us,
And they’ll get us y’know, they’ll get us, they’ll get us –

Happy thing
Come on now dear,
I know the watercolours are running but
Don’t they look pretty
dropping as keenly as our tears –
being caught is just another reason to escape!

Happy thing,
Don’t swallow that.
Are we lowering ourselves?
Are they poking holes in us?
Oh no,
Are they sinking us?

Happy thing,
I hope you always
Come fiercely,
Colours aren’t the same now
And ******* is just a drone of biology.
I promise that
next time we'll be immortal.
Next time we’ll have learned
How to really, really run.
'manic depression...a frustrating mess...'
 Sep 2013 pookie
A Mareship
Paris sits at a heart-shaped table, her lamplight eyes dimming for the morning. She pumps a tube of mascara, yawning.

“Oi!”

Paris jumps, troubled by the noise. “Oh no. Not you.” She says, blusher brush poised.

London doffs his rooftops like ten million battered bowlers.

“Nice to see you too. Not a morning girl, eh?”

Paris shakes her lovely head in a flurry of churchbells. “For you mon cher, there’s no right time of day.”

(The Channel chuckles, unsettling ships, as Dover reclines in her cloud of talc and giggles like a tickled bluebird.)

London utters a swearword. “You don’t like me, do you?”

“You’re not fit to lick my shoe.” Paris scowls, adjusting the Eiffel Tower until it sits slap-bang in the middle of her head like a crown.

“What hard work you are!” London howls, slamming a fist into the Serpentine.

Calais shrugs his trees, bored. “Mon dieu – get a room.”
prompted over on wordpress - written very quickly with the sole intention of making myself laugh
 Sep 2013 pookie
A Mareship
I wish I wish
that you and I
Could loosely link our hands -
And fly
To a little house in Somerset,
Where it’s always sunny
And always wet.
It’s green and gold with dragonflies
That whip themselves from sky to sky
With water pearling on their tails.

My sister’s house stands small and frail,
With roses big and peach and pale
Quivering like nervous girls
Encircling her door like curls.

The walls are dreams of drowsy pastel,
From the bannister
Hangs a satchel,
And the kitchen has a wooden table
That thrums with memories of drunken fables
Told in whispers late at night,
(A boy crying, jangling beads,
Overrun with strangling weeds,
His sister’s fingers,
Evergreen,
Plants flowers where the weeds have been.)

And she’s an artist, don’t you know,
She knows which way the colours go,
And long ago
She took some wire
And shaped it with a pair of pliars,
And added beads of deepest red,
Like globs of blood that’s been well bled
'Til it became a piece of art,
A huge
Muscular
Anatomical
Heart,
And she placed it on the mantleplace.

It throbs there at a steady pace,
A beating heart
Like a coronet
Placed on the head
Of Somerset.
just wrote this quickly - been meaning to write about my sister's place for aaages. forgive the weird pace at the beginning...or maybe it's just my imagination...
 Sep 2013 pookie
David Hyde
There's poetry in the rain;
A special kind of song
For a special kind of person.
The broken-hearted hear it well.
A chorus in the storm
That drives away the warm
And wraps your soul in a chill.
A melody in every drop;
You can hear the music as it falls,
Singing through the air.
All you have to do is listen,
I promise you it's there.
 Sep 2013 pookie
Sadie K
As I lay here once again
And for once, on this night,
The trio are nowhere in sight

I am but left with my
Mangled thoughts of worry,
Still recovering partially

Oh do I feel what I feel?
Because for once in my life,
— Or least this night of the calmest strife,

I feel nothing but this strange
Guilt of some sort,
But why?
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