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judy smith Sep 2016
If anyone can make a feral animal print cool it’s Arabella Ramsay. The designer, who skipped the city in favour of the coast a few years ago, has launched a new lifestyle brand in collaboration with her dad Dougal Ramsay, an accomplished artist who has designed ranges affectionately named after all things Aussie; Hello Cocky, G’day Love, Veg Out.

Burnt out from more than a decade in the fashion industry rat race where she had amassed a cult following among adoring 20-somethings and private school girls for her unique apparel, Arabella shut her Melbourne shop five years ago and moved to Jan Juc where her husband has a yoga studio, her daughters play with bunnies and organic eggs are collected from the backyard coop.

Yet the fashion industry has come calling again, albeit in a different guise born of her slower lifestyle and rearing two children. A born and bred farm girl from Kyneton, she has forgone on-trend collections and retail overheads for family-friendly leisurewear and an online boutique.

The print-heavy collection features irreverent Australiana imagery created by her dad: “Bonza” bunnies, cheeky runaway gnomes, larrikin cockatoos, and come summer, a “******” croc print. The coloured sketches run across all-over yardage on leggings, hoodies and T-shirts for men, women and kids.

Dougal says his brief comes from his daughter who then “weaves her magic so the next time I see those drawings they are transformed into cute frocks and tops”.

She has a great eye for pattern and scale. “I enjoy seeing the finished product where a small crab on a skinny leg can grow into a giant monster crab on a rounder leg.”

A successful illustrator and author, Dougal has been fascinated with Australian culture for years, his nostalgic pencil sketching idiosyncratic scenes of country town lifestyles and coastal culture; seedy caravan parks, fishing hamlets and an architectural vernacular that “sadly has pretty well gone now”, he laments.

It was these scenes and Arabella’s own wholesome rural childhood that inspired the father-daughter label. In the spirit of Linda Jackson and Jenny Kee, Arabella wants to “show people the exciting things our country has to offer”, she says of her desire to “celebrate what’s in our back yards and in doing so, tap into the tourist market with a bit of style”.

Manufacturing is done in Australia where possible; a favoured maker is Cheryl, a woman Arabella’s nan found years ago while shopping at Spotlight in Ballarat. “She works from her small shed and has been making my clothes for years. It’s nice having quality control so we don’t overproduce.”

Lighthearted and a little bit kooky, the Dougal range is cultural cringe re-imagined as contemporary cool. Its Instagram (@wearedougal) is a feed of everything from Aussie idioms (Stoked! Strewth!) to summer vacations in Menorca, photography honouring Rennie Ellis, Dougal in the home studio, surf reports and Arabella’s idyllic beach house that has graced the pages of international magazines. Her own sartorial style is an inimitable mix of “70s vintage, preppy, **** and even a bit dorky” that’s equally at ease with the yuppies and the grommets.

“You can basically wear your pyjamas to school pick-ups and your wetsuit to the supermarket,” she says of the local surf town look. “But I still love high fashion and just bought a pink lace Gucci suit for my best friend’s wedding.”

An online purchase, it arrived via the dirt track leading to her secluded beach house. Fair dinkum.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses
Jacob Thomas Nov 2018
Arabella,
let's lose ourselves together,
let us walk into the desert,
eyes in hand,
           hand in yours,
until dawn come forth
and new on the
Red razors edge;
let the bleeding sun sever
Sights once seen
greeting the eagles of
The sky--
           Greeting the mirages
Of the sun’s flaring eye,
           Quenching our thirst on
The grainy sand below; may
We Become intimate with
The wind
heeding its fables of all our
Wrongs and dead-ends; hearing
It present to the infinite plane
of our thought;
May the sun wear our
Skin warm,
Letting vulture's swoop down
To lay us in bed for life
            
          Beginning to dry by the
dusk of night, with the
friend of time in our core

Arabella,
We would no longer be found,
bound to this ground forevermore,
Waiting
Walking to your death with the love of your life
frankie crognale Jan 2014
i couldn't stop looking at this girl. i glanced down at my black leather jacket, black v-neck, ripped blue jeans, and black boots with the buckles on the side. i popped my collar and set out to find the girl i'd just found. i noticed the lights of this weird indie club i'd somehow ended up in. this music isn't normal "club" music. it's all arctic monkeys. the lyrics of these songs empowered me, i felt as though i had to continue my search for this soul.  despite the darkness, i slid on my aviators to protect myself from those blinding lights, and also to give me a hint of mysteriousness. girls love that.
and then there she was.
sipping on what appeared to be a bottle of coke, but i couldn't tell because of the ******* sunglasses i was wearing. she was standing laughing with one of her friends. she had such a different aura to her. i couldn't help but watch as she pulled out one of her organic cigarettes.
"i wanna make her mine." i thought to myself.
the lights reflected off the sweat on the walls as i tried to keep my cool, strutting my way over to her, hoping to get her eyes to lock onto mine. from what i finally saw of her in plain sight, she had love in her eyes and perfect lighting over her; like a camera plus filter. she took drags of that cigarette like some kind of goddess, causing me to get weak at the knees and form a lump in my throat, which i soon managed to somehow swallow. i had to find out who she was. i wanted her more than i'd ever wanted anything, or at least so i recall. i played out the scene in my head - we'd dance, and numerous guys would approach her. it was hard not to. i'd overpower them. "she's with me.", i'd say cooly.
i didn't realize all this fantasizing about my mystery girl had taken me so little time, because by the time i was finished my train of thought, i was standing right in front of her. god, i wanted her so bad. i swear, if i looked at her long enough, she'd steal my soul. the love in her eyes was contradicted by the incredibly **** sparkle in her iris.
"hello there beautiful. you seem to be having a lovely time. you're absolutely breathtaking, i'm forced to believe you are a certified mind blower. what's your name, milady?"
with a turn of her head, a bat of her lashes, and a flash of her perfect smile, she answered me in the most angelic voice i've ever heard.
"arabella."
inspired by the lovely lyrics of my favorite band ever, the arctic monkeys x
Ashwin Kumar Jun 2023
You people never took me seriously
For you, I was just a problem child
Who needed to be molded
According to your whims and fancies
You never saw me as an individual
Who has his own thoughts, feelings and emotions
My opinions never mattered to you
You wanted me to improve my verbal communication
As well as my body language
But you never even tried to understand me properly
It never occurred to you
That there is a reason why I am different
Or even if it did, you never truly cared
What bothered me the most, though
Was the fact
That you believed you were acting in my best interests
Of course, it was my mistake
Not to leave this accursed country
While I had the chance
And seek my fortunes elsewhere
A mistake I may probably regret
For the rest of my life
Anyway, as Arabella Figg once said
"There's no good crying over spilt potion"
I was a fool to listen to you
But I have progressed in life
Far more than you would've expected me
And not because of you
But in spite of you
Well, I would love to meet you one of these days
And prove to you
That verbal communication is overrated
Just like you yourselves are
We autistic people can do equally well, if not better
As compared to you neurotypicals
Who are obsessed with correcting others
Well, please look into the mirror
And just leave us alone
Worse than an enemy, is an NT with a saviour complex
Well, we can see right through you
You may think you are being kind and empathetic
However, in reality, you are just a bunch of condescending wankers
Who believe they are always right
Well, there is nothing wrong in having your own views
Just try not to force them down our throats
I will end on this note
Autistic people are human beings too
It is time you learned to appreciate that
A message to everyone who told me to improve my verbal communication and body language - teachers, mentors, classmates etc.
Holly D Aug 2014
I've realised how difficult it is to see when you're not there
When you don't shine with a smile that blows people away
When they yell and scream so loud I can't stay with them
When all I want to do is slip away
And fix myself

I've realised how difficult it is to smile when you're not there
When you can't laugh at stupid things that aren't funny
When they giggle amongst themselves about boys I don't know
When all I want to do is sleep
And forget myself

I've realised how difficult it is to breathe when you're not there
When you can't block out the people with your marginally carefree attitude
When they poke and **** my consciousness without even realising
When all I want to do is jump
And lose myself
Finally
Shin Aug 2019
My lips pursed by the power of Albus
as abuse lies dormant under my nose.
Oh how I wish I could be unbridled.
Oh how I wish I could just take a stand.

For now I'll sit in my matchstick palace,
I see the thorns, and I'll offer the rose.
Curse those soul-suckers while I sit idle.
Not Dementors, but family plagues this land.
A third thought of Harry Potter
RKM Apr 2012
It’s Sunday.
You are collecting rhododendrons
from the front garden with kitchen scissors.
I’m searching for ladybirds–

a new population has sprouted
and each flowerbed crawls
with scarlet beads.
I block their path

with an outstretched palm,
and when they climb aboard
they tickle a spiral around my arms.
we have built them a paradise,

a shoe-box of beetle dreams.
Our favourite is Arabella, who
has one spot out of place,
but we think it makes her more beautiful.
Samantha Jul 2015
sure I'd *******
if you want to
but conditions apply
there's a list of reasons why
you may deny my acceptance

1. turn off the lights
I feel safer under the shelter
of a night sky illusion
where your hands are guides
to the lines of my body
and you're too distracted to draw conclusions
about the fact that i gained ten pounds
it sounds like I want to hide from you
but in truth it's not you
it's the curves of my stomach
the stretch marks on my legs
only the light can reveal my disfigured shape

2. don't leave hickey's on my neck
my skin is a blank canvas
yet to be burdened with bruises
so there are no excuses
for leaving them where eyes roam
you don't have to be gentle
I don't mind coming home
and seeing your art work
but I don't want to have to explain
it will **** the beauty
when everyone can see
what somebody else could do to me

3. don't make promises you won't keep
don't decide to hold me
and tell me you love me
I accept your arms around my shoulders
I will not listen to your words
murmurs of nothing mean nothing to me
and I find it hard to believe
another girl won't fill the space
in the bed I'd once been
if it isn't forever
then let's not pretend
i'd much rather love you
and say you're a friend

4. play records in the back
I don't want to hear silence
or the sound of our movement
anything but nothing
would be an improvement
the whine of a vocalist hitting my ears
is the only thing that may keep me sane
I can never think straight
this strain on my brain can only be tamed
by the gentle noise
of Arabella in my head
If I can only hear your labored breaths
i will never feel relaxed
when I'm in your bed

5. don't do it again
I know the game
I'm willing to play
but I will not succumb twice
my heart may break the next day
when I realize your phone call
got lost in the mail
so I have to cut ties
because I'm not dumb
I mean nothing more
than any girl you had before
you see I do not pretend
that you love me
I know that tomorrow is the end
so do not ask me to come back
because I will
don't attack my heart with hope
when none remains

agree and i'll *******
if you still desire
true it seems strange
what I ask is required
I don't think it's too needy
just five simple tasks
but if it's too much
forget that I asked
i write the dumbest **** @ 5 am
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
i truly must have had one of those, very, very memorable nights, that i somehow also want to forget, so implant myself with false memories, oh, i've seen this done in a clinical environment, in psychiatry: it's called regression - a psychiatrist will call you up, he or she might have a handy student overseeing the "interview"... then he / she might insert a sort of: on the whim / "by the way" a speaking out-loud, referring to you in third person... e.g. oh... he was abused as a child... again.. to reiterate, today i woke up thinking i was screaming into the deafness of the night, not screaming via de profundis... more like... vitriol energy screaming: you ******* idiots! but i have proof... a nice, plum of an eye-sore... no mascara could do it justice... so it must've been a decent drinking session... my father just asked me... who gave you that LIMO... slang in ****** for a black-eye... LI-MO... thrill! i can find that in katakana: look at me go! ****... on L in Japanese... no trilling of the R either... WONG, WONG WONG.... let's see...  ha ha... oh but there is... you just have to be a rat, scuttle around the "palace" for a while... リ゜
                       モ
so when asked: who gave you the black-eye? i replied...
i was having issues with my shadow, who else?
i was punching myself in the head so hard, hey presto!
plum! ha ha...i always blame the shadow, we're always wrestling, no drinking session without a proper, fighting antagonism, the day  my shadow stops punching me, i, imagine, is the day some woman will come round and: ha ha... "kiss it all better"... for the time being... i like punching myself, i like... putting out cigarettes on my knuckles... masochistic little art of pseudo-algebra: X here, XXXX in total... it's always a good drinking session when i loose control, it usually happens when something is infuse... some minor biopic concerning Ted Bundy will do it... the erotica: YA-WN... i'm still trying to get paid... capitalism: sure... for some... i'm waiting... if they only pay me, properly... self-employed or PAYE (pay as you earn)... no one has bothered to clarify this with me... capitalism for some... i'll work, **** it... but the idea of bungee-jumping from some high building... no... not too alien... i can stomach the gravity, the thrill... i know that upon impact i'll meet sigma... alias of soul... my body's rent to begin with... no worries... i think i punched myself in the face since tomorrow i'm doing a stewarding shift up in Oxford... **** know's who's playing... i just want the supervisors to see my face... my whittle plum sore... if asked obviously i won't be telling them: i had an argument with my shadow... got in a fight, in a pub, self-defence... blah blah... oh no no... this metaphysical paradise belongs to me, to me: alone!

i almost feel terrible drinking this litre of bourbon,
you can't get better bourbon than ol' Jacky-boy'oh...
every time i open a bottle of bourbon
i'm reminded of the sort of perfumery you'd
most associate with a brothel -
bourbon scents = brothel scents...
bourbon is most certainly better than whiskey...
wait... no it's not...
bourbon is sweet whiskey...
i'm not much of a Laphroaig sort of guy...
come to think of it: on the spot...
i'd prefer a smoky whiskey... a Scotch whiskey
than this... sickly sweet bourbon...
perhaps i shouldn't have done
the no. 1, 2 & 3 (****, ****, *******)
& the no. 4 (the "baptism") prior...
sometimes you start drinking & absolutely nothing
feels right... i think my socks are stinking...
pregnant woman sensitivity to scents,
to tastes? do i really want to eat some cappers
or some gherkins to reach a counter balance
to this... sweetness...
i still haven't checked my newly set up bank
account regarding whether i've been paid
for my stewarding at stadiums...
o.k., o.k., think about going to the brothel...
let me just hope
i can sooth my disgruntled little self
with some decent d.i.y. music choices...
               or... if i get enough in... it really will
not matter what i'll be drinking by the end
of it...
Laphroaig... well... it's a bit like Marmite...
you either love it, or hate it...
i'm undecided... like i'm undecided about
bourbon... any other day i'd be loving it...
today... i'm undecided...
  perhaps i'm just used to drinking cheap whiskey,
cheap generic stuff...
i elevate the drinking experience by romancing
it: fraulein bernstein (ms. amber)
& mr. whiskers... etc.

- it really just takes a cigarette break & looking up
at the night sky... oi! baldy! where's that
old ******! never mind, but a night sky without
the moon is always an ugly night...
now i know what's up...

why did i watch no man of god today?
i had company when watching this movie...
but... how many more, how many more *******
movies about Ted Bundy? sure...
the movie was more about the FBI profiler
Bill Hagmaier... but still...
do we really need yet another movie about
Ted Bundy?! o.k. i know a little...
his mother had him out of wedlock,
he was raised on a lie: his mother was his "sister"
while his grandmother was his "mother"...
i dated a Russian girl for a while...
when i met the goons, sorry, her family...
way back in 2007... in St. Petersburg...
i was given the Ted Bundy introduction...
her mother was her sister...
her grandmother was her mother...
         what a freak of a woman: great ****...
tattoos and piercings...
she did this one number on me...
all scabs on her lips...
imitating the singer from hed(pe)...
wait... i'll look him up... jared gnome-head...
no offense: jared gomes...
all scabby... i implored her... take them out...
i implored her... cut those ******* dreads...
she complied to the point of...
proposing to me... she even chose
the ******* engagement ring...
she wanted me to get a tattoo... i refused...
even though she was this upstart tattoo artist
in the making...
she wanted me to get dreadlocks:
again... i refused...
thank **** that i disappeared from Edinburgh
and headed back down to London...
Ilona: thank you for introducing me to
BULGAKOV... i really enjoyed that book...
esp. reading parts of if
on my wait from St. Petersburg through
to London with a stay at Warsaw...
eh... as much as i love Dostoyevsky...
how he belittles Polacks every time he gets...
not to my taste...

2007... a pivotal year...
to cite Jung from the Answer to Job...
perhaps there are some female readers
in my audience, perhaps the Zodiac is to be minded...
this quote...
Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres -
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

a lot has happened since... 2007... don't you think?
oh, look-look... she was an Aquarius,
i am still a Taurus... but that break-up...
my god... what a harsh trip...
i remember walking up to her apartment armed
with a guitar... about to play her a serenade...
REJECTED: ha ha...
pushed back by her ex-boyfriend she was
******* and her ex-boyfriend's friend...
a Russian... ha ha... oddly enough:
called: GERMAN...

it's so almost yesterday... i can sigh a sort of relief
from this memory...
it's good to remember...
i never sought out that quality of forgetfulness...
i want to remember... i cherish memory
above thought... it's theatre...
i want to... remember... select...
what... i want to remember...
so that it can have a recurrent presence in my mind
like... that drill "sergeant" of
pedagogy that instilled 2 + 2 = 4 into me...
the ******* alphabet...

now i know why i have this bad taste
in my mouth from drinking bourbon...
it's not that i'm drinking bourbon...
i love bourbon...
when the Scots took the smoky route...
the Irish took the mellow route...
arriving at bourbon years later:
and on a different continent...
                                     do, i, look, bothered?!
i hope i do: i (might) also hope that you might
"think" i do... but... you're not, you don't
(seem to be)...
so? back to sq. 1: 'ere we go...

mighty fun playing the ******* or are least
pretending to be one...
akin to... pseudo Jack Nicholson
in that cameo role of his as
enrolled by: actor playing actor playing
an actor: Keith Allen...
Bodies... Dr. Tony Whitman...

me, you...Joseph Roth &
the doppelgänger, right & "who" else?!

now i know... that cigarette break really helped...
the bad taste in my mouth...
of course! i must be drinking h'american liquor...
i knew something was up...
couple h'american liquor with watching
no man of god i.e.
not another Ted Bundy flick... o.k.
women are attracted to psychopaths...
wannabe cannibals... fair, *******: enough...

black culture is superior to white culture...
sure... white people are ******* gagging
to incorporate it...
inter-sectionality always existed within
the confines of religion: religion was
always post-modernist... given the current trend
of "thinking": it always... incorporated
outside influences to create a cohesive:
snowball effect... what's ******* new?
discovering the continent of America in a tin
of ******* sardines?!

there's no tree, there's no dog barking...
you're just asking for a a wrong type of a mental
gymnast to make some, weirdly allocated,
point, of ref....
i'm not doing it... god help anyone...
no... not even the ******* devil would get into
this much... anti-fascinating sort of "juice"...
i wouldn't...

o.k. now i know...
i was drinking this most, bountiful of a fully-bodied
red wine yesterday...
a south african 2020 shiraz...
by the name of arabella (name sounds familiar...
an arctic monkey's song?!)
origin: western cape...

i think i must have mentioned
smoky whiskey vs. bourbon...
well... this glass of red was so good...
i had to breathe some nicotine smoke
into the glass... let's go... full out theatrical
on this: "blood"...

to reiterate... why so many movies about Ted Bundy?!
modern ******* is so...
******* ugly... even in the brothel i would never
want to **** women like the women ******
in *******... ****?! come on...
******* with the addition of choking?!

as a child i had a categorical dislike for liver,
pork liver... semi-goulash
with onions... with the addition of mash
& gherkins... or pickled beetroots...
this sort of material, this sort of ***...
puts me off...
i scratch my head and think:
Abel... because H'america was built on
the CULT of CAIN... their fascination
their celebration of serial killers...

prior to mentioned...
America is a CULT OF CAIN...
i'm with the Iranians on this...
     three names congregate...
Kurt Cobain... shot himself in the head using
a shotgun... sure... that's one way to go...
but... shooting yourself in the head...
doesn't simply "solve" the matter...
recall...
   Chrstine Chubbuck *** Adndrei Chikatilo...
bullet to the head...
for both...
a quote from Bane... a Batman fictional character:
perhaps he's wondering:
why someone might throw a man...
out of a plane... before shooting him in the head?!
why would you shoot someone
in the head... in an empty prison cell?!
if you were not expecting them to rot?!
best explored with the added tenderness added
to the attempted suicide attempt of the incel
that Ms. Chubbuck became?

why not make more movies about
the Zodiac killer... anyone?!
oh, sure... here's me readied to ******* to little
Wisconsin... or... **** knows where!

i was having some d.i.y. d.j. issues...
thought experiments... undogmatic & kernfeld...
"issues": yeah, i couldn't remember the song's name...
no, wait, the artists...

last came... the origins of the niqab hebrew
vowels...
the: hmm...
come to think of it... there's more...
such is the nature of hidden things...

Adam Kadmon [tetragrammaton(s)] apex...
Atzilut (nearness)
Beriyah (creation)
Yetzirah (formation)
Asiyah (making)...

vowels like diacritical markers...
caron, tail... umlaut...
well... for the Hebrews...
   A - kametz...
    E - tzere -
    I - chirek
   O - cholem
   U - Kibbutz... some others... i will miss...

the study of vowels, though...
since they are hidden...
the entire concepts of vowels in Hebrew...
the niqqud...
i ask... looking down at the chiromancy...
of, my... right, hand...
did not the vowels arrive in "our" consciousness
via the Sefirot root / branch of...
the Malkhut?!

    Adonoy... you know... when the current people
perform *** & it's so ******* off-putting:
primarily because... they talk...
during *******...
&... i don't want to be talking during ***:
why invoke / invite "god"?!
they can't... Niqqut / Malkhut the deed...
o.k.... not that i'm ******...
just... mildly annoyed...

      you don't need to **** & speak at the same
******* ****'s sake time!

Europe... some weird ******* funnel for
the world to congregate around...
white women... white women and their *******
sado-masochism...
the cult of cain in america...
white women and their afro-****-boys...
cry wolf while i go around arming myself
with Thai surprises& Turkish delights...

i oust my shadow from my presence
with a few drop-dead plums in search for "light"...
imagine me punching a woman silly to
later reason wth me...
oh... but no one is going to say anything about
me punching myself silly "SOY"..
been my: bean my baby?!

      now' the time i hark, now's the time i bark...
now's the time i fill the night with a stomach's
worth of...              GRUNT..
indigestion...

       die stücke, bewegen sich!
schach, ja?! nein?
                       was ist die alternative?!
hund?! leine?!
kiran goswami May 2020
Next doors, on the next floor,
I see a woman, everyday.
On some days, she looks at me with her eyes lifting off the newly mopped floor
On other days I find her staring blankly at the cloudless sky.

Her eyes, some days kaleidoscopic,
Some days achromatic,
A blank verse.


Her eyes hold her summertime sadness
And her happiness as capricious as melting snow,
While she stretches herself between her found past and lost future.
She ends up falling,
Softly,
From her core,
Like dough being stretched from both sides.
She picks herself up again,
And folds herself in her kitchen,
Like dough that fell while stretching.
She sways but never falls,
like a bobo doll


She always plucks a flower from her garden,
A rose.
Like it was given by her first love,
Or, by no one.

Her lips, scarlet yet pale,
She speaks three lines a day, a haiku.
But I hear three hundred sixty-nine, an epic.

Every fortnight, when the moon faces the west,
She picks a few sheets, thumbed and joint together,
called 'Cinderella'.
She reads to herself,
In a melancholic tone.
Just like her grandmother did.
She too was like Cinderella,
But Cinderella never mopped the prince's floor.

She smiles slightly,
when she looks at the new frame,
that embraces her old photograph.
And both smiles find similes between each other,
They look similar and are yet different.
She smiles again to drop the previous one,
like a wisteria that sheds its mauves.


She wears her enigma and dances with the moonlight,
While she talks of the days she loved.

She looks at the calendar and finds her birthday marked.
She knows again,
she will shed another part.

These parts first emerged when this glass doll fell
and
smashed into pieces.

Like a snake, she performs ecdysis
and every year a part of her is gone
until there is no more left to lose.
Thirty-nine years, and she lost herself twenty-nine times since she was ten.


Age Ten:
Her Barbie doll was thrown,
She had to ‘grow up’.
She was ten after all.
But when she tried to pick up a sword,
They told her ‘no’
She was a ‘girl’ after all.

Age Twelve:
Dad no more played ‘throw me up’ with her,
She could no more touch the sky,
She looked up in envy,
While the sky stared back with prejudice.

Age Fourteen:
Crimson and scarlet defined her now,
Every statement carried a clause,
and every clause a red stain.
Her calendar started being marked with red pen.

Age sixteen:
She was praised five times,
Her achievements were twenty-five,
While her brother was cheered a hundred times
But his achievements were ten.
During all her math classes she used to question
When did her parents’ ‘half love’ for each turn into one fourth for her.

Age seventeen:
The playground and the streets only heard the voices of boys
And never her laughter and cries.
‘Do not go outside; it is unsafe,' she was told
Her mother constantly reminded
‘Darling the world outside is dark,
Keep the doors of the heart closed'
She finally learnt a hundred such phrases.

Age eighteen:
She got a rose for the first time,
A fallen one.
She knew another first love was rejected,
like her.
Alas! she lost a love.

Age nineteen:
Her best friend changed from her mother to a collection of papers.
Her secrets changed from new toys to young boys,
She lost the pages of her heart with each rejected letter
She lost her mirror friend, who she thought was no better.

Age twenty:
The kid was lost,
She finally grew up,
But her feet told a different story
When they swung in the air to
‘If you are happy and you know it…’

Age twenty-two:
Pale, wan
Lean body wrapped in red
Her hands painted with heena.
And her lips sealed with lipstick.
The artist yesterday became a canvas today.
Age Twenty-three:
The chaste woman,
Now belonged to a man.
She used to scream out her insecurities,
He used to burn her purity.

Age Twenty-four:
Cradles,
Milk,
laughter and shrieks.
She left her cries in the tears of a child’s eyes.

Age Twenty-nine:
Wrinkles and stretch marks
Loose skin and spots so dark.
She was ageing,
Losing her clear young skin.
But a mother of two, didn’t care for such petty matters,
She didn’t give a lark.

Age Thirty-five:
‘Study well, be polite’
She told her children.
‘We will, we will’
Was all she heard.
‘Spend less, listen to me’
She pleaded with her husband.
‘I will, I will’
Was all she got.
She did not know when she had lost the respect for which she had always fought.

Age Thirty-nine:
Words left unheard.
Prayers left unheeded.
Shrieks lost in vacuum.
And she in her gloom.

She reminisces about the old,
While she loses the new.

As the day begins she collects her scattered words,
And tries to string them together with each chore.

Every Sunday she watches 'Roman Holiday'
Maybe she too wants her freedom,
Maybe she too wants to go back.
But like a 'macaw' that gently leaves her feather,
She too leaves her free past.

And when she blinks every three seconds,
I find the colour of her eyes changing.
From the darkest oceans,
To the lightest lilacs.
From the tiniest saplings,
To the tallest leaves.
From the withered clematis,
To the blooming arabella.
From the roses that she never got
To the blood she always bled.
From the dying dandelions,
To the fresh fallen snow.
And from the lightest night sky,
To her dark black eyes.
I find stories in her,
Unwritten so far.

Every 30 hours she drops an eyelash ,
Just like she dropped her dreams and hopes,
While she was busy becoming
A daughter,
A woman,
A wife
And then
A mother.
She is an ode to herself,
And a ballad to others.


And by the end of the day,
She becomes a poem.
A poem that is never written or read.
Arabella B Jul 2017
Dear person I hate,
You must have done something horrible if I hate you because there aren't many I hate.
I may be annoyed at you right now and hate you but I never hate someone for the rest of my life
I always forgive people. It is a flaw I have.
You only live once so why hold a grudge.
But you must work with me. If I turn away at first let me cool down
Time will settle things
I know that. And if I truly don't forgive you
That means you have ******* up because as much as I try to keep people in my life
If I see it won't work i will stop chasing.

So dear person I hate. Just give me time. I'll come around.

Sincerely,
            Arabella
A fifteen day letter challenge
Cynthia Oct 2018
WEIGH ANCHOR!
LOWER THE SAILS!
It's time! It's TIME,
We leave for the day!

So long, Tortuga!
We'll be back, in a while.
But for now, its the sea,
For my crew and I.

The sun is setting,
We'll follow the stars.
Another journey,
Breaking from our bars.

The warmth that we have,
Our ship, our Family.
The 'Arabella' sails out,
To the Hearth of the sea.
This is kinda a poem... from a book... that doesn't exist?
Arabella Apr 2017
"where did it go?"
one half said,
"it ran away with the fairies"
the other spoke.
I giggled at the two,
for the halves are my brain, aren't you like this too?
The voices swimming ever since I was five,
they are the very reason why I feel so alive.
They're coated in black,
their eyes a thick red,
I don't know where they came from but they're living in my head.

"Arabella my dear. why so sad"
its not my fault,
Its the voices dad.
They beat me and hurt me,
tear me into two,
tell me all the good things about dying too.

I love my little voices but wouldn't it be great,
if one day I woke up to find that they had gone?

But they have returned after a month and boy aren't they glad,
for they love to see me,
to see me sad.
© Arabella (05/04/17)
Third Eye Candy Mar 2019
I abort the assumption that my life is a narrow frame
and the idea of a frame.
I collude with my better Angels
and drink with the devils that remain nameless.
these days i embark on crude soil
and wishful think the rest of my redemption
like a gyroscope in a soap bubble
toying with the notion
of True North.

I exude the Arabella of my Comedy.
and never am I in Love with the viscous deluge
of my impending calamity. I eat the root of the rain.
but I upheave.
I challenge the voice in the noise. singing backward
from a hollow.
there are more things in my revery
than my sorrow.

sleep is a slow thief with sticky embers.
drooling languid fire where the wick
is most likely limbic nerve.
i prevent myself from a Hell with my name
because your name fits
and that’s my
world.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
i knew this was going to happen,
for three days i was beside myself after having met her
at work, the way she smiles...
she creases her face like someone might
crease a piece of paper...
there's nothing menacing about it...
but she does it in this most splendid of ways...

oh she went out of her way today,
she took out her earrings, she didn't have any
rings on her fingers...
i abhor any metallic additions to the body...
i esp. abhor earrings,
i esp. abhor rings on fingers...
i'm fine with a necklace...
but anything else is a massive turn off...
today i found that beside the hands being
the most ****** part of a woman's body...
closely second... are their ears...
and she's a petite girl... 5ft2...
when we finally said our goodbyes i only had
to wrap one hand around her to bear hug her...
we didn't kiss the cheeks upon meeting
so upon saying a long goodbye
i had to do it twice, before ******* off...

she said: between 5 and 6pm...
she first texted me: is it o.k. that we move it for 6pm?
sure... no problem...
so i ate a brilliant salmon teriyaki
noodles... tarted myself up...
the housework was already done,
i stocked up on whiskey for tomorrow:
Bolton Wanderers are apparently going
to be a rowdy bunch up in Oxford...
put on my butcher boy's cap...
dressed in my per usual attire of...
how did my ex's younger sister put it?
oh... 'Matt... he's always dressed in earthly colours'...
yep... anything brown, green,
i'll be wearing that...

         it's a good thing that i use my mobile
when i have access to the internet indoors...
and when outside? i only turn on mobile data
when i need to call someone,
otherwise i switch it off...
      i'm travelling... whether that's by car,
bicycle or merely walking...

she sent me a text...

   Matt i was fine til about 30mins ago... now i'm
doubled up with a belly ache (crying emoji face)
probably trapped wind (sad emoji face)
might have to put you off for an hr see if it subsides x


there's no hindsight with that...
i arrived five minutes prior to six pm...
bearing... the promised bottle of wine...
some banana loaf i made for her son:
at one point the dog was barking mad about sniffing
it out... she had to tell the dog off...
'no, it's not yours'...
and a bottle of Franziskeiner Weissbier for myself...
i asked to be topped up with a glass
of wine: my throat was getting dry...

she wasn't going to stall me...
oh, you want to know what teenage butterflies feels,
having them in your stomach?
it was silly of my to have felt them for
3 days after meeting you?
you're not getting off so easily...
if you have feelings for me?
you're going to feel them...

and she was all ready to begin with...
scented candles in the house, the house tidied up...
incense in the kitchen...

now i see the bigger picture...
women only love men by the women feel about
themselves around certain man...
i mean... i dated a 6ft girl once... but this one...
this pretty red-haired ****** has me all fired up...
and it now seems... she's reciprocating...
we're still at this nervous stage of out-thinking
each other...

but when she opened the door i could see...
ooh oh... something's up...
she tried to not be nervous...
i gave her my home-made wine in
a wine bottle from South Africa: Arabella...
i just sent her a link to a song
that inspired me: the Arctic Monkeys' song
of the same title...

i came at 6... left eleven minutes past 9pm...
she wanted me to stay longer,
but i said to her: and you know i have work
tomorrow... plus you said you came back
from work and Freddy came back from school
and you really haven't spoken to each other...
plus you just said you're going to run a bath...

my god, how she elevated her beauty without
donning any armour of rings and earrings...

yeah, i know there's a kid in the background...
that's why i brought the banana loaf with me
and i'm not thinking about sleeping with her...
i need to elevate the tension in her...
until she snaps...

          time... precious time...
and as he put a chair in the kitchen for me to sit on...
and as i watched her prepare a meal for her son...
my god... how happy she looked...
she played all the songs that spoke for her...
we exchanged a like for Dua Lipa and Mabel...
what?!
she danced, she laughed, she sang...
she has a beautiful voice...
she delighted me... with her new found happiness...

she danced, she laughed, she sang...
she almost looked like a teenager once more...
i just sat there before another face emerged
when my voice suddenly dropped lower
and became more husky...

come on, what are my options?
she has lost a few children along the way via miscarriage,
she only has this one boy,
i tell her: i'm the only child myself...
her older brother is living with his parents
and he's a bully,
i tell her: i'm rather ashamed of still living with
my parents, but i do all the cooking,
the cleaning and if the garden needs work...

she's super excited about having a hot tub...
i have a hot tub... not one of those inflatable types...

she illuminated her vinyl player today
when i sent her a photo of my rack with books
from the floor to the ceiling and a bunch
of vinyls: oh, you should have told me...
i would have brought a record over...
blah blah...

i don't know how 6pm turned into 9pm...
well... if the dog is barking mad about sniffing that banana
loaf... i hope the two of them will be as mad
about it as the dog...
but it's only fair... if i'm getting butterflies in my stomach
after initially meeting her...
she should feel some of that herself...
see if she likes it...

i didn't... we gently touched hands while she showed
me a book of pictures of old Romford...
i told her: i'll bring a copy of a book: similar
from where i was born... famous in the 20th century
for its metallurgy... all those metal poles
at that Paris stadium? they came from my hometown...

Edinburgh is as dear to my heart as Paris...
believe me... that city has ghosts...

it's such a perfect storm...
     she has her period pains and psychosis...
i've had my psychosis and ejaculations...
you know: mad meets mad...
all her past relationships were with violent
alcoholics... i'm a drinker that makes his own
wine... the only person i was ever violent to
when drinking? me... i put out cigarettes
butts on my knuckles when i say to myself:

ENOUGH, OF THE *******, BUTTERFLIES!
i need a higher experience...
none of all this mushy-mushy *******...
i need a penetrating sensation...
something that goes into the territory of
the nerves...

my god, how she danced, how she laughed, how she sang...
i'm pretty sure her son was like:
who's this guy that's making my mum
feel so good about herself?
she literally ran outside of the house
and started dancing in the garden...
yet all the while trying to stall me... ghost me...

no... i'm not having it... you're getting this wine,
you're getting this banana loaf: whether
you like it, or not...
i'm not going to drink it, i'm not going to eat it...
i really don't care about your past...
sure... you ****** up...
anyone who hasn't ****** up...
is about to **** up...
but, see... it's not like she's even remotely interested
in what i have to say...
she's so high on herself that i fall back...

why am i only child? well... you know... Chernobyl...
women in Poland had to drink iodine... blah blah...
she's not exactly interested in me...
i know that... because she's regained a focus
for being re-interested in herself...
she's found herself, once more,
but the self she found... oddly enough:
she didn't expect to be so young!

she looked like a teenage girl, she behaved like
a teenage girl...
   it's very lovely to see a woman nearing her 40s
behaving like she might be...
oh... i'd say in the range of 8 through to 14 years of age...
let's get real...
i'm not going to be looking for women in their
20s... all geared up for their anti-racist
black fascist ****** escapades...
o.k., darling: you do you...

                n'ah... i'm not having any of that crap...
give me a: cougar...
a puzzle-box of a woman...
let me see if i can fit it... into her life...
i don't do anti-racism...
after all... all the Jimmy Carr jokes wouldn't
be funny...
why would i want Jimmy Carr's jokes
to not be funny...
point blank reference... stand-up comedy:
the monologue approach to jokes
is a very English thing...

in Poland? you have satire... satire staged
within the confines of a... cabaret...
you have cabaret comedy...
which involves multiple actors...
rarely... almost never will you have
monologue stand-up comics...
stand-up comedy is an exclusively English
"thing"...

but the English are not really prone to
enjoy satire... beside... a newspaper comic strip...
that's about how much satire as
the English public entertains...
not to mention... "us", Polacks...
are a very self-deprecating people...
comedy is very self-deprecting...
but the people who enjoy it...
take themselves very seriously...
weird, no?
maybe because the theme of satire is only
allowed for political "concerns" and is never
made omnipresent in an English society...
bad translation...
everyday people can't be satirised in
the satire of everyday situations
for the simple reason that there has to be
a comedy sketch of: someone appearing / thinking
they're smarter than the other person...
therefore? the comedy of one...
rather than the satire of the many..

i.e. the situation is funny... therefore everyone is
in on the joke...
no... in England... this hyper-inflated gut *** of
emotions of non-feeling...
the personal joke is more important than
a shared joke... satire via the cabaret is of
the latter category... the former? eh... solipsism...
autism... whatever you want to call it...
it takes... a whole lot of specifics to get it right...
but stand-up comedy...
from what i've seen...
doesn't translate as well as you go further east...

a bit like THINKING... English people are too
pragmatic to think... in Europe: "thinking" is either
done by the French or the Germans...
pragmatic... egalitarian... unitarian...

ah... now i see why she was bothered about...
why i used G... instead of J when writing down
her name... the daughters of Job...
the other two were Keziah and Keren...
little dove...

and i subsequently sent her an explanation...
blah blah... well...
there's that... now i can return to drinking
and rubbing my hands together
like a fly.

— The End —