i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes

Under her dark veil she wrung her hands.
"Why are you so pale today?"
"Because I made him drink of stinging grief
Until he got drunk on it.
How can I forget? He staggered out,
His mouth twisted in agony.
I ran down not touching the bannister

And caught up with him at the gate.
I cried: 'A joke!
That's all it was. If you leave, I'll die.'
He smiled calmly and grimly
And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.' "

Indigo. A dream of the color, and the sound of soft rain. Bathing birds babbled among pines beyond her window, and morning light was warm on her closed face. An ache in the spine. Creaking knees. Shoulders cold cliff-rock. Complaining muscles knotted tight as wood. The wooden house around her also creaked in the wind. Smelled wet. And somewhere echoing through her fields Edgar barked three times, then once more in playful affirmation. Today maybe the last today. In her mind’s eye, falling almost back into dream, Nora surveyed the long acres surrounding her cold home: untended wheat, alfalfa, cattle-corn, all woven through untold ecosystems of weeds. Stray indigo flowers and violets. Scattered dust-filled barns. What the place might look like after all this time. With her right hand she sought the frame of the bed, found it, rough chips of paint flaking. Slowly exhaling at once Nora lifted her iron legs over the edge, thin-socked feet found the bedroom’s planks. Cold air. November hopelessness. With spider-sensitive fingers she plucked her way around the room, imagining violet dawn spilling through her screen window. Stood before the poker-faced mirror out of habit, ran her brush through hair that must now be silver. She felt the satisfying tug on her scalp and loudly past her ears. If her dresser was in front of her, to her right was the window and the pine-scented boxes where she kept his clothes, behind was her rumpled bed, and to her left then was the bathroom. She felt along the door-frame, the sink, the toilet, and sighingly she settled onto its seat. Relief.
Rain drops on her roof were like the “shh” breathed to an infant. Warm blanket of rain over the cold farm. The breathy wind was driving the rain towards her house, cranky knees told of a storm to come. The boisterous wind had the sound of laughter and strife, of voices: the twins arguing somewhere, Edgar probably with them over-enthusiasticly ******* their footsteps. The bellowing wind made the house creak more than usual, but there was something else. A distinctive groan from the foundation up the east wall to the roof-tiles. Someone was in the kitchen. Constance, just like it used to be. Connie was here and the twins were outside: they had arrived closer to dawn than Nora expected. Heavy truck’s tires in mud, headlights had pioneered dawn darkness. Smell of soil. Massaged her own back, kneaded the the flesh on either side of her spine, then wiped and stood from the seat letting her nightgown fall all down around her knotted ankles. Washed herself, and a short shower before the water turned cold. Dried her wrinkles feelingly, smelling soap, and pulled her soft nightgown back on. Socks.
Always a joy whenever Constance came to call — less frequently these days it seemed — always a joy to be with her grandchildren though little Bastian was still mistrustful of her. Always a joy to see her daughter’s family… but she never got to see Matt’s. An image of her son’s face, a red haired ghost of the past, flickered in Nora’s memory. He couldn’t stand this place since he was young, hated his full name “Matthias,” maybe hated Nora too. No reason to stay after his father died. He fled to the city. Must have a wife, several children by now. Well. At least Constance kept coming by. The rain grew heavier, played on the roof like the roll of a snare drum.
Out of the bathroom and bedroom, feeling the planks of floorboard with her soles, hand by hand and foot by foot she traced her steps down the rickety stairs. Uneven. Nora knew the chandelier she once hung here was red; she pictured the color as hard as she could to envision its reflection on each surface of the stairwell. Smell of pine. Like the smell of his clothes safely preserved in the boxes by the window. Jagged nostalgia. Nora had met dear Rowan back in another world: a world of whirling sights and colors and beautiful ugliness and ugliest beauty all. To America when she was nineteen, leaving behind all Germany and studying her new tongue. Had still devoured books then, was able to become a school teacher. When twenty-three, met in a chance cafe Rowan who worked the docks. Red hair. Scottish but of many American generations. Nora grabbed blindly at a face just out of memory’s reach. Her hold on the bannister revealed the places where varnish had been rubbed away by her wringing hands. From the kitchen, acrid cigarette stench and shuffling. Inflamed knees hating her meticulous descent, but better this ordeal each day than to abandon the bedroom they had shared. When the two met, Rowan still sent money to his agricultural folks in New York (“Upstate,” he protested more than once, “Not that awful city, but in the countryside!” and he’d pantomime a deep breath) because of the expenses of running their farm. Nora’s now. From the cafe he had bought her an almond pastry, triangular, smaller than a palm, its sweet crisp flakes made her think of Mediterranean forests, and when the two were married they worked this hereditary farm. Nora knew all the animals, when they still kept livestock. Now Nora’s farm, whose after? When her little Matthias was born they had praised him as the farm’s inheritor. Unwise.
Last step. Sound from the kitchen of Connie shifting in her seat, rustling papers. Smell of strong coffee. Strong cigarettes. Composed herself, quietly cleared throat. Sauntered down the hallway, monitoring expression and tone. Nora said, “Hello Constance. When did you three get here?”
“Hey ma,” said the woman’s voice when the elder crossed into the kitchen. “For christ’s sake don’t call me that.”
“For christ’s sake, don’t take his name,” Ma scolded, but then traced her way past the table to the countertop and felt about for utensils. “I’ll make you something Connie.” The counter was in front of her, bathroom to the left, stove to her right and along that same wall was the back door. ”How about some nice eggs and toast like how you like.”
“No ma, I handled it already.”
“And what color is that hair of yours this time?” Ma asked, carefully inserting slices of bread into the toaster. “Seems like months you haven’t been by.”
A patronising, sarcastic chuckle. “…it’s orange, ma.
Listen—”
“That is so nice. Your father’s hair was just that shade of orange.” Felt around inside the refrigerator. The styrofoam carton. Small and cold and round, her fingers seized four of them. “Do you remember?”
Pause. “I remember, ma.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Ma swallowing a cough, expertly igniting one gas burner as practiced and putting on hot water for tea, “is why you don’t fix to keep it natural. I love our nice fair hair, very blonde, very pretty.” Back home in Germany Nora had been the favorite of two men, but many years since engaging in the frivolous antics she in those days entertained. “Best to flaunt your natural hair color while it’s still there: orange like Matt and dear Rowan, or fair like you and Lorelai got.” Memories of her own face as she remembered it. Relatively young the last time she had seen. What wrinkles there must be. What a mask to wear. No wonder Bastian. Nora ignited another burner. Tick tick tick fwoosh. Smelled gas. Sound of the almost boiling water complaining against its kettle. Phantom taste of anticipated tea. Regret. The contents of the vial hidden on the top shelf. Today maybe the. Sound of heavy rain. “And how are your bundles of mischief?”
Connie sighed. “I told Lorelai to get her little **** inside the house, as if she hears a word. She’s playing with Ed somewhere in the fields I don’t wonder, rain be ******. That girl is such a little — well she’d better not be down by the creek anyhow. Could get flooded in a downpour like this. Bastian was out with her, but he’s playing in his room now. You know we don’t have time to stay long today, it’s just that you and I got to finally square this business away. No more deliberating, ok?”
Swallowed. “Course, Constance. Just nice to hear your voice. You’re taking care?”
“Care enough. Last time I was — oh! Jesus, ma!”
Ma’s egg missed the pan’s edge. She felt herself shatter the shell into the stove top, in her mind’s eye saw the bright orange yolk squeezed into the albumen. The burner hissed against liquid intrusion. Connie made a strained noise and scooped her mother into a seat at the table. Movement. Crisply, the sound of two fresh eggs being broken and sizzling on the pan. Scrambled as orange as Connie’s guarded temper. The table’s cool surface. Phantom smell of pine wood polish and recollections of Rowan at his woodworking tools building this table once. Other breakfasts. Young Constance, young Matthias. Young self. Her left hand massaged her aching right shoulder, then she switched. The sound of plates being readjusted with unnecessary force.
“You know,” said her daughter, “living in one of them places might even be fun. Might be good for you instead of moping about this place. But like I’ve been saying, we got to make our decision today: sell this place or pass it on. I know you don’t take no walk, cause where would you go? What’s the point in keeping all this **** land if you’re not gonna do nothing with it? You can’t even ******* see it!”
“Constance! Language!”
“Come on ma, just cut it out! This is great property, and you’ve let it get so it’s bleeding money.”
“…But Constance I can’t sell it, not like your brother wants me to do. He’s always trying to get rid of this place and turn a profit, but someone needs to take care of it! You know that this is the house that your f—“
“‘That your grandparents lived in where your father and I raised you…’ Yeah I know, ma. And I get it. Believe me. But what you’re doing is just plain impractical, why don’t you think about it? All you’re doing is haunting this place like a ghost. Wouldn’t you rather live somewhere where you can make friends? Things can’t go on like this.” A plate was placed softly on the table and it slid in front of Ma. Can’t go on like this. Egg smell. Salted. Toast, margarine. A cup of tea appeared nearby. “Anything else you want? Here’s a fork.”
“What will you eat, Constance?”
“I ate, ma, I ate already. Have your breakfast, then we can talking about this for real. Ok?” Then, the sound of her daughter’s body shifting in surprise, a pleasant unexpected, “Oh,” before Connie said low and matronly, “Hi baby, how you doing? Are you hungry?” But only the sound of the downpour. Orange eggs still softly sizzled. The wind pushed the creaking house. “Sweetie, you don’t have to hide behind the door, it’s ok. Come say hi to grandma… don’t you want some scrambled eggs?” Refrigerator’s hum. Barking echoed, coming over the hill. But not even the little boy’s breathing. Grandma had met the twins two years ago, following the **** of Constance’s rebellious years and independence. Nora was reminded of her german gentlemen and her own amply tumultuous adolescence. She could forgive. Two years ago Lorelai and Bastian had already been too big to cradle and fawn over, but they were discovered to be just starting school and already bright pupils. Grandma hung her head. Warm steam from where the uneaten eggs waited patiently. Edgar’s approaching yapping. And, fleeing from the doorway, a scampering of feet so light they might have been moth wings. Down the hallway back into his room. “Sorry ma,” said Constance.
Shrugged. A nerve flared in pain up her neck but she didn’t react. Only fork scrape. Ate eggs. On introduction, poor little Bastian had burst into tears and refused to go near her. Connie had consoled: “It’s ok baby, she’s just Grandma Nora! She’s my mother.” But poor little Bastian inconsolable: “No, no, no! She’s not!” What a wrinkled mask it must be. How hideous unkempt with silver hair. How horrible unflinching eyes. “She’s not,” would sob the quiet boy in earnest, “she’s a witch! Don’t you see?” And he never would let Grandma hold him. Lorelai was always polite, hugged warmly, looked after her pitiable brother, but her mind too was far elsewhere. Edgar alone loved them all unconditionally and was equally beloved. Barking. Yowling. Scratches at the door. Downpour. Door and screen door opened, wet dog happy dog entered, shook, and droplets on her cheek.
And there appeared Lorelai, a star out of sight. “Hey mom. Hi grandma!”
Grandma swiveled for cosmetic reasons to face where the door. Grinned, “Hello Lorelai. Wet?” Envisioned yellow sunlight entering with the excitable girl in spite of the deluge.
“Oh it’s so rainy out there grandma, I found little streams through your fields and big mud puddles and Edgar showed me where your secret treasure was, we found it!”
“Stop right there, missy!” commanded Constance. “For christ’s sake you look like you took a bath in the mud and the **** dog with you. Come on, your filthy coat needs to be on the rack, right? Now your boots.”
Warm nose found Nora’s palm, excited lapping. Slimy fur, smelly fur. A cold piece of egg dangled in her fingers, then dog breath came hot and licked it up. Satisfied, he trotted off elsewhere, collar jingling out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Little Lorelai lamented, “I couldn’t help it mom, the mud was all over the place! When we got past the motor barn and the one alfalfa field that looks like a big marsh frogs went ‘croak croak croak’ but Edgar growled and chased them and then we made it all the way in the rain to the creek and it’s so much—”
“Now you just hold on. Hold still!” Sounds of wrestling. Grunts of a struggle. “That creek must have been overflowing! Didn’t I tell you not to? You didn’t take your new phone out there did you, Lori?”
“No ma’am.”
“**** right you didn’t, cause I sure ain’t buying you a new one. Didn’t I tell you not to go all the way out there? Didn’t I? Now you get into that bathroom and wash your **** hands!”
“But I’m telling Grandma a story!” huffed little yellow haired Lorelai.
“Well wash your hands first and then we’ll hear it, Grandma don’t listen to misbehaving girls who are all muddy and gross. Not a squeak from you till you look like you come from heaven instead of that nasty creek.”
A profound sigh, a condescending, “Fine,” a door closing and a squeaky faucet running. Muffled hands splashed, dampened off-key ‘la la la’s.
“Who knows what the hell that one is ever talking about,” said Connie. “It’s everything I can do to get her to shut up for five ******* minutes. You done with your eggs?”
Ma fidgeted. The plate was scraped away, and a clunk by the sink. Licked her lips, mouthed a syllable, about to speak. But then her house creaked three strong along the east wall. From deeper within bubbled a suppressed sob: “Mom,” little Bastian wailed, “Mom, come quick!” Constance sighed, Constance cursed, and Constance swept off down the hallway struggling to refrain from stomping.
Sound of washing. Wind. Rain. Alone. Cold. Picking out the paint for this room, listed in gloss as ‘golden straw yellow.’ Rowan hadn’t liked it and chose himself the bedroom’s color in retaliation. The loss of the home they had built together. The contents of the vial hidden on the top shelf: do they see it? Bathroom sink stopped flowing, door wrenched open. Smell of soap, clean smell. Grandma said to her, “Your mother went to check on Bastian,” Taste of eggs still yellow on her tongue.
“What a *****!”
Stunned. “Lorelai!” she snapped. “Don’t you dare take that language!”
“But mom does it all the time.”
“Then Lorelai, it’s up to you to be better than your mother. When I’m not around any more, and your mother neither, you’ll be the one who keeps us alive.”
“But as long as you’re alive you’ll always be around, you’re not a ***** like mom. And remember? I got all the mud off so can I finally tell you can I what we found? Well actually it was Edgar found it. Oh and I’ll describe it real good for you grandma just like you could see it: when we pulled up we were just wandering in the blue rain, Bastian and me, and silly Edgar joined us but Mom tried to make us come back of course but I told Bastian to stay with us at first, but later I changed my mind on it. It was he and me and Edgar were hiding in the old motor barn where it smells like a gas station remember grandma and he was so excited to see the sun when it rose and made the morning violet sky he started clapping and Edgar got excited too and was barking ‘bark bark’ and howling so I told Bastian to go back even

Love is a word
like a sword
that has worn
out its scabbard,
a lonely *******,
or a red rose
that opens alone,
a dream that lingers
for too many seasons
and passes in the shadows,
furrows in the dust
on a bannister,
a rock in the garden
of lust,
an empty place
at a table,
a ring on a cobweb
in the rain,
a long hair on your bed,
a nail in a blank wall.

I’d swear a monster lived in the hall
Of the house when I was young,
Just like the tiger under the bed
I could see when they were gone,
For I could hear him climbing the stair
When the house was fast asleep,
I knew he roamed around and about
When the stairs began to creak.

And then he’d enter my bedroom and
He’d re-arrange my toys,
That’s how I knew he disliked me, he
Kept all his tricks for boys.
He never bothered my sister, or
Disturbed her dolls and things,
Her bedroom was like a sanctuary
For her necklaces and rings.

He’d hide in all of the daylight hours
So he’d not be seen by them,
The others, who would make fun of me
When I warned them all again:
‘You wait, he’s going to take you out
He will catch you unawares,
You won’t be able to scream or shout
When he comes, and climbs the stairs.’

The winter months were both damp and cold
And the woodwork creaked and groaned,
It shrunk and stretched, it was getting old
And it hid the monster’s moans.
So I hid down by the bannister
And I tied a string across,
To trip him when he would climb the stairs,
I would teach the monster loss!

A storm was raging outside that night
And the wind howled through the trees,
The back door opened and flapped a lot
And let in a winter breeze,
I heard my father run down the stairs
And an awful cry and crash,
Then silence settled and fed my fears
Where the bannister was smashed.

I thought the monster was gone for good
With the service come and gone,
I thought he couldn’t survive that crash
And the crematorium,
But barely a week had passed us by
And the stairs began to creak,
So I placed a candle under the stair
And the place burned for a week.

David Lewis Paget

In 1983, the Fashion Design Council burst on to the Melbourne scene like a Liverpool kiss to the mainstream fashion industry. Inspired by punk's DIY aesthetic and armed with an audaciously grandiose title, an earnest manifesto and a grant from the Victorian government, FDC founders Robert Buckingham, Kate Durham and Robert Pearce were determined to showcase the burgeoning Melbourne design scene in all its outrageous glory.

"People resented hearing about Karl Lagerfeld," says Durham. "Our movement was against the mainstream and the way Australians and magazines like Vogue treated Australian designers."

Over its 10-year lifespan, the FDC launched such emerging designers as Jenny Bannister, Christopher Graf and Martin Grant. But what was perhaps most exciting was the FDC's ecumenical approach. Architects, filmmakers, artists and musicians all partied together at runway shows held in nightclubs.

"It was an inventive time when people came together and made people notice fashion," says Durham.

Among the creative congregation, Durham remembers artist Rosslynd Piggott, who constructed dresses of strange boats with children in them and filmmaker Philip Brophy, who used "naff" Butterick dress patterns. Elsewhere, an engineer made a pop-riveted ball dress out of sheet metal. The crossover between music, art, graphic design and film extended to architects such as Biltmoderne (an early incarnation of celebrated architects Wood Marsh) who designed the FDC's favourite runway and watering hole, Inflation nightclub.

"Clothing was confronting," says Durham. "It was brash and tribe-oriented. It was quite good if you weren't good-looking. People liked the idea that this or that clothing style was going to win you friends."

Today, however, even Karl Lagerfeld has a punk collection. To complicate matters, "fast fashion" appropriates the avant-garde at impossibly low prices. The digital era too has caused the fashion world to splinter and bifurcate. What's a young contemporary designer to do?

"The physical collective is no longer that important," says Robyn Healy, co-curator of the exhibition High Risk Dressing/Critical Fashion, which uses the FDC as a lens to view the current fashion landscape. "These are designers who are highly networked through social media who put their work up on websites."

Fashion designers still use music, film and architecture, but in different ways. Where FDC members might document its runway shows with video, studios such as Pageant use video as the runway show and post them online. Social media is perhaps the big disrupter. Where FDC designers might collaborate with architects, today it's webdesigners.

"Space has changed," says Healy. "Web designers might be the equivalent of the architect today. It's a different use of space."

As grandiose as the FDC, yet perhaps even more ambitious in scope, is contemporary designer Matthew Linde's online store *** gallery, Centre for Style. Like the FDC, it offers space for "artists who aren't at all designers per-se, but they're dealing with a borrowed language from fashion", Linde told i-D magazine.

"It's an extraordinary juggernaut across the world with a huge amount of Instagram followers," says co-curator Fleur Watson. "[Linde] has created a brand that uses social media in an interesting avant-garde way."

Yet unlike their often untrained FDC counterparts, these designers are perhaps the first generation of PhD designers, notes Watson. "Robert Pearce had a belief in culture changing the world. That's what these new designers are reflecting on in their research, their position in the fashion world and how do they change the way fashion works?"

While it's also true that new technologies offer exciting possibilities in embedded fabrics and experimentation with 3D printing, fast fashion has created certain expectations.

As Cassandra Wheat of the Chorus fashion label laments: "It's just hard for people to understand the complexity and the value that goes into production without being really exposed to it. They think they should have a T-shirt for cheaper than their sandwich."

During the course of the exhibition Chorus will produce its monthly collection from one of the newly designed spaces within the gallery. The exhibition's curators have commissioned three contemporary architects who, like its '80s counterparts, work across the arts, to interpret FDC-inspired spaces. Matthew Bird's Inflation-influenced bar acts as a meeting place for the exhibition's forums and discussions on the contemporary state of fashion. Sibling architects abstracts the retail space, while Wowowa's office design resembles a fishbowl. For Watson, the exposed shopfront/office has as much front as Myer's. Its architecture suggests the type of brazen confidence every generation of fashion design needs. Says Watson: "Fake it till you make it."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2017

Will anyone remember how I placed the empty mug
On our bannister
At the top of the stairs.
Like everything now,
It was waiting
Like all of us,
To be cleansed
To be filled
To be emptied
And start again.

I am standing on a staircase, on the seventeenth step,
but the eighteenth onwards has no bannister,
up until now, I've had a safety net,
something to lean on when
the steps aren't lit properly.

'Now', I tell myself,
'I've seen people who have fallen
and manage to grip to the edge
and pull up...towards the next'.
'But I've seen people fall
and never get up'.

I say;
'Am I another statistic?
Am I another failure?
Am I another mangled corpse for the cleaners?
Or...
Am I going to lift my leg and take that step?
Am I to ignore the thoughts?
Am I stronger than I let myself think?'

I lift my leg.

Upwards and onwards, I guess.

These are the moments poets write about, paintings waiting. Quiet city streets at sunset, building, highrise sentinels of man's unquenchable thirst for conquest, and all of us together under one sky, waiting.... This radio screaming in my ear, Bon Iver, Conner Oberst, the other poets that wander these lost, lonely alleys. Sun's rays fading, as city lights rise. The soft blue becoming the strange azure, that fades to my indigo incandescent familiarity. This nighttime refuge of lost souls, wandering the frozen streets, and becoming something more than the sun can make them. That soft, ragged, imagined power coming from within each of us, in the open darkness of a concrete river. Nothing has changed but the light, and the new light makes each of us something more than we were in the rays that preceeded it. There is nothing to take away, nothing to subtract, nothing to glean. Just this place, this almost-lostness, betraying in itself the proclaimed divinity of dark. Stepping back, without looking behind, not knowing that the fear in front of you cowers before the monster behind your back. Just. Live. Be, let the being become you, and embrace this inner-self so few have seen, so few have touched, so few have truly loved. realize that all things wear a darker form, and the things that lay in wait under these city streets are dangerous. The way a chainsaw is dangerous in the hands of a child. There is no way to know who will get hurt, and once the chain of events is initiated, there is no way to safely remove the weapon from the hands of the naïve. Things that bite, hiding in dark corners, and laying wait for the lost, weary, and heartbroken. Lighted hallways, entrances into the other realm of indoors, torch-lit passages into forbidden and mysterious kingdoms. Every stairwell lit. The bannister to the lower, and upper, a stripe on walls as I drive on. Two million bulbs of nightlight security, and still this city finds shadows in which to hide fear. Dark corners for the lonely, and blind alleys for the lost. Every heart beating, fresh hot blood, and no warmth to share. Scared and alone, wanderers all, until the burn of the light we call home beckons us there. This passing of time, a gift, from gods unseen, and hands unheld. Colded fingers for want of a lovers touch, or the precious gift of familiarity in a foreign land. Alien landscape, and this, my unfettered direction of ambiguity. Directionless wandering for want of a chosen path, and no choice but to take the offered road. The fear secondary only to the loneliness, oh that curse that comes again.

Dear Me..... First let me say that i love you.  That's real talk.  I have nothing to gain....after all we share the same names.  I've been with you throughout the years.
I vividly remember all those tears.

The abuse and yelling and screaming and running away.  I have bad memories.... like your father dropping you over the bannister causing you to visit the hospital that day.  He was cracking jokes....while we had a hole in our head.....I recall... not so fondly the words he said "don't tell your mother....don't say a word." He had a nerve to repeat it as if I hadn't heard.

Yes...he said it was your fault...but i new better.  I wanted to give you some closure....so I'm writing you this letter.  I hear you tell the stories every now and then.....you tell it with a smile although there is pain that still resides within.

How many times did we wander the street? ...searching and begging for change .....just to get something to eat.  The one that was supposed to love you.....really didn't know how ......his father died when he was fourteen.

How could he care for you and he was only nineteen?  Then he started to hustle and bought a store......got high off his own supply .....firebombed his house.....because when the kids were younger ......he would make them cry.

I remember him saying that you wouldn't amount to much and smacking you in front of his friends for GP.......it wasn't just you.... he did it to me.  

But enough of that.....Look in the mirror and see the man I see.  Can you see those eyes? Hey ....that's me.  You have have come a long way.......abuse,cheating spouse who had a child by another.....where's Rihanna? I could use an umbrella, ellla,ellla,aye.

The divorce took a toll on us.....I'm glad you went to church.  In God we trust. Thank you for writing and saving us....you held so much in I'm surprised you didn't bust.

You have been through a lot in this life and I just want to tell you.....You are more than a conqueror and you will win.  I'm going to be by your side until the end.

I love you like I love my Son......now I want to shine like one. I'm proud of you. I want your faith to increase....greater is he that is in me..than that is in the world.

Sincerely yours......Jesus and me

Words meander alabaster wanderers no rhythm for the panderer
Poetic evangelists sliding on the bannister, siding with a barrister
Space flown canister or crushing apples after Alistair
Prose left with the carrier, roses left in the carriages
Verse burst from the hearse serenade the ears and it'll carry ya
The skies are full of lies from the savages and the miracles
of marriages
But this disparages the ties between the higher dyes of oranges
These tobacco stained nostalgia skies are going away someday
to read the words of de Vries, mystique of poetic compromise
The only poems worth reading are the ones behind her eyes

Freezing causes wheezing,
Leaving leaf spores breeding down my trachea,
Allergens spin n turn sharply attacking the tools that physicalise my life with its ins and outs
Oh 2 see oh 2 breathe oh 2 feel free from the obstructions that structure my schedule to be dormant
Walk up the stairs hold on to the side "are you ok?" No Annie in sight,
Just I, end
is nigh
I roll my knuckles and pinch my palms
Shouldve cut my nails, shot shoots up my arms.
I knock 3 times on the bannister,
I Commit to it being my balancer
Eyes leaking, chest croaking
tight feeling  like I'm choking
Gasping hurts but needed to soothe the need of a response

"I'm fine, just a bit chesty"

Don't ask any more or i can get tetchy

Lecture me on meds im taking
if my rooms tidy or am i forsaking,
still smoking? buffing and *******  that sweet foam **** till it turns hard and golden tarred like caramel muck.  
Just my luck that the something that makes me feel at ease can send me bending to my knees
not for pleas
But to construct a wheeze
Leaving me
Starting every sentence with please,
help me.
Don't even know what im pleading to
Or Who is listening to the self harmer
With a clear thought that I deserve to be preserved and cured of this karma
Inherited from my grandfather which I didn't know until I was told to ask my mother.

Ask ma

She knows about your Asthma.

She's a self destructor
well known for being a self wrecker
A self pecker
leaving holes to be filled by watless ***** carriers
Frieghts of frightening memories
Sure one day shed love to tell me.
But she destructured herself
And left me for others to construct by themselves.

Destructing the self: is the art of not giving a **** but really not giving a **** to the point that there's no fcuks to give and giving a **** means you're affected by fcuks who dont give a **** or willing to give you an iota of optimism
A helping hand
A hope full of hopeful hopes
Hopping fluently between the structure of the destructed self
Which makes me feel woozy

As i struggle hard to say no to this tobacco
especially when it's been weeks
And the feeling of ease is punishing me for a past ive not seen but i realise in that moment we have much in common

Self destruction is our common denominator
Our choice is the same and is made the same
over and over again
Its still the same
results never change
And still leave us with this taint
That we are responsible for cleansing

So what more do i need to ask ma for?
She's giving me answers by her flaws. That's her gift to me,
her way of setting me free
well here's hoping she breathes easy.

Anarchy
Grows in my heart organically
I'm sky high
Don't apply to no gravity
Mid'flight dog fightin' with insanity
Crash to the floor
My eyes burning with clarity
Mind state retaliate eradicate depravity
Assassinate a character
Animate a passenger
Blind hate.
The scavenger
The ravager
Ravish all the challengers
And massacre the amateurs
Banish all the stragglers
Smack with em a cannister
**** sliding down the bannister
Pay my debts like my second name was Lannister
Vanish like a phantom of the avatar
The damager
The battler

Lost thing
i was once scared by the wind in a tree,
ashamed to say but
but
no i am not really
but
fear was breathing.
But let me recommend you.
Sit on the stairs
when you want some space to be alone,
People passing you there come and just go. 

Or when you feel like that feeling you dont know 
Sit on the stairs,
on some step 
Because
All they ever want is to be here or to be there, 

The inbetween
no no no no
Look theres the blue
forget the tree
or remember if it helps
So if you would just sit on the stairs,
If you want to be alone,
Sit on the stairs.

on the stairs 
On this day
There's a cheek
feel a cream carpet edge
And a face like burning
And a wooden smell
(one who never flew)
Closer to perfection than over half of most the some things.

Poke a bare leg through a white bannister.
Fishing for thoughts
Corners and angles.

And
Bear with me, but
If the sky is the sky
And the sea is the sea,
Why is the wind all together
And the wave all alone?

Rain and the grass and the dirt on my face. 
They like my vest and collarbones
And bare grass legs
But Or Sometimes
Peel the tights from the legs 
And see the camping
The caravan moment
Quick and passing.
Hidden away.

But i guess there can be GUSTS of wind can't there though?

Gusts
Disgust?
Who's sure about gusts?
Not sure i need gusts
It might be like love,
Remember
Not sure that i need that now.

Away away
We want to fly there
But who else have we told to go there?
We look there in guilt
But then so too do they
Away away away
Let us go away.

I regret
That I have yet
To barrel down a bannister
Take charge of the floorboard
And command a room,
Silent and full or
Symphonic and fractured
My perceptions
The hungry trees
Of a hungry forest
I do not regret
Having entered,
So I cannot regret
Not having done so.
Some places I imagine
Feel like
Orpheus Looking Back
Feel like
The preference
Of Pleasant Death.
You ask me why
I will not go,
I say
Because,
I Will Not.
You ask me why
I am afraid,
I say
I am a flame
Entombed
Who still feels the wind.
You ask me
What is it most
You fear?
I answer,
The flowers
In my head
Not sick,
But dead.

Imagine   hot
water           music
            traipsing  down  my  throat
when you   had  your  sharp   tongue
      shoved    down   my  throat
with   contestations    simmering   in  my   sinews,
  a  few   of    them   scandalous
some    true    like   the   sudden fleeting   of your   crepuscular brow
   to   two moons   paler   than   the love –
or   the    long    traverse   to the   treacherous
    roads    of   your   skin   mapped   out   in excess
your   lecherous   debris   sprawling  everywhere   like   words
   to   a   book   or   silence  to   an   early  morning    commute,
your     undulant  bursts   outmatch   the weight  of   my
     steady  anchors,  imagine   this   cold   wind  sinking  deep
into   the    bone    at  4 o’clock   in   the   afternoon
   drunk    in  front   of    faceless  crowds
hunting     for   purpose,  discombobulated   erudition
      in    sodden   corners   and cheap  thrills,

imagine      the     scrumptious   twinge   of
     the  Sun that  mangles   its   arms   to paint   a new
moon   for   us  both   and    think of  this   as   a  consignment  to
  oblivion    when  the twists   and  turns   of  the road
     remember  only    measures   of   steps that have no  names
       and   not   the passengers, where   one   wrong   forceful
  shot   at   fate   could   mean   the   end  of  all things down
   below  an ocean  of muck   or   just  stale blackness and  ravines
      of    voices   bellowing   to call  out departed   ones

where   you   are just   as trivial    as
    driving  in  Kennon Rd.   at night   without  maps
and   beacons,  only   far-fetched   city buoys,
    the  frigid     wind,  the collapsing   bannister   of the night
cloying   the   turns   sharper than  how  it was to   first  see you   leave
    in   the morning,      bringing   in  the  fog  for the first
        light   of  reality    to   burn.

I walked past her again.
Annihilation glance-
one thousand exposed memories
of teenage years
and exaggerated fears;
how stupid they appear
now we've learned misery well-
how to keep silent in its tenure.

How to fall at its knees
in gratitude of its brief release.
Hopeless captor,
impatient platitude;
we catch eyes on purpose,
to relinquish the delusion-
I still want her,
and she is still unsure of me.

I have not changed my costume
since those dress-rehearsal years,
still pacing streets in black coats,
still conversing with my fears.
The core of walnut in the bannister,
the stair-lift in its cage;
I walked past her again
with ****** hair and awkward gait;
an ******* full of tricks
and a folk-song made of hate.

How she falls to her knees
in cigarettes and ashes,
hopeless captor
of old bad habits;
we catch eyes on purpose
to speak beyond tongue-
I'm still singing on the hill-side,

she's still tired of my song.

Benedict waits
by the pram sheds
in the Square
for Lydia

to come out
of her flat
he wants to take her
to the big bomb site

behind the tabernacle
although she won't
tell her mum
where she's going as such

she'll say to the park
to play on the swings
or slide or other such thing
just as he did

to his mother
the baker rides by
on his horse drawn cart
the horse walking slow

the baker sitting
on top of the cart
nodding his head
still no sign

of Lydia
Benedict sighs
he hates wasting time
likes to be out

and at it
a man with his boxer dog
walks by
the man puffing

a cigarette
hat at the back
of his head
the door opens

and Lydia comes out
in her red and white
checked dress
and white cardigan

she looks stressed
and walks towards Benedict  
looking behind her
at the door

of the flat
got out then?
he says
just about

she says
had to help
put the washing
in the copper

and gather up all
the ***** stuff
and take *******
to the shoot

and just done
he nods
and says
a girl's work

is never done
as my old man says
well it is for now
she says

where are we going?
she asks
big bomb site
behind the tabernacle

he says
isn't it
dangerous there?
she says

not if you’re careful
and don't let
the Rozzers see you
he says

so they walk
down the *****
and along
Rockingham Street

she talks of her mother
being in a mood
about her father's drinking
and O yes it's all right

for him to *****
and sing
and play the fool
but it's me

who has to feed
you kids
and keep a roof
over your heads

she says
her mother said
Benedict listens
takes in

her straight hair
her thin arms
and legs
her pale features

her mouth opening
and closing
like a fish
in a bowl

they cross over the road
and walk up
and along the street
behind the Trocadero

by the smaller bomb sites
along the narrow alley
and out
on the main road

where they go down
the subway
to get across
to the tabernacle

she still talking
about her mother
and her big sister
and the bloke

she brought home
the other night
and wanted to take him
to the bedroom

for some reason
or other
Lydia adds frowning
the subway echoes

her words
they float
then bounce
off the walls

as they climb the stairs
up and out
she stops
and looks

at the bomb site anxiously
will other kids be there?
she asks
usually are

he says
but that doesn't
matter none
they'll keep to themselves

and we can keep to ours
she bites her lip
and follows him
as they climb

between hoardings
and up and into
the bomb site
with its half standing houses

and ruins
and walls
and houses empty
with no roofs

or roofs
with only three walls
she hesitates
stands with her fingers

in her mouth
want if the Rozzers come?
she says
leave it to me

he says confidently
she follows him
as he climbs
onto a wall

and over the top
come on
he says
she climbs after him

mind you don't
scrape your knees
he says
and helps her

over the wall
holding one
of her hands
she gets up and over

and stands inside
a bombed out house
it stinks
she says

yes probably
some tramps
****** in here
he says

not still in here
is he?
she says anxiously
no long ago scarpered

he says
he walks through a room
and she walks after him
holding her nose

looking around her
bits of wallpaper hang
from walls
a doorway with no door

a window without glass
that looks out
on an abandoned garden
full of weeds

she follows him up
a riggedy stairway
holding on
to a rocking bannister

and up
to a landing
with three rooms
going off

in each direction
he stands still
taps the floorboards
with his foot

should be safe
he says
is it?
she says nervously

course it is
he says
walking carefully
over the floor

of the room
she stands
by the doorway
what if the floorboards

are rotten
and you fall through?
she says softly
then I get

to the bottom
quicker than I came up
he says smiling
come on

he says
beckoning her over
she stands still
fiddling with her fingers

then she bites her fingers
of one hand
and holds her groin
with the other

it won't give way
he says
she holds herself
it might

she says
then we die together
he says
what away to go eh?

she looks at him
standing there
with his hazel eyes
and quiff of hair

and his hand
held out
towards her
she walks gingerly

over the floorboards
one step
after another
until she reaches

his hand
and grips it tight
and they are there
in the middle

of the room
she feeling
as if she's wet herself
and he like one

who has climbed
Mount Everest
and is about
to plant a flag

with glee
she looks at him
and he looks out
the window

as far
as his hazel eyes
can see.

Iridescent green liquid
Dripping from a factory sealed cannister
Not for pregnant women or the faint of heart
Not for the ones who grip the stair bannister
Only for the fit and the strong
To help achieve maximum efficiency
Only for those whose legs are long
Enough to reach the stars from the ground they can only see

Caution
Warning
Attention
The flies are swarming
Your flesh is rotting
But your body keeps running

Touch it to your lips
And it'll grant you your best
Implanted from the laboratory
Take it all down and put yourself to the test
Nothing can stop you now
You're not running on empty anymore
Your stomach turns sour
But you're no longer a bore

Now you've got the means
Now you've got the scene
Now you've got the capacity
Now you can succeed

But only because of test tubes
And only because of beakers
Only because of brakers
Only because of white coats
Only because of med school
Only because of playing the part of the fool

She appeared at the top of the staircase,
Light tangled in her auburn curls,
She gazed upon the glitter dance,
Where dresses spun in hazy whirls.

The delicate hand on the bannister,
As she descends from above,
Those lazy green eyes scanning,
The ballroom floor for her love.

He does not appear, she waits for hours,
Until the slow waltz does sound,
She tears his diamonds from her neck,
Those cut-glass dreams on the ground.

Homemade Bluebird house's of varying color and shape
Lovely butterflies hand painted by 'Angels' dot the landscape
Red Wasp warm themselves on proud , Sun drenched shrubbery
Daffodils and Sweetgum Trees , the banter of Cardinal and Blue Jay ,
Wood Ducks flying over a world of discovery ..
Carpenter bees do challenge , a green lizard seizing a few winks on a wrought iron bannister .. A pink flowering Plum tree with a performing Carolina Wren , a brown Praying Mantis on a window screen ..
Lady Bugs riding warm breezes , Natures abundant annuities , every step a golden opportunity ..

I’d never felt comfortable in that house
Not once, since we’d moved on in,
A rambling, derelict, barn of a house,
Three storeys of age-old sin.
Nobody said there’d been murders there,
Or told of the gypsy’s curse,
Three hundred years of discarded junk
And I don’t know which was worse.

The air was dank, and creepy and cold
So I opened the windows wide,
Trying to get some airflow through
To clear the smell inside.
It was musty, dusty, smelt like a tomb
With a corpse, decayed and grey,
We cleaned and scrubbed it room by room
And the smell went slowly away.

We tackled the ground floor first, we thought
We could leave upstairs til last,
The stairs were blocked with a French chaise longue
From some distant time in the past,
It was jammed hard up by the bannister rails
So it wouldn’t go up or down,
I said I’d have to pull it apart
And that sparked a Hartley frown.

Hartley was the love of my life
Who tackled that house as well,
She said it was a pig in a poke
That its real name was ‘Hell!’
But we finally cleared a space to live
And she worked out a way to shift
That French chaise longue from the stairway by
Trying a twist and lift.

The second floor was a nice surprise
There was none of the junk and grime,
The bedrooms still remained as they’d been
Laid out in another time,
So Hartley dealt with the dust in there
While I went up for a look,
The room above was an attic room
And that’s where I saw the book.

It lay on a dusty table with
Its pages ragged and torn,
The paper a sort of parchment and
The ink, quite faded and brown.
The cover was ancient leather, cracked
And worn, as if by an age,
‘The Many Lyves of this House’ it had
Embossed, as a title page.

I cautiously opened the cover, read
The words on the parchment page,
The light in the room then turned to gloom
And a storm began to rage.
I raced on down to the ground to find
A man outside, who said,
‘For those inside, don’t seek to hide,
I say, bring out your dead!’

And a cart stood out in the street outside
A pile of the dead in place,
The street was cobbled, not like before,
But of bitumen, no trace.
And on my door was a huge red cross
With a white and painted scrawl,
‘God, have mercy on us,’ it read,
‘Have mercy on us all.’

And there on the floor, inside the door
Was a corpse wrapped in a sheet,
I dragged it out by the feet, no doubt,
And I left it in the street.
On climbing back to the topmost floor
I leapt and pounced on the book,
But the page had turned, and the fire burned
Before I had time to look.

London burned in the distance and
Lit up the night like day,
I didn’t know of it then, but it
Was burning the plague away,
And every page in that cursèd book
Brought a different time to bear,
‘The Many Lyves’ that this house had lived
Were all inscribed in there.

I slammed that leather cover shut
And I laid it on its face,
Then swore that I’d never open it
While the Lord would lend me grace.
And Hartley, dragged from her cleaning chores
She never could understand,
Why I put a torch to that ancient house
And burnt it to the ground.

David Lewis Paget

I saw my bruises on my knees sitting naked in the bathtub with the shower on
You showed me yours-we matched
I was purple where you pushed me and my knees hit the bannister
I missed the stairs by that much.
You were red and scabbed where your knees hit the carpet when you collapsed
when it hit you that you hit me
We still hated each other
Spitting acid from our tongues
We threw words for years-intent to hit
But that was the first time
Any one of us threw fists in the forms of palms
We always talked about it
4AM November morning? evening? night?
The hours blur together
through slinging slurs of fire I can still feel them on my skin
chemical burns-you had a way with words
“useless ****” is carved into my forearms
and across my chest
it will scab over and you will pick it off
Eventually
With sentences strung together out of decency
The honesty I wanted to believe
We were throwing punches with our mouths
the way the words just rolled out
“You’re ******* crazy” just sort of felt
like the right thing to say
To cut a little deeper than I had to
This battle was purely literally
Well recorded over facebook chat bubbles-incoming text messages
too late-too early phone calls that say:
“You’re a ******* liar-
I can’t believe this-
I love you-
come back.”
But it hit you that you hit me
and my knees were purple for a week

the castle seemed
abandoned
crumbling turrets
under years
of weather
drawbridge splintering
punctured soles
in the courtyard
faded benches
a three legged table
propped by rocks

door ajar
inside a maze
of mirrors & halls
clutching the bannister
master bedroom with
french windows
grimy glass filters sun
casting
abstract shadows on
a thin man's
gasp

Houghton Hall had been derelict
Since the Roundheads came and went,
They said that it couldn’t be restored
No matter how much you spent,
But I loved that place and its spacious grounds
So I went against advice,
I paid a pittance and thought I’d get
A part of it looking nice.

It still had the stately central stair,
It still had the marble floors,
It needed a bit of the lead replaced
But still had the cedar doors.
The windows needed a scrub and clean
Were original pebble glass,
It soon was done though my Bank was lean
And I moved right in, at last.

There wasn’t much furniture at first
To muffle its ancient walls,
My footsteps echoed around the floors
Of its entry, rooms and halls,
It was only then that I saw her walk
In the gloom of a winter’s night,
And found I’d bought, along with the Hall
A ghostly woman in white!

She glided along the balustrade
Came steadily down the stair,
I stood well back in the entryway
Pretended I wasn’t there.
Then she stopped and grabbed at the bannister
And let out a dreadful wail,
It seemed to swell from the hounds of hell
And I felt myself grow pale.

She seemed to fade on the stairway there
And her wailing went as well,
The hair stood up on the back of my neck
For I felt she’d come from hell.
So I asked around with the village folk
If they knew, they said they might,
And for a bribe of a drink or two
Described the woman in white.

It seems she had been Lord Houghton’s bride
When the Roundheads came to call,
And Ireton’s men had shot the Lord,
He told them to **** them all.
She died on the central stairway there
She died from a single shot,
While the Roundheads plundered the ancient hall
With her corpse left there to rot.

I felt for her, yes, I really did
It was such a gory tale,
But it got too much when at night I hid
For she came each night to wail.
My eyes were haggard, I couldn’t sleep
I was feeling so uptight,
And then I came across the cupboard
That clothed the woman in white.

The cupboard stood in an upstairs room
That I hadn’t quite restored,
I hadn’t bothered for in the gloom
The damp had swollen the door,
And in a drawer was a pile of clothes
So old, that she kept for best,
And there preserved with a bullet hole
Was the very same woman’s dress.

I took the dress and I hid it well,
Then waited for her that night,
Till she came stumbling down the stair,
She did, the woman in white.
But there was no sign of the dress on her
Just camiknickers in silk,
And pain and sadness were in her wail
Though her skin was white as milk.

A week went by and she still came down
That stairway to keen and wail,
So I went back with my sleepless frown
And I hid it, without fail,
The camiknickers, the stockings, shoes
And I left that cupboard bare,
Invited a crowd from the local hunt
To come, to stand and stare.

And she came just once on that fateful night
She was naked and serene,
Then she saw us all in the entryway
And the woman stood and screamed.
If you need to get rid of a troublesome ghost
You must cause some slight mishap,
She never came back down the stairs again
Once we all just stood, and clapped.

David Lewis Paget

The grief-beast wakes different today.
This is not the cold, creaky ache of bannister limbs in winter
No, this time it's the warmth of my parents' rocking chair, walnut and familiarity and an exoskeleton of memory and fairytale intertwined with the weight of a loss that sits heavy on my lap, immobilising but I'm in no mood to leave the sadness of my seat.
And though it hurts and it burns and it erodes at my insides
I accept it, resigned for the moment and resolve to leave this safe coccoon another day when the world seems less formidable and my coarse exterior more malleable
to new life and fresh growth

or-ange, mango,  
banana too,  
hell-bent on regretting you.  
campfire-chair-sitting on hardwood floors  
in a stranger's home, i think.  
turn off the lights, it's raining.  
i had some to drink (not enough)  
but you had to drive  
but so did i.  
turn off the lights, it's raining  
on the bannister,  
your piano-key-fingers cascading over my  
carpals, metacarpals, phalanges too.  
topple me into a room  
but today it's not for laundry,  
‘cause the only thing that's getting washed away
is my record of not saying  
i love you (in my head, because
strangers
don't say that to each other).  
you lassoed me in and we fell  
into the empty hangers that i pushed away from you;  
shadows on a skeleton’s scapula.  
tabloids never told me that three months’ salary couldn't  
buy the rights to the song  
of your heart beating darkly in your chest.  
turn off the lights, it's raining  
and you can't see the way i  
feel you.

Kickin' in there,
she's
sticking pins in the board
ties
a cord to the bannister
the last that you'll see of her,

from an art form
to an alliance
with hints of acceptance
convenience
is not just a store.

‘I’ve never believed in ghosts,’ she said,
So I said, ‘I’ll prove there are.
I’ve seen them at night beside our bed,
I caught one sat in our car.
They wander along the street outside
I’ve seen them down at the beach,
You have to believe to see them, though,
They tend to be out of reach.’

‘You’ll have to produce one here for me
Before I’m going to believe,
It’s easy to say that they exist
If you just want to deceive.’
She effectively threw the gauntlet down
So I just had to respond,
And work on a way to bring one here
From out the back of beyond.

But where do you go to find a ghost?
It’s easier said than done,
I’ve seen so many of them, but most
Won’t answer to anyone.
I thought I’d try to Google one up
When turning my PC on,
Then took a sip from my coffee cup
While typing in ‘Ghost - just one.’

It threw up a series of single ghosts,
The one that walked in the rain,
And one that came with its head cut off,
A ghost in a railway train.
It even mentioned the woman in white
Who came halfway down the stair,
And stood by the bannister and groaned
With blood still thick in her hair.

I liked the thought of a railway train
With its own original ghost,
She didn’t seem to be in much pain
So she appealed to me most.
I sent a message for meeting me where
She could come and meet the wife,
And bring the train, to give her a scare
That would last the rest of her life.

That night we lay in our poster bed
And I heard the shriek of wheels,
The wife rolled over as in it sped
The room was filled with her squeals.
The train pulled up by the bedroom door
And the ghost approached our bed,
She wore a nightdress, down to the floor
With bullet holes in her head.

‘I’ve never believed in ghosts,’ she’d said,
She’d have to believe them now,
The ghost approached with a look of dread,
And it caused a terrible row.
‘Don’t ever bring ghosts in here again
Or you’ll be alone in the bed,’
As the train took off with a clicketty-clack
And the ghost just stood and bled.

I’m never allowed to Google up,
She said to stick to my verse,
They sit in the kitchen, while we sup
And even pass in the hearse,
She says that she never sees them now,
She doesn’t want to believe,
I know it would only cause a row
If I said they tug at her sleeve.

David Lewis Paget

D Vanlandingham

My hands..
gently around her throat
as she momentarily
slips away, from the pain--
her beautiful doe-eyes, a full
submittal of trust..
(and I am worthy of it all..
so very very worthy, my beautiful)
and deep within  her release

she takes love in
she takes it in

There is a rope in the garage
that has her name on it
the bannister at the top of the stairs
(so very, very unworthy)
to provide support
for her beautiful body
that  now, only wants
to no longer  have to carry the pain
The rope does not  carry within it
the warm-blooded pulsings
of my own, heart's love--

  (it does not feel your trust,
   at the moment  of release..)

but    like me,
it has no concept of how to let go..
my hands--  they release
at the moment  of your own..
the tears in your eyes, say it all to me--
that you don't want me to  ever
learn how to let go.
The rope,  being pain's release
in to the final

Mine, a never-letting-go
into  the  forever

my hands  they ease their grip
but my heart--
      no..

      no   not,  ever.

Hard stone skin
is slightly glittering,
temperature shifting
seasonally,
a place full of friends,
and literary kin.

Carnegie classic
home to the fantastic
collection.

Stairs to the entrance
and a black bannister
on which I slide
even though I was told
so many times
not to.

A sanctuary
from the abuse
a gateway
that I used
to escape my isolation
and find myself
enlightened and amused

friendly fictions
books well bound
my little safe space
in a redneck town.

Soon it will change.
They are not tearing it down
but building a better building
near the outskirts of town

But to Sarah, Kathy
Karen, and Tammy
whether you know it or not
you are my family
and though things change
as they always will
this was my home.

FRIENDSHIP SCHOOL  FORMING FOUNDATIONS
Don't need an explanation they always know you like they knew you before

After your journey that has been so long, aren't just shadows at the end of the hall

Often travel in pairs nudging with the extra edge to actually takes those dares

They may be leaning your way or you holding up theirs ,picking up the pieces helping to restore

From an early age we help set the stage ,learning the give & take ,watching out for who really cares

Tested internally, somehow growing more energy to give,learning how to open a new door

Guidance is given while simultaneously taken in, unknown importance playing like a bannister on the long stairs

Bashful helped to be bold while maybe too bold put on hold, to often cushioning the space from our heads to the floor

Practice makes perfect,willing to settle for always rehearsing,helping to block the future demons from their lairs

Lean on me or them ,her or him ,kidding with kindness,giving with mindless love, inward or outward devotion is always from the soul  

Merely matching mates is nice to have the balance at any rate ,the weight isn't as great when split into pairs

So extend a hand give a lift help another to manage that next riff,life will be better when true friendship is the next Goal! ...R.C.

Ladies and gentlemen!
To you, this seems a simple set of stairs
mildly vertiginous perhaps,
but no real challenge
with careful steps
and grip upon the bannister
even granny still manages

But I, The Great Fearlesso,
for one day only will attempt the impossible:
down the stairs in a sleeping bag!

Yes, your frightened gasps are suitable
(at least I assume that’s what the sound was
as it was a bit like tutting)
but I will not be dissuaded

I ask my glamorous assistant/mum
to help me into the bag of doom
with as much grace as a baby elephant
on roller skates

And here upon this precipice I pause,
my life flashing before my eyes
Look! There’s last week!

I peek through my fingers at the drop
and though my bottle is challenged
I, glorious I, commit!

I go, and the bumbled blur
of carpeted steps is lost
in the howling hiss of synthetic materials
I am tumble dried to an almighty
thump...

And dazed, I rise
to the thunderous applause of the cat
I stand and take my bow

Then do it twenty more times