Giselle went down to the Supermart
For milk, and a loaf of bread,
‘Don’t be too long,’ said her husband, Tom,
‘It looks like rain ahead.’
The sky was dark and the clouds were grey
And a breeze was gusting the trees,
As she walked a block to the corner shop
The road was covered in leaves.

She tarried a while at the Mercers,
Checked the price on a bolt of silk,
Picked up a colourful tie-dyed scarf
Before collecting the milk.
She noticed the aisles were empty when
She got around to the bread,
The only girl at the checkout said:
‘It looks like a storm ahead.’

The thunder came rumbling over the shop
And the rain began to pour,
Giselle had nothing to keep her dry
So stood by the sliding door,
She read the messages on the board
For Sale, to give or swaps,
But one stood out like a weeping sore,
‘This is where reason stops!’

‘This is where reason stops,’ it said
In an ugly, spidery scrawl,
The damp had made the lettering run
And the ink dripped down the wall.
Guiselle had shivered and stepped aside
As she noticed the second line,
‘You’ll never be able to find your way
When caught in the tangle of time.’

The lightning flashed and it lit the store
But nobody else was there,
Not even the only checkout girl,
She’d gone, but heaven knew where.
Giselle dashed out to a clearing sky
Where the rain had ceased to pour,
She checked the time, was surprised to find
She’d been gone, two hours or more.

Tom would be more than mad, she thought
As she hurried along the way,
She’d never been able to keep good time,
For it seemed to slip away.
She never had kept her appointments
And Tom had been known to yell:
‘You’d keep the Devil himself in thrall
If you went to Hell, Giselle!’

The sun was dipping beneath the earth
And leaving a twilight glow,
She noticed that all the leaves had gone
That were there, a while ago,
There were fences now she’d never seen
And some gardens overgrown,
And on the block where her house had been
She was stood there, all alone.

There wasn’t a house, there wasn’t a brick,
Just bushes and bundles of weeds,
And trees, she turned for a second look,
She’d planted them all from seeds.
She thought that she must have lost her way
And ran to the corner to check,
The sign, as always, said ‘Shepherds Lane’
And a chill ran down from her neck.

She knocked on the screen of the house next door
And her neighbour, Ted, came out,
He cried, ‘Good God! You must be a ghost,’
And called his wife with a shout.
‘Where is my husband Tom,’ she said,
‘And where is my lovely home?’
‘Your Tom’s been dead for a dozen years
Since you left him here on his own!’

‘The house burnt down and they cleared the block
When they found him dead inside,
It was just a year since you took off
And he said that his heart had died.’
‘But I’ve only been two hours,’ she said,
‘I’ve just come back from the shops;
I should have known there was something wrong,
This is where reason stops!’

David Lewis Paget

‘I’m tired, so tired,’ said Jonathon Black,
‘I can hardly stay awake,’
His wife just stared at the back of his head,
Went back to her currant cake.
She’d heard it all a million times
Was bored with the things he’d say,
She wished he’d pack up his things, sometimes
And quietly go away.

But Jonathon sat in his bamboo chair
And stared at the world outside,
He used to be full of energy,
But something inside him died,
He lived in the shadows of tides and scenes
That were conjured behind his eyes,
The throwaway remnants of others dreams
He’d capture in tears and sighs.

He spent the afternoon nodding off
Then woke with a startled cry,
‘You wouldn’t believe what I saw just now,
Right out of a clear blue sky.
A shadow crept from the bushes there
And it killed young Andrew Deems,’
Giselle had tutted and shook her head,
‘Just one of your stupid dreams!’

The woods, a favourite lovers spot
Stretched out from their own back door,
Giselle would go with a basket there
Looking for mushroom spore.
‘I saw you out in the woods today
But nothing is what it seems,’
She turned and snapped at her husband’s back,
‘Just keep me out of your dreams!’

‘It isn’t a question of that,’ he said,
‘I can’t control what I see,
Wherever a person’s thoughts are at
They keep on coming to me.
Even the strangers that walk on past
Have secrets they send in beams,
You’d think that they would be safe from me
But I’m the waker of dreams.

Giselle had wandered off to the woods
With her basket held on high,
While Jonathon found and loaded his gun,
Went after her with a sigh,
He found her there in a shady nook
In a huddle with Andrew Deems,
‘I thought I’d warned you, often enough,
You didn’t believe, it seems!’

He shot the lad as he tried to run
Then dropped the gun to his side,
‘All I could see in his dreams was you,
But now, that dream has died.’
‘And what will you do with me,’ said she
And bit her lip ‘til it bled,
‘I’m tired, so tired,’ said Jonathon Black
Then put the gun to his head.

David Lewis Paget

She said, ‘Let’s go to the Devil Park,’
At noon, on a summer’s day,
I said, ‘We’d better go after dark,
They hide themselves away.
They only come out to feed at night
So that’s when you see them best,
By day, they never come out to play,
That’s when they get to rest.’

We packed the car and we took a torch,
A powerful, bright spotlight,
The only way we would see them there
On a dark and gloomy night,
We waited till it was just on dusk
Then finally hit the road,
The Park was seventy miles away
Or an hour, I’d been told.

The gate of the park was locked and barred
But we scaled and climbed across,
That’s when Giselle had torn her dress,
It was old, so no great loss,
We could hear the scrabbling and the screech
Of the small marsupials,
Grubbing around the park for food
And giving out grunts and squeals.

The torch lit up in a long wide arc
As we scanned across the ground,
The first one that we saw had roared
When it knew it had been found,
Its jaw was wide and its evil teeth
Could give you a nasty bite,
I wasn’t going to get too close
On that warm and sultry night.

We’d wandered round for an hour out there
Had seen groups of two’s and three’s,
And some that were more adventurous
We could see were climbing trees,
When out of the darkness came a voice
That was grating, cold and hard,
‘What do you think, by coming here
To spy in my own backyard?’

It made me start, for the torch wheeled round
To illuminate a stump,
And there a figure in shiny black
Was sat, and it made us jump,
The face was narrow and pointed, leered,
Was capped with a pair of horns,
While a long black tail with snake-like scales
Flicked up, like it meant to warn.

‘We came to see the marsupials,’
I stuttered, in my distress,
‘We meant no harm, but you just alarmed
Us both, in your fancy dress.’
‘You broke in here, but I see the fear
That I cause you, out in the dark,
What did you think you’d find out here,
You’ve come to the Devil’s Park.’

The Devil slowly uncurled himself
And he stood up, ten feet tall,
I saw his claws and his evil jaws
And his goat-like legs, and all,
‘You both may need to redeem yourselves
By paying your court to me,
I’ll make you the lord and lady of
All of the land you see.’

And suddenly all the park was lit
In a ghostly, evil glow,
He said, ‘I can give you all of it,
I have the power, you know.’
‘I think that you’ve tried that line before,’
I said, in a sudden shot,
‘And “get thee behind me Satan” was
The answer that you got.’

A flame curled out of the Devil’s mouth
As he opened up his jaw,
And fixed me with a piercing glare
As he beat his chest, to roar,
‘You’ll not escape, for I’ll cast my cape
To capture your sinful souls,
And when we meet, it will be a treat
In your seat of glowing coals.’

He threw his cape in a whirl until
It covered him like a shroud,
And then went up in a puff of smoke,
As Giselle cried out, aloud,
We raced on back and we scaled the gate
In a massive leap in the dark,
I said, ‘Don’t ever suggest again
We visit the Devil Park!’

David Lewis Paget

Nostalgia.
I knew the word but I never thought of using it before someone actually knew that that's what I was feeling.
This urge to run away from everything only to attend what I love to do the most.
I said,
"It's as if, in my past life, I was a dancer who has danced on stages around the world. I give myself to my body. It's more than love, more than adoration, more than passion."
"It's nostalgia." she said.
I was struck.
Yes. It feels as if I never stopped dancing. It feels as if it's the only thing I know how to do ever so naturally.
I sleep knowing tomorrow I'll dance.
I dream about the dancer I have yet to become.
I wake up thinking how to dance throughout the day.
It's not about The Nutcracker and the Sugar Plum Fairy, nor the last dance of the Dying Swan in the Swan Lake, nor about Giselle and its romanticism.
It's about Clara's courage that saves The Nutcracker, and how the Dying Swan feels pain in her broken wings and how true love saves the man Giselle loved from death.

I've always told myself that at the end of the day you only have yourself, but now I've came to realize that I've forever slept with an immense love in my heart - the dance world, a world that has found me decades ago and left in me a nostalgia, a longing, an approach to how amorously  I can embrace myself.



- LynnAA

Her skin's camouflaged
by bark, or so it seems
but really
a lost purpose
for it is not her doing
in the days of old
it's the whisper of time
to prepare her
for the final dance
reluctantly she gave
her body swirling and bending
twisting and turning
in the airy stage
a perfect Giselle
when finally she stopped
and there she lay still
a perfect camouflage
by earth
only her dismal soul
dissolved in the Northwind.

Exercise like Billy Blanks
Then punch it like Anthony Joshua
Meander like Lionel Messi
Drive it like Chrisriano Ronaldo
Play around like Neymar da Silver Santos
Swim a d swim like Michael Phelps
Whatever you do?
Never loose your mojo like Zlatan Ibrahimovic
Eyes on the ball like Serena Williams
Hit it hard like Rafael Nadal
Or do you prefer Tiger woods?
Until you hear her sing like Beyonce Giselle Knowles
Twerk like Cardi B
Don't stop cruising like Michael Shumacher
Except you are in a hurry to meet your ancestors
No need for aphrodisiacs
When you have natural smoothies
Above is how to keep her
Repeat these lines over again
And she'll love you forever

I tried to make a home out of your bones,
I tried to escape through your words.
But like  a giselle running from a lion,
I run in vain
These  tears  have turned to dust
My heaven was carried to you
and burried  in a creed of sorrow
You run in circles around me
these ropes are cutting me in half.
While I shook my head  on your lies,
you fell asleep on my sins.

The first time that I noticed them
I passed them on the stair,
She wore an amulet love-charm then
He was much too old for her.
I should have hurried and looked away
But I caught her smouldering eye,
And my heart had leapt within my breast
To this day, I wonder why?

Her hair, a tangle of lovers knots,
Her lips, a definite pout,
Her figure light and her legs were white
And I saw her look about.
She peeked behind as she passed me by
And I caught her knowing look,
The moment passed with the slightest sigh
I was firmly on her hook.

I didn’t go out of my way for her,
She seemed so firmly fixed,
The man beside her glowered at me
And gripped her by the wrist,
I saw him leading her often then
As our paths began to cross,
And smiled at her as she came my way
But her eyes looked vague, and lost.

The man came up and he gripped my arm,
‘You’d better leave her be.
Don’t think to fall for her fateful charm,
Giselle belongs to me!’
He pushed me then, and he walked away
And he gripped her arm so tight,
He stopped the blood where his fingers lay
And her hand went stark and white.

I asked a friend who had known her once,
He said, ‘Just keep away.
She labours under a curse, that one,
She only brings dismay.
You see the man who escorts her now
And you think he’s far too old,
A year ago he was twenty-two
But he aged once in her hold.’

I didn’t think it was possible
But he aged as time went on,
His hair and his beard went pale and grey
And his features, pale and wan,
Though she gained colour in both her cheeks
And her eyes would sparkle blue,
While he would stumble, but still cling on
Till she said, ‘I’m looking at you!’

As soon as she uttered those fateful words
His hand released its grip,
And she walked on, not looking back
As if on a different trip.
She came to face me and say the words
That had snared good men before,
But I turned into my passageway
Grey faced, and I locked the door.

David Lewis Paget

They run down corridors, penetrate
Eardrums, tympanic membranes vibrating
Sounds of whispered ignorantia, injected
In minds, spewed out of unclosing mouths.

Actively engaged in spreading the word,
As meticulous news reporters committed
To divulge, unfounded information, undercover
Agents passing off as martyrs compelled,

To fulfil their duties pretending
To reluctantly execute a social service, yet,
No one knows whether the lady down
The street truly cheated, nor if her daughter

Also slept with the alleged lover, while
The audience is convinced and has convicted
The adultery of the first sentencing the second,
To shame and long-lasting denigrating fame.

The punishment assigned to the free walking
Defendants, found guilty by a jury of their peers,
A public court rising to judge an offence
Sickly existing merely in those insinuating

Voices, inundating the tribunal corridors
Of the neighbourhood, the city, the world,
Tv and the web. Leaving the only words
That count engraved in marble, epitaph

On the tombstone of a suicidal man,

‘In loving memory of Mallory Dupe.
Beloved husband of Helen and loving
Father to Giselle. Shamelessly killed
By rumours. No redemption granted.’

I'm one of these girls,
who will always stay,
100 miles away,
from the perfect woman and human.

Genes gave me short and thick legs,
instead of the long branches like Giselle Bundchen.
Blue eyes, but not the sparkly,
light ones, bursting from pictures.
Hair, which is always messy,
grows uneven and is the ultimate safety net,
for bees and flies.
A face that is so round,
that even my 6 years old cousin,
notices it and jokes about it.
A brain which forgets,
so much stuff,
names, numbers, groceries,
lyrics, everything.
With maybe some talents in it,
but not the ones sought for,
by society and recruitment agencies.
A characteristic, to stress so easily,
that even seeing an ugly picture of myself,
raises my stress levels,
4 hours long with 80 percent.
An urge for expression,
which is often interpreted by others,
as rude, too direct and offensive,
although not mend in that way.

Couldn't you have done a better job,
evolution, god, causality,
or anyone or anything else?
I'm kinda tired of reaching stuff,
which I can never reach,
but see other people have.

But well,
there is a bright side,
to this story.
Because people,
me included,
can decide,
for themselves,
what they want to reach.
And also because I often,
had to reach very far,
I've learned to work hard,
in many ways.
Harder than people for which,
some things,
they only needed to lift their hand.
It made me creative,
original, made me able,
to learn and accept.
I don't win over guests in a restaurant,
by my speed, glossy smile or waving hips.
I open my heart, try to feel what they want,
make them feel special, heard and understood.
Smiling, not with a perfect Barbie smile,
but with happiness and radiation.

I've learned all kinds of tricks and habits,
to remember facts, names and appointments.
I've adapted a lifestyle in which,
I feel comfortable.
I have found ways to express beauty,
in my own way,
far from those unreachable standards,
often projected by different sources.

But most of all,
I've learned to created, build, construct,
accept, love and develop.
I've noticed and have been made aware,
of so many flaws.
But knowing them, is the first step,
in overcoming them,
with a talent.
Only by exploring, falling and failing,
those talents unravel and grow.

I'm one of these girls

The little bank by the stream was wet
Wet with the tears of ages, of centuries
And the children came with
Their sailing boats
To watch the ducks
And eat blackberries
The years past with daffodils
With Wordsworth
With Giselle
Until the end of time.

Love Mary **

Today I am not me
I sat with a scoundrel
We shot at the birds effortlessly
We shot at the guys accurately
We laughed codedly
like a snail in its shell

Today I am not me
I walked with a rebel
We stole money deliberately
We fought politics criminally
We rejoiced openly
Like a dragon unleashing hell

Today I am not me
I dined with Giselle
she taught me inappropriately
We sought for men judiciously
We did this secretly
Like a rat stealing a morsel

Today I am not me
I fell for Joel
We kissed intentionally
We loved unconditionally
We unveiled our reality
Like a man revealing his jewel

Today I am not me
Tomorrow I will be me

i sometimes spend the first 30 minutes
of s drinking sessions
ingesting bachelor videos...
men's opinions about women...
i have to grant some, perhaps almost all
observational pointers,
come to think of it: i think for a while
about a dialectical approach...
on such subjects i don't really want to
have an opinion...
like: i don't want to be famous:
i want to be left alone...
so i listen... opinion X and opinion Y...
sure, could have one,
but i... am... sort of lacking...
investing in opinions,
that will later not be dialectically
scrutinised, what's the point?
too many unnecessary feels...
most people cower from their original
opinion to begin with,
when push comes to shove,
or when shove comes to a clenched fist...
my life doesn't revolve around
staging a snippet of some *******
Mexican / English soap-opera...
my use of the internet it simple:
1. listen to some music
2. check the encyclopedia
3. doodle something, equivalent to this
4. email someone
5. complete some form
6. buy a book, or a CD / vinyl
7. check the dictionary
8. look at pictures of myself:
i've "recently" lost a sixth of me...
down from 120kg to 97kg...
like i told my neighbour,
i'm very much like a vampire...
of course i see myself in a mirror,
but i really don't...
sure... if i were to go to the nurse,
she wold check my blood-pressure...
no more dizziness...
i had two options: lose weight...
or be put on some high blood-pressure
tablets, **** the second part...
no more pills...
it's enough that i mix a knock-out
punch with some whiskey, some cider,
some naproxen, some phenergan...
some APAP...
oh, quiet the contrary, i'm not sedated by
alcohol... i'm soothed:
not exactly pushing a cube through
a square hole in the wall...
when comparing the words: sedated vs.
soothed...
i need a chemical knock-out
to find release from a vibrating mind...
that's of course if i start writing...
i need an opt-out scenario...
what points have i already mentioned, are there 8?
9. checking general information,
perhaps some news, but i rather like my
cul de sac existence, so i rarely bother
about being informed, unless
10. TfL... train times, esp. concerning Sundays
and holidays
11. maps, i sometimes ride my bicycle
into Essex countryside, completely
forgetting where Epping or Theydon Bois
is placed... oh, right, i'm "here"?!

o.k., these bachelor videos...
m.g.t.o.w. or whatever: read some Kierkegaard,
who the hell composed the music
for the Giselle ballet?
           Adolphe Adam, Theophile Gautier,
Jean Coralli?!

so i listen to their videos... eh... easy listening...
men talking to men...
it could be worse:
it could be... getting dating advice from women...
that's why i prefer exchanging
messages with older women...
in their 50s... 40s...
60s is sort of stretching it...
come on...

that taboo of teenage girls is a flimsy fantasy...
it's ****** at first, at first, prior to them opening their
mouths... of course the debate concerning
outliers and Humbert Humbert...
ha ha... catch-22... major major... anyways...
sure, there are outliers...
like i acknowledge the existence of nymphomaniacs...
for a split second i was going
to turn ol' Humbert into: Herbert Herbert...

i'm out, Pontius Pilate style...
i have washed my hands clean from this whole
"affair"... speak to older women whenever online,
don't engage in the comment section
on any item you're ingesting...
why would i stop myself being from
being the passive reader, spectator,
why do i need those 2 cents of "thought"...
of opinion...
and... just ******* to the brothel...
if *** is what you want...
the clarity of a monetary exchange...
no dating...
oh, sure... i remember going on a date once...
we were both 18...
i paid for her gallery ticket,
since i invited her,
but he later went to the cinema,
she paid for herself,
then for some Japanese food...
she split the bill with me...
we weren't dating prior... just high school-friends...

this other date i was on...
we were "dating"... well... it was more like...
she was a first year university student
living with other girls in student accommodation,
i was a third year student with a flat i shared with
only one guy... what was his name...
Tristan! from Bristol, a math major:
a complete brood... some German lineage:
go figure... a half-German
and a fully-blooded ****** living under
the same roof... "complications"...

look at her go... now that i think of it...
she moves it... she has escalated her worth by getting
out of student accommodation,
she moves into a flat on Montague St.,
because... as time passes by, the candles did their magic...
she can give decent head...
we go to St. Petersburg, see Metallica in Moscow...
i return to London, she remains in Edinburgh...

with all the women i was ever with...
all managed to break up with me prior to me
even whispering that i might...
thank god that none of these relationships lasted
per annum... just a few months of my life:
lost...

now... older women on the internet...
and prostitutes...
at least i know what i'm buying...
i'm hardly going to buy a girl dinner...
if i'm not assured some... extra...
like a Chinese fortune cookie peek...
so i listen to these bachelor videos...
"misogyny" etc. again:
like the minorities... throwing words against
the wind, so frivolously...
i am the minority, how many Polacks
live in England?!
like my training suggested:
not all disabilities are visible...
most Arabs+ confuse my physiognomy with
that of a German...
hmm... i can use this...
if i look like a German: even to my fellow Polacks...
if they can't identify as one of "their own":
great... i can merge into this phenomenon
of how the entire world seems to have
congregated on these little isles...

- i wish i had the concerns of the natives,
what are they? being undermined
demographically, what else?
i'm pretty sure the story goes...
even though Britain staged:
we will make war on Germany for invading Poland...
funny, that... it took both Germany
and the Soviet union (35 days)
to completely subjugate Poland during the theatre
of the second world war...
1 September 1939 – 6 October 1939...
but it took the Germans: alone...
6, *******, 6 weeks to subjugate
France (and the little ******* extensions of
the Benelux)
10 May – 25 June 1940 (6 weeks)....
if the current climate of, ahem... "discussion" is anything
to go by, or pretend to go fishing....
like **** i will: unless we're hunting rather than
fishing for whale...
killing off an Estonian elephant (a mammoth)...

easily: the French **** welcomes the ZZ-top
SS-mensch(en)... who attired them?
no, it wasn't Gucci... it might have been
Chanel... Hugo! *******! Boss!
yeah, how could you ever make
khaki ***** into uniform somehow bearable...
beyond me...

from under the iron curtain to now, "this"...
sorry, i'm not going to comply...
trans-genderism with flaky transcendentalism...
sorry, what?!
you can only do so much within the confines
of a metaphor, within the certification
of metaphysics,
three directions... meta-physics...
trans-whatever...
ortho-graphy... English is a language with no
knowledge of implementing orthographical
critique: it, does, not, employ, any,
diacritical, markers! the end!

all that English has to replace a study of orthography
is, the para-avenue...
Charlie ****-sense might have glorified a spelling
mistake by citing the term orthography...
poor Charlie D...
oh my god... i'm pumped!
it's what ******* might have felt working his way around
a genesis of a blank canvas...
me, i just have sounds... but i'm not encoding music:
i'm translating meaning...

i'm not even translation two languages
etymologically apart...
i'm translating language in order for it to be written
to begin with...

some other point... why i use the internet..
i listen to some of these bachelor videos,
but then i have to step back...
get completely pummeled,
become pulverised, become almost deaf with
music that's the antithesis adhesive of
someone talking... lately?
COMBICHRIST: all pain is gone,
   sent to destroy, never surrender...

12. looking for "googlewhacks"... mostly those i can invest
in as secondary search results...
13.  what the ****'s a "13"?
if ever, summon an elf: + / ?