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howard brace Aug 2013
"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862
Caroline Grace Mar 2010
She saves swatches of fabric
pinked with special shears;
orders them in co-ordinated heaps
to keep her life fuss-free.
The finished quilt bubbles in her head.
She imagines it telling her bedtime stories
or lines of poetry to help her sleep -
"Better than sheep" she thinks.
She cuts card; stitches with rough tacking;
fantasizes downy feathers floating
between her patchwork story and
backing of silk slipping against skin,
then secures with neat tiny stitches
and strong coloured thread, to ensure
that her dream won't fall apart at the seams.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
Rick Warr Jun 2016
the man nearby on the train clacks his laptop offensively
like the annoyance of noisy writers in school exams
when I was stultified by writers block
I wonder what the black girl would taste like
passengers feed their fatness with crinkly cellephane food substitutes

did you have a good weekend?
conversation openers start to chorus
corporate cockwombles
talk in jargon tongues
as they sell their souls
to white shirt organisational ambition
common sense takes a back seat
in the street car of Progress
there's talk of profit and effiencies
from men who never made their wives moan
there's talk of scalability and security
from those who know nothing of flexibility and risk
there's talk of innovation
from those whose personal best
is a smart phone

have you seen the latest?
what do you think?
hey, that's what I think!
we must be brothers!
in a cozy co-ordinated mediocrity.
A dystopian stream of consciousness in commuterland
maybella snow Jun 2013
i've become like a rubix cube
i am placed in the cupboard        
to be taken out on occasion
and put in a disarray  
twisted                                    
turned    ­          
confused                          
  
   just to be put back    
only after being caused more            
damage

after once again being
re-accommodated                
to the lonely cupboard

someone else                                
with obvious time to pass
clasps their hands on me              
only to expenditure
their fancied time on me

but once again                  
being returned into the loneliness
of the cupboard

waiting for the day
when someone else finds me        
dusts me off                                  
and returns me
to my initial state of orderliness

colour co-ordinated      
and whole

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
yvan sanchez Sep 2018
I

I still exist in your symmetry,
In your crystals, in your lines
There is a secret history;
A passing of marble and bronze
I leave my room and here I am,
Surrounded by the fake daylight
Memory still exists on the most
Aged asphalt and white plaster
Weighed by a sadness older than age itself
As time sags their wooden frames

Then there the fire begins
It burns with fury and rage;
My artificial paradise departs from me
As I gather what I can from ash
They remain unamended and raw
In their original, solid state
I begin to mark each line of sweat
The strands on my head now aflame;
Fiery hands remove all of me minus heart
Left with my frail bones that rattle, alone

As my spirit departs the scorched crust
I dust away at my improvised grave;
I carry myself to the edge of time
Vanished, no longer to be found.


II

The quietness after a harsh panic
Paints the ordinated New Age
There regrows the willows where
We are off to sleep;
I mix the soil with our love
It grows and grows and grows;
Their strands a brilliant green
It comes and joins me
My hair becomes the willow
Where I still hear you, asleep

There I flee to the ocean
Your memory amongst the particles of salt
The water’s ephemeral substance
Their fluidity draws me in
I am drawn in by the cool water
My skin slowly becomes blue;
My eyes replaced with worn, ancient shells
My hair a bundle of slippery kelp
I molt in the clear, wide expanse
As you consume me

And now in the darkness
You rejoin me again on the sea floor;
Again, grows the willow
The marker of our joint grave.

Paradise, 2018
Dave Robertson Feb 2022
Impossibly,
pigeons sparked against a cerulean sky
spinning like a tossed hand of loose change
in appreciation of the day’s artistry

On the bed’s edge,
trying to align and affix,
gingerly stretching muscles that used to behave,
their co-ordinated flight cast me
momentarily saddened
as each sock and trouser leg moaned on

Still,
the sun kissed us all, anyway
K Balachandran Feb 2019
Every night keeps within it's protective cupped palms
At least this much; few bright moments of calm.
But she was a night so perfectly wedded to the dense dark,
Even in love, doing diabolic best, as if nothing else'd work
Never occured no other,in her thoughts or deeds ever.
But he seemed to be not  aware of his eye sight's fatal error,
Always read all her printer's devil just as if all of it's  right,
Her many decisive acts finely co ordinated,  finished him quite,
Love the first casuality, gave an impetus, then followed the rest.
He who fell head over the heals for her, slumped face down in the pit
machina miller Jan 2016
XIX
if I were born a different species I would wish to be hatched a bird from an egg in a nest devouring vomitus looking over the branches at the fall watching my mother leave watching her come back seeing my brother leave and not return watching my mother leave with my siblings watching my mother return with my siblings the big day the big leap of faith the rite of passage or descension a terrible pressure much gravitas the jump!     born into a new life once passive now released a terror upon the skies or at least the rodents of the field which briefly leave their burrows to bask in the sun of the dawn but also a member of a lethal hierarchy always watching for bigger predators with beaks the size of my neck and shadows to encompass me and blot out the sun above me and swooping down upon me and me wheeling and barreling and careening and them tightening and circling and diving in a battle of athleticism for which the trophy is life or death then more vacating of the space between I and them and endlessly the pulse-driving innervating rush of imminent death surges

but I am descendant of apes, cultured to sit in desks and combine numeric symbols for collectives concerned primarily with the collection of monetary symbols and should I want any of my own significant symbols which indeed I likely should I must push harder the boundaries of my capability to mix accurately these and other symbols past that of my fellows and restrict my wonderment to evenings in which I either live through the fantasies of the television program or novella or expressive form or imbibe the socially acceptable intoxicants in socially acceptable groupings of my peers which within are also imbibers of aforementioned substances in non-lethal but rather questionable binges on and evermore and on some more until I have children and I too teach them the ways of our rigorously well co-ordinated society which is very proper very proper indeed with its unspoken rules profiting you greatly to follow oh profit so greatly oh great profit jolly good great investments great show wonderfully valuable just barmy the bees knees the cats pyjamas the dogs bone oh dear merciful god does samantha really love me is my marriage based purely and hollowly on some ingrained self-deprecating pragmatist ritualism

I will die someday and I both fear for it and desire it with exactly half each of my whole being
always always always
Steve Page Aug 2021
The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me how much it would miss
me how much it depends on my
little choices
my small voices drowning
out the others and nudging
me to stay away.

The world doesn’t know how much
we depend on a little lack of leadership.
How much more devastated the world would
be with a little more co-ordinated lawlessness.

Little do they appreciate me,
appreciate that random acts of disfunction
are preferable by far
than my hordes of regimented devastation.

The world doesn’t know how much it needs
me to stay here
and not get involved.

The world doesn’t know how much
it needs me.
Sometimes chaos is a matter of choice
Scarlet Niamh Oct 2017
My father's obsession became increasingly apparent
with every visit I made to him.
The clocks, their hands,
their beautiful, twisted fingers
dancing to the co-ordinated sound of
ticking - he couldn't take his eyes from them.
Over the years I began to see
his irises shifting like clockwork,
miniature minute hands
beating at the doors,
ticking
ticking
ticking.
They are knitting,
knitting a fabric so tight it's a shroud,
pulling it over his head and waiting
for him to sink into the waters of embalmment.
Epitaphs, mad men entitled to nothing.
He formed the millions into gears,
expectation of a smooth, working machine
which he could grasp in his fingers
and hold up to the ***** sky,
moving, scurrying,
ticking. A better place, or so it seemed
to him, where men didn't speak in tongues
and life answered
to something beyond chance.
It was different when he first came here
but then so was he,
it was a version that made more sense.
A version where black birds with missing
feathers patrolled the skies,
where he ran his hands through his hair
to leave straggled clumps between his fingers -
balding velvet. He forgot
so much more than he had remembered,
even me. Eyes still glazed white
looking right at me, he was cold-limbed
and vacant and filled me with a filthy,
cruel hollowness that takes
and takes, relentlessly, for no gear,
or system, or rhyme, will pull
the books from the shelves. I won't find
a ransacked home with shattered furniture
and broken glass littering the floor,
only a clean, aching, vague room
that is blue and sterile and so empty
it leaves trails of goosebumps
along my arms and burns its way
into my dreams in the depths of the night.
I won't find you crying over empty photographs,
only a shell,
staring, dead, at the whitewashed walls.
~~ Exhume me from the burden of memory. ~~
Paul Tomy Nov 2018
Pia
Pia

Where am I?
For, I am-
Amidst the constant
nagging of time.
Co-ordinated neurotic.

Janes come and go,
I can’t let you go Paul.

Eyes, caressed my inner torment.
Words, brushed my perforated heart,

Redness gleamed all over.
Beliefs coalesced, whole.
Stephen's Green, second home.

Eros, Your majesty!

Mine to ours
Bonded than gripped,
Interdiffused
Hearts branched it’s arms.

November rains fey-
Clouds sprinkled poison,
That is life. She said-
“We can never be together, Paul”.

Summoned, lonesome cries.
“Pia!”…… “Pia!”....
The turf loathed away
Unsullied anvil
Thwacked , sightless beams.Chasm.

Janes come and go,
I can’t let you go Paul.

Twinkled when I had my chance,
Roused when needs be thence.
Swarped my sense, ropes hence
Love boots my face,bright future.

New day, new shock.
I breathe bright future-prickles.
Smiled at my 4th wall
deprived of a warm wall.

Janes come and go,
I can’t let you go Paul
Janes come and go
I don think you’re the one, Paul
Ryan O'Leary Sep 23
.         Just as all species in
         nature, our circadian
         rhythm summons us
         to the synchronized
         clocks of a universally
         co-ordinated accord.

         It is a photo sensitivity,
         in the west, where our
         shadows congregate.
         This explains darkness
          in our hemisphere, it
          only now dawned on me!
Ryan O'Leary Sep 25
.         Just as all species in
         nature, our circadian
         rhythm summons us
         to the synchronized
         clocks of a universally
         co-ordinated accord.

         It is a photo sensitivity,
         in the west, where our
         shadows congregate.
         This explains darkness
          in our hemisphere, it
          only now dawned on me!

— The End —