Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859

The girl whose hair
Hung strung from
The crooked inner workings
Of her geared mind
Dusty, rusted, and unkempt
Against her most eager desires,
Bathed in the waves
Of the oblivion that surrounds us
During this night she absorbed
Into the fibers that nestle
Into the strings of her shirt,
Singing against the gentle flow
Of an evening breeze
Much cooler than that
Of one plagued by the day's sun,
And while the fire
Has been extinguished
And its flames dancing in licks
Have laid to sleep,
The moon has kissed her,
And she portrays the wisdom
She locks away behind a steel box,
Chained and covered with padlocks,
A glow never dim seeping
From beneath the lid.

Took youth
Set it to sail
On sinking ships

Our frantic
Greedy hands
Never close enough
But grasping still

Had our nimble fingers outstretched
Adulthood a locked door
Keys round our necks

Unlocked the door
To become
Swallowed
Devoured whole
Captured by the dark

Here I scatter the ashes of our Wednesdays
and throw dirt on our names because we fell into a stupor of unsaid goodbyes and insincere apologies.

I take my time trying to unclench my fist,
after all, release is only sweet when you feel suffocated.

I always made sure to adjust my grasp to your comfort,
present my entirety as if you owned more than a half of what I used to be.
I remember you in things that have no heartbeat, but a pulse of regret and anger that devours it, and to think you swore you would keep me alive.

In Binondo, you taught me how to eat street foods, walk in the crowded places, sit still on taxi rides,
and feel beautiful even when you kept your eyes off me.
You believed in slow motion, and the magic of lugaw at 12AM,
I watched you in a fascinated haze.
Too unsure of the light.

In Fairview, I told you that I cry during movies and laughed at the way you spun me around in the theater. Hand on my waist for good measure. I showed you claw machines and photobooths,
at least remember me.
I held your hand the first time, bled on
a piece of paper you read on the way to Quiapo, and all the long rides have made me feel empty ever since.

In Ilocos, I gave you a warm kisses on your cheeks when you took me
to church the first time, head spun just at the right angle for when
I walk down the aisle in a dress with you waiting at the end of it,
not knowing that in 4 years, I’d come back at someone
else’s wedding, begging on my knees at silent altars to keep you
even with my faith hanging from my fingertips. You still left.

In Intramuros, I see you in every nook and crevice,
in the holes, in the walls with Lechon Kawali, in quiet places we
claimed are for ourselves. In street vendors, ATM machines,
and pedestrian lanes too dangerous to walk on. Nowadays,
I shut my eyes in the backseat, afraid to see a shadow of who
I thought you were whenever I am near.

In Pasay there are people to see and places to walk
through to cover the tracks of almost lovers, a pair of shoes
to buy, impatience on my throat, and kisses on cheek as a cure
for my silence and satiation for the hunger below your navel.

In EDSA, we locked more than just lips, ate street Palitaw,
knocked three times on wooden doors, even lit candles to be sure,
that we would keep each other for good. Someone must have
knocked harder, the wind must have swept our fire out,
and we were fools to think promises were as simple as padlocks
that rust and break in the rain. How I never told you that I pictured
us in a million other bus rides that night. The road could never
have been shorter than the infinite one you promised.

In Pandacan, you wanted a life with me  
with nights in bed, the sickening kind of happiness harrowing
the peace we always knew we had. You held me close
and by the early hours of the morning you swore you’d meet me
again when the clock strikes twelve on a different year. I think
you left your love for me in that two-bedroom suite, and
wouldn’t it be wise if I left mine right next to yours, folded
and hung before the stain of resentment covered it whole?

In between the hurt and madness, memories of us
unfolding without grace on the table, I loved you.

You knew what you were doing when you let go of me to hold
onto someone else that was never as sure as I was of you,
and I wake up in sweat at 3AM thinking I never really knew.

Now we are in places we’ve never been, and I dry
swallow the hurt that swells even when I no longer touch it.
There are spaces I no longer need to be filled because I got used to being hollow
even when I was next to you
and now that I don’t have to be there anymore
it makes it easier to forget you ever happened, and I will tiptoe my way out of these places until I no longer feel you everywhere.

they called it a lake home because there were
no knobs only latches
with padlocks for winter.

it was spring when I left.

the water was in the arroyo
when colorado raised her snowy head
above the hills and brush of northern new mexico.

and you wept
with tears strange to me as yellow flowers
in the canyons and flatlands, laughing for water.


the truck broke down just south of Los Lunas
the smoke and steam drawn off by a fierce wind
that drove the tumbleweeds to

new lowlands. eager with seeds.

stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests

pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed

as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories

recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner

i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time

familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine

i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus

an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self

flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward

i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain

as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind

an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned

as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home

©2016 janetaylor

Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls  in 4 languages. 4 squalls in  once was a plage
their dancing  flames asked me to come closer

I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting  (reminded me of a  fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers  solidly sat speechless.  Sleepless.

The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater.  130 years later the odor of its curators  
I ran closer. I fell.  I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way.  I did not care.

When I arrived  the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated  into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil  
For a second  they transformed into torches again.  One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.

The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.

:  come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward  embracing fairy arms  
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)

So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach  pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all.  Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same  words : Keep up the struggle .  Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town

Chattering calls  in 4 voices.   4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless.  Pointless.  



(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )

She calls Him her boyfriend
But to Him, She is nothing but a Body to ****.
Good girls go to heaven but
Bad girls with big ****
are everywhere looking for ***** to ****.
Looking for loaded ****** to ****.
l have been [Patient] for too long,
l think lm [sick]
Sick of these ****** Pretending to love when all
they after is *****
Sick of these ******* Pretending to love when
all they after
is taste of Pipi
Sick of ******* who cant see they is play
ground
and ****** is rolling ***** like is ball
They tell you is Hot even when you is not
you open ***** Hole,
Sperms and STDs float inside the Vigeegee
now you is sick, if only you had been patient
if only you was Patience
Im sick of ****** pretending that girls *******
are padlocks
and them ***** keys going around unlocking
as if they are good looking
****** dont make love they are UNLOCKING
*******
Bitchesfancy that his Tongue licks the
Vigeegee
chill, that's just LUBRICANT to make it slippery
when He operates you
Fingers you to make sure you ready for it
Figures you want it, makes you **** it like lolly
pop. then He makes your ***** swallow it
Unlocks the *****
Kisses you, making you drink the alcoholic
poison from His lips
then you get drunk in love
then your blood gets drunk in ***
then your **** gets drunk in *****
then you skip your periods you call Him he
picks up drunk telling you to ******* then you
realise late that you were a Padlock and He
was to unlock you
and you realise late that You Were just a BODY
TO ****.
He lost nothing, but your
Innocence, dignity and virginity
perished.
But then you smile coz you played with His
**** too......

There must be a hidden room
Somewhere in my house
thats full of all the stuff I've lost
(I think twas stolen by a mouse)

I bet he goes to sleep at night
on a bed made of odd socks
and wakes up to a wind charm
made from keys and old padlocks

In the corner nickels and dimes
are all neatly arranged
and that Canadian Tire money
I never got to exchange

The charger for my cellphone
prob'ly makes a decent chair
and my old shaving mirror
gets used when he does his hair

Scraps of paper line his walls
with shopping lists and names
and numbers now forgotten
yet its me who gets the blame

So all this stuff that I once had
but can no longer find
will no doubt become mine again
when he's gone and its left behind

You watched me as I trace your veins
like they were train tracks to Neverland.
You watched me as I interlock our hands
like they were padlocks to our bodies.
You watched me as I cling onto your body
like they were electrons and protons.
You watched me as I smile with my crooked teeth
like they were the cutest sets of teeth you've ever seen.
You watched me as I talk about my worries in life
like they were the crucial news on TV.
You watched me as I cry my burdens out
like they were poison in my veins.
And as you watch me..
You held every piece of me in your arms
like they were the most fragile home décor.
You kissed and filled me with words of love
like they were the antidote to my poisoned wounds.
You cupped my face and locked your eyes on mine
like they were bright streetlamps glistening a dark alley.
You stroked the strands of my hair and tucked them behind
like they were delicate silks given from the Gods.
You breathe through my ear the promises of forever
like they were my religion I worship every now and then.

Single years roll down my face,
I send smoke signals to teenagers
Lost in the sound of their personal midnight,
Changing their names to ‘lost’ and ‘gained’
and remain unquantifiable
in the loose streets of halogen New York,
or the loose streets of halogen anywhere,

Some places you don’t imagine, only experience,
Some places you don’t  visit but get sent,
Some places demand sacrifice of years you don’t have,
Some places are just prayers and graffiti,

And here, here
The railway bridge adorned,
with tags and padlocks
and ****** fluids with different stories,
I see all the streets and city embodied,
She has a face like blunt force trauma,
Her legs are seductive and her hands
are covered in blood,
Her lover’s smile is an open wound.

In these places there is a fire in every tower,
In these places there is something sharp in every pocket,
In these places there is a sad drawing in your child’s notebook,
In these places there is always a ticking growing louder.

A foetus in handcuffs beneath a middle aged man
hanging from a traffic light;
Incidents unrelated,
Become dead words in piles of boxes,
That don’t realise they tell us how
this city or satellite town
is gathering the dirt for its own burial mound.

The other night I was walking down the street
In a sweatshirt and blue jeans
And to the left of the street I heard
“Hey baby, get in the car with me”
And I knew this couldn’t be a nice gesture
And I should be afraid
I should rely on the pepper spray in my purse
Over the compassion in a man’s heart
Because after all I’m just an itty pretty bitty
In this big ol’ city
And I need help
I need a white knight to protect me from dragons
That used to be men but forgot the meaning of the word no
And twisted it so
It meant try harder
Look at how short her skirt is
And I thought since when did the length
Of my skirt become the measure
Of a man’s self-control
When did the visibility of my thighs
Warrant unwanted invites
I don’t remember sending out mini-skirts
To request people come to my birthday party
The length of my dress does not mean yes
And the cut of my shirt is not a man’s control test
And when I say no that isn’t just a request
Why do I have to be afraid to be a woman?
Why can’t men be taught not to ****
So I won’t have to be taught ways to avoid it
Don’t walk alone
Don’t talk to strangers
Don’t walk at night
Don’t leave home without pepper spray
Don’t walk in that neighborhood
Why can’t being a woman mean don’t
Be afraid you never have to wish
You were born with padlocks instead of knees.

Incommunicado?
I can't tell of what
I know.

Padlocks on my tongue
to stop it running loose,
a noose around my neck
just in case.

Silence is tarnished by
oxidisation.

I always told myself to not do something that ****** one’s conscience.

Don’t tear the leaves or flowers from their roots. Do you not hear their screams of white noise and agony? Do you not see their blood drip onto the forest floor as you cared not for them but for your own selfish pleasures, to have their beauty in your hand?

Don’t listen to the voices that resonate off the walls. Do you not understand how that will satiate the undying hunger in the voids of your mind? Do you not know how it will churn your insides and burn the base of your soul?

Don’t look for the things you have lost. Do you not wonder why they would go missing in the first place? Do you not know that the wolves in the base of your spine have been unleashed?

Don’t stare at the beings in the universe around you. Do you not realize the trouble that would put you in? Do you not know that a single misadventure of the eyes will often lead to shiny blades with long handles in your torso?

Don’t overthink at night. Do you not know that the spirits in your atmosphere will steal your thoughts and add nightmares to them so you’ll have bad dreams? Do you not keep your thoughts in golden cages under massive padlocks and curvy keys?



(lunarlullubies)

I'm tired of the same licence plates
over and over,
all the padlocks, all the nods
from my neighbor over here.
Why must you ask me questions when I say some
people are more beautiful than others?
You are full enough
You will go home and eat at least

two more meals,
you will pet your cat and yourself and have a bowl of cereal before bed.
dreams like chocolate
silk. fingers like bear claws on trout
or salmon
from upstream with last names
coffee shops. They try to

warn you and you let them lose their cries
to the wind. They think
of their grandmothers.

When you ask me to hold your
hand I wonder if you will wash it before we eat
kiss make love
(you don't always warn me if you're

not clean)
In your chewing I hear the words
I should have said before dinner with hands
clasped, heads bent, feet flat
on the restaurant floor. The waitress
is younger than she looks, I
try not to laugh because I'm sure she's worked here for ten years
no
benefits
no
raise
no
tip over seven fifty.
Her eyes are strong from all the tears

but her words sound like
swing sets
half eaten dinners:
merciless.

Her teeth are the San Andreas Fault:
tired of opening and closing.
Tired of fake smiles, nicotine gum, chattering in the cold of other's
glares, all the nods from her next door neighbors, the same streets
with the same cars with the same licence plates. So she'll press them
down over her tongue, and curl her lips back slowly
until the day someone touches her the way she was touched
before claws
salmon
chocolate silk

before she was fat.

Everything about you and everyone you know
What you had for breakfast and where you plan to go
Who you call and what you say and precisely where you are
Every visit to the doctor, the mileage on your car

The books you like, the food you buy, the bloggers that you read
How much you gave to charity, your attitude to ****
Every contact, every text, every on-line search
The way you dress, the way you walk, the last time you went to church

No none of this is private now; you're an information source
Of interest to the agencies of order, law, and force
It's for the common good - no really! Can't you see?
And this discussion now, it's over; it's about security

And while we're on the subject, someone really oughta
Keep an eye on her next door; at least until we've caught her
And be mindful what you wish for, now thought-crime's here to stay
But hey! It's Britain not North Korea!  Just mind how you go, OK?

Oh you have to hand it to the creeps - they've diligently been sifting
Not through your bins or bank account when ALL your data lifting
They've no need for tricks or subterfuge since you handed them the keys
You let them in unwittingly, and at the time, were pleased

So now you're pinned and wriggling on their glass one-way wall
You've no more secrets hidden 'cos you've given them them all
Privacy is dead and buried, too late now for bereavement
You slaughtered it yourself:  End User Licence Agreement

It's too late too for tin-foil hats, too late to complain
And anyway, how would you? You've forfeited this game
Join the Twitterati? Start a Facebook page?
Tell your mates on WhatsApp?  All adds more padlocks to your cage

P'raps best not to think too much about it; Yes that's the easy call
Lie back and LOL at kittens, watch Gogglebox, but actually think sod all
Yes buy your Funeral Insurance – it's acquired a curious appeal
And accept, why not, the Kardashians might actually be real

With opinions now as changeable as your boxer shorts
Grey and saggy throwaways, masquerading as your thoughts
You got the lot in Primark's sale, with your knickers and your socks
And you feel freer now than ever, inside your tiny airless box

And that's the way we like it; your illusion of control
Costs us little and lets us rule you in body, heart and soul
So make no waves, do not stand out, enjoy your bread and games
Don't try to dodge the system or we'll cast you to the flames

“Nothing to hide, then nothing to fear” is something you've no doubt heard
But those who shout it loudest know best that it's absurd
So peer behind the curtain, examine every single word
   Because you know they've cracked it... yes finally cracked it...
     The polishing to perfection -  to immaculate, flawless, gleaming perfection - of
Every
Single
****

There are these sections in Gen's brain. Partitioned off by veined red walls, white wooden walls, and metal walls covered in padlocks. Behind each wall is another Gen, essentially. Every room supporting some variation of Genevieve. It's very busy, very cramped.

The Quiet Room
This room is quiet.
Happy?
Sad?
Is there even a Gen in here?
Gen?
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!
GEN!!?

The Blue Room
This room is filled with hazy blue mist.
The Gen blends in.
Nobody seeing the Gen in the blue room.
Like the quiet room, we don't even know if she's in there.
But we can hear her.
Faintly breathing.
Sort of.

The Yellow Room
This room has walls made of music.
The walls sing!
The Gen in the middle of the room smiles!
And sings!
This Gen is heard!
It smells like paper in this room.
Paper, and laundry detergent.
And a little like ink, too.

The Maze
We think this is where the REAL GEN,
The Big Gen,
Got trapped.
There are doors in these maze walls,
Leading to more walls and doors
And rooms.
We haven't found her yet.
She's in here somewhere.
She's probably scared.
Lost,
A little confused.

I wondered if the doors in your house lock by themselves because they know you’ll be too drunk to do it later. Maybe they know you like to keep your secrets locked away behind closed doors, so you don't have to admit to them; As it is easier to explain the absent of truth when there are lies to fill in the gaps.

From a young age I learnt to appreciate silence, as your nights brought a storm of yells and screams as my mother fought with words but you fought with a bottle and a wine glass. I wonder if the man at the bottle shop knew your order before you even walked through the doors, as you became quite the regular.

I wonder if my mother went to bed and cried the night she found bottles stashed away in the attic where nobody was suppose to find them; But almost six years after you left,  there they were. Maybe closed doors weren’t enough to keep your secrets locked away so you had to hide them in the attic, among family photos and old rusted bed frames.

I wonder if the sound of slamming doors still haunt my sisters ears. For they heard you leave in drunken anger, in the dead of night, to who-knows where.

I wonder if you ever thought of coming back; But I guess alcohol acted as a better family then we ever did because at least bottles don’t think, or have feelings and broken hearts.

I wonder if you’ll ever get the smell of alcohol out of your hair or from under your skin, and I wonder if you will ever keep the promises you once made me; But I guess my calls for help were nothing more than the soundtrack of a late night television show, left on as you fell asleep on the couch; red wine staining the carpet, leaving a tattooted mark as a reminder, telling those that you’d been here.

I wonder what it felt like when you realised, as children, we once replaced you beer with milky-water because we didn’t want daddy drinking anymore; Or what about the time when we threw out your tobacco. I  remember you sent us to our rooms, and shut the door behide you.

I wonder if you remember the time we went fishing and I asked you about the ocean. You explained that the ocean was like a human mind; so beautiful and clear,  yet deep and mysterious and that if I was to learn one thing in life, it was to never judge a person at first glance because just like the surface of the ocean, they only reflect the world around them. So I never judged you. I tried to understand you, but how was I  suppose to understand you when you kept closing doors in my face and threatening me with padlocks and lost keys?

I grew up learning to place my ears against the doors of your mind and try to arrange the puzzle pieces of your thoughts in an attempt to somehow create an image; But all I got was an unfinished picture with missing pieces.

I wonder if you remember the day I stopped visiting you because it was too hard packing my feelings into a suitcase and lugging them back and forth. I often wonder if you hated it that I didn’t call your house "home" or spent most of my time there, alone, outside because I didn’t like closed doors.

I remember once I  asked you why you drank so much. You said you liked the taste. I guess you also liked the heart break that comes with it, and the loneliness.

I wonder if you remember the night you got so blinded drunk you fell alseep on your bed with your pride by your side, waiting for my memory to pick it up and throw it out the window. I wonder if you remember I turned off the radio and let the silence tuck you in and the darkness sing you lullabies. I wonder if you remember I quietly closed the door behind me as I left;
Leaving another locked door;
With a deadly secret inside.

Water the lawn so it won’t die
Passed out in the dandelions
Compose yourself and blaze a trail
Splatter it on the easel

Crack of lightning
False doors lead to nowhere
Can I pull this off?
No sense in not trying

Take what you need
And keep it forever
For it's all you have
All you need for a life time

Throw it and run
A tearful good bye
Trash and compost falling from the skies
I leave a note to explain

Re writes
Re write
I can’t bring myself to
Scribble regretful ink onto
An unforgiving paper
Smoke fills the room
Screaming, blind fear
Say goodbye hide run and hide
       -Tommy Johnson

It’s almost never too late
We’ll be safe here

Lick it shut
Blend in with the padlocks

It has stopped
For now
Brick layered
Vent away

It will never be the same
Security abandoned
Unfathomable evolution
Genetic paint job

Stuck
Waiting frantically
For our savior
The key to a fire
Is a relentless urge to burn

It’s happening
My imperfections
Clocked In at high speed
Surfacing my conscious mind

Swerve through the wreckage
The waste piled high
The wheels spin
I’ve got it I’m here

You're safe
Locked up in your safe
No one knowing the combination but you
Feelings in safe deposit boxes
Padlocked just to make sure

I tried to sneak in the dead of night
Hoping to find a crack
But I never was good with subtleties
I attempted to hold you hostage
But you never even bothered to ask about a ransom
I even tried to blow you up with dynamite
But only lost pieces of myself

You're safe now
Locked up in your safe
Safe from burglars in the dead of night
Safe from being held at gunpoint
Safe from being in a war zone
No one knows your combination
Or has the keys to your padlocks

I hope that she has a wrecking ball
Smashing open your steel door before you even see it coming
I hope that she has a stethoscope
Pressing her ear against your chest as you hold her close
Each beat of heart is a click closer to cracking the code without you even knowing

I hope that she frees you from yourself because I sure as hell couldn't

Five fourteen p.m., my coffee bubbles in the ***.
Absent minded typing keeps the flood of thoughts away.
Drips pass through the filter, like a cut that cannot clot.
The radio hums static and I bend my knees to pray.

Eight o' nine p.m., I cry, "Oh, please Lord, stay with me."
Pacing footsteps creak and sigh, echoing my plea.
Clanking chains and padlocks keep my arms from flailing free
but still I scream out, "Should I climb atop a sycamore tree?!"

Two o' three a.m., no thoughts my dreamcatcher has caught.
I'm blinking, staring into space, to keep the tears at bay.
Somber, grave, inside my sheets my bones begin to rot.
God, fight off these demons, they are begging me to stray.

the bed feels like an ocean
your body writhes upon it

giant squid tentacles
winding up from the inky depths

locking around your ankle
rendering the limb useless
an anchor in your dreams

dreams of masked figures
with nets bottling your hopes
and dreams

for their own sick pleasures
put on shelves and made
into a roadside freak show

words like venom
and jeering laughter
nigh time dreamers chained in reality

differences scorned upon
physical or mental

cries of upheaval and revolution
from those that are followed by the
black dog

those that are like rag dolls
trapped in the shell that is
their body
unable to lift their heads

the smothering and stifling cloak
of panic worn by those who suffer anxiety

the grey storm cloud of acid rain
and icy bullets
hovering over the depressed

they are not broken
only flawed

in this world
today
no one is without flaws

insecurities and fear
keep our mouths shut
locked with heavy iron padlocks

weighing the wearer down

Council coin counter padlocks the  door,
**** here no more they pronounce.

The lady Mayoress of 1952’s dreams are dead,
How she simpered,
Cutting the municipal ribbon,
Beckoning flys to open for her creation.

Now,
Coffeers in the red,
Fred from the chrome door plated department of the WC’s, bolts the whole fancy and flys zip back up.

Brexit ******* means no exit from our miserly mendacity in the face of civic decline.

“You can **** in your own home”, the local Wig proclaims,
Fiscal pressure means a motion that stops your motions mate.

The council bids your poohs adieu and asks you to refrain from complaint.

I cough—and crimson flowers bloom on my palms
faster than the atom bomb can fall
As roots grew out from cells—you were yelling at trees—you couldn't move—you were just yelling at trees—yelling at trees
"Because that's all we really are! Just a different combination of the same thing. Like padlocks"

and it's not oak trees, but it's sapplings—and that's a start to a something we don't have a name to. You plant the seed of insanity into my mind,

To "We only have each other,"
I'm trying, I promise

I'm trying not to fall in love with a girl,
Because no matter how many times you say you're okay with it,
When I tell you, "Mother, I'm in love"
Your face will light up
And you'll ask me "What's his name?"
I'll try, as hard as I can, not to look you in the eye
When I tell you that 'his' name is Christa
But I'll look up just soon enough to see your face drop, even if it's just for half a second
It doesn't matter if you spend the next three hours smothering me with statements like
"It's okay"
"You're still my daughter"
"I'll always love you"
The only thing that I'll remember is that half a second of disappointment
Which will haunt me for weeks after
Every night I'll go to my room,
Silently, I will scratch my stomach raw,
Because that hurts, but it won't scar,
And I'll cry, silently,
And my body will shake and my head will pound and my chest will ache
You'll be in the room next to me
You won't hear a sound
You'll be too busy coming to terms with the fact that I'll never give you grandkids
So I'm trying to keep you happy
I'm trying, I promise

To "I couldn't do this with anyone else,"
I'm trying, and I'm waiting

I'm trying to be honest with you
I told you I like girls,
I told you that I haven't been happy in years,
And, in return, you told me about the times that you forgot how to breathe
Every time we talk about it, I never tell you how bad it can really get
I tell you little things
They shock you
Which is why I feel like I could never tell you the big ones
I'm trying to be good enough for you
But I'm also waiting
I'm waiting for the day that you snap
For the day when you scream at me
Tell me that you're tired of my non existent problems
And how pathetically sensitive I am
And you throw me away for good
I'm trying to convince myself that you'd never do that
I'm trying, and I'm waiting

To "What if we had met then,"
I'm trying; I wonder if you're trying, too

I'm trying to make up for the fact that when I first saw you
I was cold and cruel
Because I was following the rules
And they wanted me to 'fix' you
I'm also trying to make up for the fact that when I really met you,
Almost two years later
I was drowning and I had my demons in display
So you decided to show me yours as well
We didn't say much
"I understand"
"Sometimes I feel that way too"
"You're gonna be alright"
And then we both put our demons into boxes
Securing them with padlocks and satin bows
We didn't speak of it since
Despite that, I keep hearing that day in your voice
There are times where you have to lean down to find my eyes,
And you say "Good Morning" with terrifying caution
Not knowing whether I'll reply
But never again have I heard the words,
"I understand"
"Sometimes I feel that way too"
"You're gonna be alright"
Because really, mental illness is one of those dark caves where the last thing you need is sympathy
I don't know about you, but sometimes all I want is sympathy
I'm trying to stop having shallow conversations with you
Dancing around our misery and pretending we don't know
I want us to be there for each other
For real, this time
I'm trying; I wonder if you're trying, too

Soon comes our mid winter
cold and calculated is our pace
we wed this January
as winter makes haste

In the time and place most perfect
this is now our wedlock
a place of freedom and happiness
without the chains and padlocks

I have found you
my dreams have come true
for I am in heaven
when I am with you

As winter makes haste
hand in hand like in an egg and spoon race
we will be together forever and ever
racing to springs return from its endeavors

So we will wrap up warm
with silver wedding rings
to the song of cathedral bells
and the wonderful start of our spring


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Vallerese Would you even believe me if I told you how valuable you are.
Her fears created a castle in the air.
If you dont recognise her beauty you will be attacked by a crowbar.
When she is sad a river of tears cuts through the mountains.
Her hearts beauty is astounding.

A spring surrounded by mountains.
When she is hurt they put security tape around her heart because it is condemned.
A gate with ****** recognition so no one can pretend.
A security grid and a gate with a busted lock, that means that way is a dead end.
While exploring the beauty in her heart, I am using a journal to make a recording.

He found an automated gate that works with coding.
Looking through the gate you can see marble floors that are shining.
A gate with a thick chain and a lot of padlocks with a sign that says private keep out.
 A gate that opens when you type in roman numerals sadly that means he is locked out.
Tried to jump over the broken fence but had to jump back because the parrot made like an alarm and scared me.

The harsh reality struck me like a burning mountain falling on me.
A glass cabinet with no key contains her inner beauty.
I cant read your mind its something he must accept.
Like a present unwrapped.
Looking deep into her eyes you can see a glass cabinet where all her memories are kept. ©M.P.Jacobs

everyone speaks in tongues
leaving traces of their sickness
in others' lungs.

and we're waking up
with bad dreams in our mouths.
tell me more about the monster
that hides inside your head.

don't you want to be alone again?
that night, the snow
when no one could name us;
sovereignty in its purest form.

now it's just glances, banter
across the water
a blur of other faces.

because everyone here is against us,
or for us, or whatever.
don't bring humanity into this.

(you are hand-made
derived from symphony halls,
guilt-wrung hands,
hard feelings, the light reflected
caught on the metal.

jesus, you're going to blind me.)

see that I was looking.
see that I'm still the same.

recognize that I'm getting worse every day.

the smell of burning tires
smoke ascending from the streets
someone call for help --
everyone's coughing.

they will forget soon enough.
what did they know to begin with?

look, I heard things too.
you don't have to smash your padlocks
we all have our secrets.

Just out of reach,
the suckling mockingbird upon the Willow teases.
She sings a song of poetry,
rife with meaning, but
only to her.
She tells of great things, splendorous pursuits,
and attracts all who should dare
to pass by and lend an ear.
And I stare,
with visions of grandeur
and hope for something as true to time
as the passing of such,
with the chains of tomorrow within mine eyes.
And I listen,
to every song, every note,
with the marvel of time
ringing through my ears
as it moves through towards an ultimate demise.
Transfixed.
I am,
as I stand to enjoy the precious moment,
as still and sure as her flighty, beating heart,
knowing
any move shall cast her south toward warmer climates
and stiller waters.
And as I listen to her sing and stop
and sing some more
of her stories, her drifts through the sky and
drafts oft turned to journeys,
I come to see her heart.
I come to see her life.
And I endeavor to show her mine.
So with great effort,
I tear free the padlocks which time has so
firmly entombed upon my mind and chest.
I wrench them free,
screaming,
as the fire spreads through my veins,
as the poison finally leaks outward of my mind.
I fall,
as my legs give way to the weight of the yesters,
and my eyes search for the person I was
in the dirt of childhood's battleground.
Meanwhile,
startled, scared, delicate,
my mockingbird lifts away and moves on to other lands,
never to return to me.