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

I

Before the sea the sound of sea, before the wind a mask of wind placed on the face, before the rain the touch of rain on the cheek. The lee shore of this finger of land is a gathered turbulence of tea-coloured, leaf-curling wave upon wave, wholly irregular, turning, folding, falling. No steady crash and withdrawal hiss, but a chaos of breaking and turning over, no rhyme or reason, and far, far up the beached misted shore. There, do you see? - suddenly appearing in the waves’ turmoil a raft of concrete, metalled, appearing to disappear, the foreshore’s strategic sixty year old litter shifting and decaying slowly under the toss of water and wind.
 
II
 
From the lighthouse steps to the sea fifty yards no more: the path, a brief facing of the wind and spit of rain, then turning the back to it see the complexity of low vegetation holding its own on the shallow earth-invading sand and rolled leaves of marram grass. Sea Buckthorn is the dominant plant, not yet berried with its clustered inedible oil-rich orange fruits. The leaves, slight, barely 5cm long, but in profusion, clustering upward, splaying out and upward on thin branches, hiding the wind in its density, never more than chest high, so the eye looks down, sees the plane of the leaves, long, thin, suddenly tapered, dense, stiff, thorny.
 
III
 
You said, ‘look the door is curved.’ And it was. In the late afternoon light filtering through the oblong window 150’ into the grey sky the panelled wood was honeyed. Covered with a well-varnished frottage of swirled marks, some of the wood itself, some of gathering age and infestation, the single window’s light blazed a small white rectangle on the larger rectangle of the door. The passage outside the door too narrow for the eye to take in the whole door straight on, one has to move past and catch its form obliquely.
 
IV
 
The curve, the long four-mile curve of the finger into the afternoon mist and sea cloud. From the road: only seen the smooth ebbing tide waters retreating from the archipelagos of mud and sand and slight vegetation of rusted grass.  From the road: only heard over the marramed banks the sea’s sound of waves’ confusion and winds’ turmoil. Follow the fade of the curve’s progress in the echo of distance. It paints itself from the brush of the eye, the sea a grey resist. This spreading away is a long breath taken . . . then expelled from the lungs of looking. You can’t quite hold it all in one view so you’ll build the image in sections, assembling and projecting across two adjoining landscape sheets as if the spiral binding isn’t there. The resulting image when digitally joined will describe the negative space of sea of sky, silent and uncluttered by marks. Only the curve of the land will collect the drawn, a vertical stroke here for a lighthouse, a slight smudge for the lifeboat station.
 
V
 
From the road looking south to an invisible North Shore, the mist hiding the true horizon, there is layer upon layer of horizontal bands: of grass, of mud, of nested water around mud, wet sand, layered water, mud-black, water-grey, a dull sky-reflected white of a sheltered sea, and patterning everywhere, dots of birds near and distant. Then, in the very centre, a curlew in profile, its long downward curving bill dipping for worms into the wet sand and mud. Breeding on summer moorland, wading winter estuaries, this somewhat larger than other waders here, so distinctive with its heavy, calm stance.

Train spotted on ancient rail tracks
Mucks and grants on submerged pasts
Copper and ***** metal poles point
Upwards in heaven above the panelled tops
Price all  the intentional conditioning
A paradise of self sufficiency
A dew of ranting , the metal raiding
Price the substitutional compressions
A timber frame of tunnels
The heightened temperature
Price and tag her beautiful mind
An attachment of glorified plinth
The punch of the chaotic medals
Pride and rearrange her plentiful plight
Show all her cast frame in crimson and greys

There is something discombobulating about feeling a shudder and a tilt, the models in front of you apparently moving slowly sideways, as the stand with your show seat starts to move in circles.

At the same time, the models at the Céline show seemed to be going off in all directions. Popping in and out of the black holes of space were models - young or older - wearing a smart green masculine trouser suit, a striped shirt, a white belted raincoat, something furry and - unexpectedly - a tunic and trousers printed with black wheels and checks skittering before your eyes.

All this and the bodies and arms of shadowy people behind the plastic backdrop. I rushed backstage to try to make sense of the show chaos (sorry: artistic intrigue), but designer Phoebe Philo did not want to talk when I asked her the point of her dramatic presentation of her Autumn/Winter 2017 collection.

"Just ideas coming together with lots of ideas," said the designer. "Just lots and lots of ideas and how they impact each other."

Around me, Phoebe's team were hugging and sobbing and clutching each other, as if this show were their last. Overview notes provided by the public relations people seemed even more confusing, apart from telling me that the installation (that required more electric cables and wires than I have ever seen above a fashion runway) was by French artist Philippe Parreno.

''The Céline AW17 collection explored Phoebe Philo's storytelling design process of how a collection is created and the notion of how changes result in impact," read the statement. "Further, the collection relates closely to the interconnected nature of women's lives and possibilities for women."

Before I read this, I had thought of Phoebe as the English designer who has her children running around backstage and who made practical but classy clothes for today's woman. She threw into the mix a few charming pieces like the fluffy flat sandals that have been picked up by other designers across the world.

With all that on offer, why did the new Céline collection have to complicate things so much?

Take away the moving seats and impossible-to-follow criss-cross of the models and there was the Céline look that any woman would crave: the bold, floor-length tailored coat; a tuxedo with its hemline sweeping right down to the ankle. The tailoring looked bigger, oversized even, which is in tune with the Eighties-style square shoulders that we have seen elsewhere this season.

Phoebe seemed to be offering a hardened version of the serenity she once found in streamlined clothes. An example of the new severity would be a plain, long sleeved dress with a hemline at mid-calf. Its softer side was a blue shirt elongated to the ankle and worn with trousers.

Ultimately, Phoebe offers 21st century elegance with the smooth lines disrupted by a tangle of fringe at the hem or what appeared to be a big blanket over one arm.

I received an overall impression of longer - to the ankle - length, a sense of sobriety and a few fanciful things for evening. What I missed in the hurdy-gurdy of the presentation, is, as yet, unknown.

With exquisite workmanship and Victoriana melded with pop, Pierpaolo Piccioli had a new vision of romance for the digital era.

Prudishness and pop - can the two really meld together? Yes! If the Victorian-style cape is in a vivid, sugary, postmodern pink and the dress underneath a colourful geometric pattern, recalling the Memphis era.

At Valentino, the 1880s met the 1980s with sensational results as designer Pierpaolo Piccioli dismissed the feminist vibe that has reverberated through the Autumn/Winter 2017 season yet created a collection that was respectful to and joyful for, women.

Just looking at the designer's four moodboards was a history lesson, as Pierpaolo whizzed me through dark Victorian carved birds, bright Memphis furniture, coral with a religious connection to Medusa - so much from the past crammed into one collection.

Yet on the runway, the result was far from overloaded, as the history of coral was subsumed into the necklaces all the models wore and the deflated Victorian silhouette - long and high waisted, but slim where a crinoline once was, seemed perfectly acceptable as a romantic vision of the 21st century.

"I wanted to add deepness and romanticism to the modernity of the shapes, so these are absolutely items that you can wear separately - a white shirt or the skirt with your own sweater," said Pierpaolo. "I think fashion is made for dreams, but sometimes you want a dream that is daywear."

The Valentino studios are at the heart of the matter, apparently finding it as easy to toss off a tailored coat with a mid-calf hemline nudging Victoriana bootees, as it is to make a soft, light dress to flow underneath. The detail and delicacy of the dresses seemed like an extension of the haute couture, but the designer was eager to point out that the clothes came from the Italian factory dedicated to Valentino.

Whether it is so easy visually to mix a sorbet pink top with tiny ruffles down the arms that flowed into a cherry ripe panelled skirt, the result was surprisingly calm. Even the dresses patterned with Memphis pop blended in with the plainer, pleated versions. And just when you thought that the show's high romance was over blown, the designer would slip in a black top over a pair of sloppy velvet trousers or calm a Memphis patterned dress with a tailored coat. A severe black jacket could be worn with anything already in the closet from an LBD to blue jeans. Like the tailored coats, it kept ripe femininity in check.

"For me it is important to keep the lightness, otherwise it doesn’t feel confident and if you don’t feel that you don’t feel beautiful," said Pierpaolo. "I think if you feel confident you can even be able to show your sensibility and really feel stronger."

However you rated the clothes - too fancy, too froufrou, too historical - there is no denying that Pierpaolo has created a vision that is respectful to women and which makes them feel beautiful. In a churning political universe, Valentino offers a small, still voice of calm.

Demna Gvasalia revisited Cristóbal’s silhouettes with surges of modern colour, print and volume.

Balenciaga haute couture has been revived for the first time since Cristóbal himself closed the house nearly half a century ago. The last nine outfits shown by creative director Demna Gvasalia, on the huge carpet patterned with the word 'Balenciaga,' had their roots in the legacy of grandeur left by the noble Spanish-born couturier, who died in 1972.

Demna, who started in fashion by building street-smart, unadorned clothes, deliberately named just Vetements (the French word for clothing), has turned towards the grandeur of the original designs that are part of the Balenciaga legacy.

“I thought 100 years was a good reason to make couture available again,” said Demna backstage. “We're not going to do a couture line or show during couture, but these pieces will be made to order – basically for people who want to buy a couture dress from Balenciaga.”

The grand offerings – the polka dot dress with bustle back, the layers of dark pink taffeta, and a slim black gown, all with large back bows, were not the only historic links. The show opened with tailored coats which were worn with a drape over the left shoulder, reminiscent of the way that the models of an earlier era would walk with their heads up, shoulders rounded and stomachs sunk in.

“I studied how the pieces are worn and I found these images from old mood boards of Cristóbal where women are standing with their coats like this,” the designer explained. “The idea was to bring this kind of elegance, the gesture of wearing those pieces, but take it into a kind of cool and make it more modern. You can also wear it in a normal way, but it is constructed so that one part is larger and then you can also pin it up. And this is what you see basically in all these books.”

Demna's way of rethinking with his brain what he had seen with his eyes is exceptional – and the reason why he seems able to update the house as if he were growing new shoots from existing roots.

The arrival of vivid colour signalled a change of pace, as every figure stood out in the farthest reach of the enormous sports stadium. The hosiery especially perhaps, in grass green, and cut-away waistcoats like harnesses in pastel colours, took the image of Balenciaga back to the early days of Nicolas Ghesquière and his futuristic period at the house.

Demna is also drawn by the flowers that were a part of the Cristóbal Balenciaga look; by showing a patterned skirt with big, bold, brightly coloured sweaters, he gave print a modern feel.

The show was not perfect. Mini dresses in the floral patterns and bright hose looked out of place. But the overall effect was precise but theatrical, with the couture creating a dramatic ending.

Choosing Demna may have been a gamble by François-Henri Pinault, CEO of Kering, the luxury group that owns Balenciaga. But the designer has turned out to be able to answer fashion's most difficult challenge: finding the balance between old and new, tipped towards the future.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

Designer Mandira Wirk gave actress Nimrat Kaur a regal look when she showcased her New Royals collection at Amazon India Fashion Week on Saturday.

Wirk showed 20 ensembles, including Kaur’s ivory drape concept sari with just a zipper, panelled gown with mother of pearls and dori work paired with a sheer cape.

“Her collection is so pretty and feminine,” said Kaur. “I love her clothes. This collection is called the New Royals... it’s bringing pretty back, beautifully enhancing the female body form. It makes you feel so light and pretty.”

Panelled anarkalis, jackets and capes, crop tops, jumpsuits and tapered trousers appeared alongside designer’s signature drape saris and dhoti pants.

Wirk, in a beautiful off-shoulder powder pink dress, said: “I wanted to get pretty back to the runway. It is pretty feminine, wearable and an extremely versatile collection.

“I have done lots of pastels...lot of capes, sleeves. So basically a very feminine and romantic collection.”

The range saw a heavy use modern details like wide pockets and deep waistbands paired with layers of French knots.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

i may start with the bathroom
large panelled white
a geyser with gasp, gas there

was

plenty of soap/more in store
no charge

lock and bolt the door for quiet & solitude

not much changes then

talk your self to sleep
upper rooms where no
one hears

she seemed brave/ an opposite
to me/maybe/maybe she was hiding
too

we told no one

sbm.

The painting collided with the steaming floorboards,
a single nail which once held the frame
torn in half like warmed taffy --
a single string, thin like a strand of hair,
dangling in the painting's place,
swaying in the slightest breath.
The wooden six-panelled window trim cracked and whined
but the glass remained untouched,
reflective of the doll carefully decorating the fur-covered bed.
Crystal eyes blink but do not break,
a manicured hand overlaying her mouth,
melding with the porcelain that is her skin.
Her elongated lashes dripped down her blushed cheeks.
She shook slightly but did not move.
Her ears, hidden beneath ruby locks, burst.
A puff of black smoke pushed its way past her curls,
framed by the sound of barotrauma.
Her eyes rolled back, lids fluttered shut,
chin collided with the soft skin of her chest . . .
A slug dropped onto her shoulder,
wiggling side to side with its newfound freedom.
It lost its balance on her delicate sleeve
and landed on my lap in a gooey pile of slime.
There are too many mirrors in this melting room . . .
I can't twitch my eyes without meeting the doll's.
The mirrors shattered as the frames which held them contracted.
The room glittered like the inside of a snowball,
but soon the luster turned to dust,
and the shards left clinging to the frame turned black,
bubbling glass dancing to a lethargic beat down the length of the walls,
trickling into the melted monstrosity swaying like an angry sea.
All the while the doll sat content in her fur-covered bed.

“YOU’RE NOT REAL” I screamed even as my knees buckled and I collapsed fingers gripping at the sides of my head as though I could make it all stop if only I could break through the fragile casing of my skull and force my finger tips deep into the softness of grey matter trapped within.

I cried then in the way that only children seem to be able to, I cried as I have never cried since that day with heart breaking sobs that made my chest ache even days later.
Days that I do not remember.

I know I stayed there for what felt like a life time, my body crumpled against the unforgiving wooden panelled floor shaking with each new sob that tore at my throat until I was sure that I might soon see blood as well as tears staining the fabric of my little blue jeans.

There were hands then, though I never saw them.
Large and rough with years of labour, they smelled of cigarettes and potting soil… saw dust and engine grease.
Those hands came and closed slowly over mine easing away the pressure of my tiny fingers now tipped with blood where my nails had partly broken the skin leaving red streaks through the tangled mess of sun bleached strands.

Strong arms lifted my body that felt too small… too fragile, like a hollow egg shell that has been pitted against a brick.
That was how I felt then just a shell trying to keep the world at bay.

I remember the dull sensation of eyes staring, burning into me as those strong arms cradled my shell the blur of red against the grey shirt that covered the chest that felt more like a mountain… a fortress that could hide me from the world.

There was no other sound to me then but the footsteps of my human fortress carrying my shell of a body out of the room as my pained sobs cut through the air and buried themselves deep in the psyche of every being there.

I knew somewhere in the back of my catatonic mind that I would never see that room again or the other children and their frightened glances that were always cast in my direction whenever I was caught speaking softly to the man that  paced the halls of our Sunday school.

I would never see the haggard face of our tired teacher, the horrible accusing look he always gave me when I insisted on the pacing mans existence before being sent to stand alone in the farthest corner of our class room.

We passed through the narrow doorway where above there hung a sign.
Fat sprawling letters written in a child’s hand so thickly coated in a smattering of different colored glitters… Jesus loves you.

I closed my eyes.

I love the train, but especially today.

Today it is early in the day and the train is not rattling through darkness like a bullet.

It’s 3:25 and the sky is very blue on the left and cloudier to the right,
but the right is prettier because it has the lakeside, which from here looks like sea glass.

The waves roll in staggered and carelessly since no boats come by here.

We are the ones who get a coup d’oeil at this uninterrupted place.

Trees stand bare still, and the ones which are on the shoreline are washed and bleached,

looking like bones.

Some evergreens come close, but they are a little brown.

Yellow grasses freshly uncovered of snow look rather beautiful beside the blue and periwinkle skies.

I love blue panelled barns and houses which match the water and sky, and seem to remind me of wholesome people.

I catch a glimpse of a pink jacket and helmet as a little ******* a four wheeler waves to the train. How quickly we left her behind.

If I can’t tell you of your beauty,
I can only tell this page I type.

And so I write
of gazing at you
in the summer evening light,
in that room we shared,
a room where you sat
beside a three-panelled window
of small glass panes,
letting in the presence
of a tree-surrounded garden.
And beyond, beyond
a steep rising of moorland.

The room was heavy
with accumulated light,
a light that lay sculpting
the features of your face
and sitting self. It carved
the very fall of your dress
over your thighs. It caressed
your forearms and your hands
to become a texture like stone,
covering the freckles
close to my gaze when we lie
in love’s tenderness.

I cannot tell you of your beauty
without that shrugging off
you make, as with a comforting shawl
that I might place on your shoulders
with paltry words, uncertain speech.

I hold to that sight of you
in the night time listening
to the rain falling
like a benediction forsaken,
a blessing denied.
We are apart you and I.
And so waking, waking
throughout the long damp night,
to differing degrees of darkness
then the light, and to
the car in the road,
the bird on the roof,
I lie still,
holding memory’s picture,
a photograph brought from
the darkroom’s dull red
light into a bright white day,
and marked by the line of
your loveliness stilled into form.

If I can’t tell you of your beauty,
I can only tell this page I type.

The bungalow stood empty after he died
Garden shoes hugged the porch step
The glass panelled front door showing
Pale translucent echoes of familiarity
Through its six oblong windows.

I was never allowed to visit
After the day of the funeral
Never able to bounce on the
Cream candlewick double bed
Which had been home.

Or to collect cuttings from the
Dilapidated garden, just a rose
Or two would do to recall a day
Of Summer and deckchairs
Tea and cakes eaten with care.

I was never allowed to embrace
Years of happy holidays shared
Breath in the beauty of memory
Deep down where flowers grow
Never allowed another Spring.

Love Mary xxxxx

where
love sleeps on goosefeathers and moonlight moors,
withering on the solemn slopes of moss and

heather where
hummingbirds climb on raindrops,
sailing on the pattering and

puddling where
fog layers on hillsides, augmenting
the shades of evergreen, folded and

ambient where
light shines through panelled oak and
purrs with the howl of the lonely sun, speckled and

blurred where
you sigh, narrowly, and long for the tides
beyond forty-five degrees (where it's

cold, i think) where
lorries stop to breathe and you
step, i think, to be closer to magic
and further from me.

He knew that there must be something wrong
From the time he brought her home,
His mother had turned her back when he
Announced her as Alice Frome,
‘She lives in the vale by Abbeville
Where I met her at the dance,
Mother, you have to greet  her for
This may be a true romance.’

His mother had pursed her lips, and turned
Surveying her up and down,
‘You shouldn’t get carried away,’ she said,
‘There’s plenty of girls in town.’
Then Alice blushed, was taken aback
By this woman’s cruel jibe,
‘What have I done to you,’ she said,
And the lad, he almost cried.

She left, and swore she’d never come back
And the lad had left as well,
His mother watched throught the curtains
Knowing she’d put her son through hell,
‘Just what in the world were you thinking of?’
He said, when he came back home,
‘I meant, she wasn’t the one for you,
That girl, that Alice Frome.’

‘You don’t even know her,’ said the lad,
‘You wouldn’t know what she’s like,
She’s good at art and she’s awful smart,
She’s not some terrible ****.’
‘I know her sort, I’ve seen them before
And she’s not the one for you,
Take your mother’s advice, my son
Or she’ll tear your heart in two.’

But he went to meet her secretly
On the odd nights of the week,
And when his mother had asked him where,
She found that he wouldn’t speak.
He woke one Saturday morning late
His ankle chained to the bed,
‘You won’t be going to visit that girl
Unless I’m already dead!’

He cried and ranted and called for her
But his mother wouldn’t come,
She locked the door to his bedroom
And the windows, every one,
She brought his meals but she wouldn’t budge,
‘You will lie here ‘til she’s gone,
‘Til she has another boyfriend, and
I’ll bet, that won’t be long.’

She kept him chained for a week in there
Then Alice came round to call,
She beat and beat on the panelled door
Then sat on the old stone wall.
‘I’ll not be leaving ‘til you come out,’
She yelled, so the neighbours heard,
And soon, the mother had let her in,
Face grim, but her eyes were scared.

They sat and talked in the kitchen there
For an hour, or maybe more,
Then Alice walked with a tear-stained face
Slamming the old front door,
His mother let him off from his chain
But she made him sit downstairs,
‘That Alice Frome said leave her alone.’
He said, ‘I know she cares!’

‘It isn’t a question of caring, son,
But a question of what is right,
You just can’t marry that Alice Frome
And I’ll tell you why tonight.
I felt let down when your father left
And I had an affair or two,
And then I fell, you should know as well
For I am her mother too.’

‘I had her swiftly adopted out,
Burying past mistakes,
I couldn’t care like I cared for you
We do whatever it takes.
But I knew the people that took her in
And I’ve watched her from afar,
You couldn’t marry your sister, son,
You’ll find there’s a legal bar.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before,’
He cried as he turned his back,
‘I didn’t want to reveal my scar…’
He said, ‘It’s too late for that!
We think she may be expecting now,
It’s not just affecting you!’
‘She’ll have to have an abortion, son,
That’s what she’s gone off to do.’

He left the house in a flood of tears,
His mother cried in the dark,
The worst had come of her secret fears
She was losing her son, her Mark.
A week went by then they found the two
Curled up in a four-post bed,
Their pale young faces were tear-streaked,
A brother and sister, dead.

David Lewis Paget

Dawn light rises above my apartment balcony
giving life and colour to my potted friends
(especially the orange of my marigolds)

The chirping of blue, yellow winged souls
resounding in my empty ears
as they hop and dance to the harmony
of my shuffling footsteps
with sunlight as their spotlight

The chug of steam exits my panelled window
my rose coffee screening its scent
onto the projection of my nose

My vinyl records shifted aside,
finding my favourite one.

Sinatra sings;
Holiday serenades,
I pick up my pencil
scribbling away
-- a perfect sunday morning to spend.

By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies when larks sing shrill,
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the lea like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.

Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.

No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long-dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
forgotten tales in leathern tome;
unread by men for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.

And through the marches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
the laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.

I wake up slowly
Realise I'm at the beach house
The St. Tropez sunlight
Bursting through the blinds
A quick dip in the pool
To wake myself up
Then into my oak panelled
Study/ Library
With my Havana cigars
And my 20 year old scotch
To knock out another
5000 words of
My latest bestseller
As my 21 year old girlfriend
Tries to tempt me
With designer lingerie
And brightly coloured
Cocktails
It's not a bad life

                      BANG
I wake up
And look around
At the grimy walls
That really need painting
The pile of ***** clothes
At the side of the bed
Roll myself a cigarette
Think at least I've got
£5 in my bank account
That should get me
A cheap bottle of wine
And an even cheaper
Frozen pizza
I grab a pen and a pad
I write down this poem
It's not a bad life

Who knows ?
Tonight's dream
Might be even better

By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies when larks sing shrill
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the lea like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.

Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.

No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long-dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
forgotten tales in leathern tome;
unread by men for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.

And through the marches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
the laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.

This paper lantern in lake
was in love with you.
The water oscillating,
not the taper.

*

The panelled remains of―
walls still hold,
your signs. You would not
come back?

*

Apparitions gather―
to bid goodbye to the moon.
A flame of the forest
was due any moment.

The room is large and
paint is peeling,
from panelled walls
and alcoved ceilings.
An old woman is buried
in a damp chair.
A warm smell of ****
yellow air.

She does not turn but
speaks clearly:
"Americo, do you remember
your blossoming power?
The whole world despised it
but I loved you dearly.
My wanton child-
Red in matricide,
white in supremacy
and blue here now,
in your rosewood seat"

Americo laughs briskly
at Britannia's slight.
But they are both disturbed
and chilled by the sight,
of Romulus' freshly starched sheets
and all his leafy golden crowns
in a tied black bag
beside the door.

maybe it's one of those nights where i don't write
anything and simply enjoy drinking
and some good music...
it must be one of those nights...
i feel intellectually lazy...
                     more than that...
i feel that my memory faculty has taken over...
culminating in a reading
of Zhuangzi...
      what was that band that did a song about
Mr. Brightside?
                 the Killers? no?
                ****... i didn't leave a bookmark...
i usually leave a temp. bookmark with a sample
of toilet paper...
                     no... not because i could wipe my ***
with the pages of the book i'm currently reading...
it's just easier that way...
but this one story was about two concubines...
one was beautiful... and she knew/ thought that
she was beautiful...
   the other was ugly.... and she knew / thought
that she was ugly...
but the ugly one was more endearing...
             the master of the inn replied to the traveller:
i treat the ugly one better... because:
i sometimes forget her ugliness...
                           this is non-verbatim of course...

i could easily incorporate the following Cyrillic
into ****** on the basis of laziness...
   following from                 щ:

     szczur becomes щur...
                             i don't think there's any aesthetic loss...
i rather find it elevated...
but with that it also means i would have
to drop the Czech orthographic aesthetic of the caron
hovering about either S or C...

because there's no щ in Czech...
the Serbians can incorporate a Latin J...
i'll just leave it as my own idiosyncratic attitude...
rigid English is also fluid English:
whatever grammatical uprising happened or is still
happening: my I.Q. was drowning in
the "pronoun debates"... so i sort of lost interest:
but English will not incorporate any post
Roman accents... perhaps that's how the English
prospered: thinking themselves as the rightful
inheritors of the Roman Empire...

makes perfect sense...

like the critique of Communism...  to me?
it converged with the already emergence of Pan-Slavism...
which was a genuine movement...
the unification of all the Slavic people...
Communism didn't work... it didn't...
in the Soviet Union...
              it worked in China where it morphed
into a quasi-capitalism...
it also worked... in the satellite states of the Soviet
Empire...

it worked in... Czechoslovakia...
it worked in Hungary... and it worked in Poland...
it did...
   how?                  mein gott!
everyone's familiar with the Marshall Plan...
so... basically... funding by the F.S.A.
          (united? states? please... nice 20th century
gimmick... nice chant at sporting events)
so there was this Marshall Plan...
        aid was distributed to the war torn countries
after World War II...
           even Sweden! (i thought Sweden was neutral?
yeah... it was, hmm!)
           was given a paycheck to rebuild...
but what else the Soviets "liberated"? sure...
         "we" received a paycheck... a "grant":
via an ideology...

                               i'm starting to think that...
music from the Satellite States of the Soviet Union
was on par with Western music...
i'm happy i kept my bilingualism...
i can go back to a culture that i'm a diaspora member
of...
         unlike all those Asian immigrant children
who's parents tell them to forget their mother tongue
and only acquire a strange urban accent...
thankfully i'm first generation immigrant...
i kept my tongue, because, as Napoleon said:
a person who knows two languages is worth 2 people...

oh please... Soviet music is ****...
i'll give three examples... maybe more...
Maanam - Krakowski Spleen...
Klaus Mittfoch - Śmielej...
Republika - **** Doll...
Omega - Gyöngyhajú Lány...
fair enough... the last song is Hungarian...

but it wasn't all bad...
                        perhaps it was bad in the Soviet Union...
well... you bring together Russians and Mongolic tribes...
the Kazakhs etc.
            but? surprisingly... the genius of Gorbachev...
as my grandfather used to say...
that it happened so peacefully!
can you imagine the breaking apart of
the United Kingdom... or the F.S.A. as peacefully?!

i can't...
    perhaps it was bad in the Soviet Union...
but after the historical facts of the **** Empire building...
there was always going to be a subversion
element to nodding to the Soviet-post-Tsarist
arena...

    i'm not saying that communism will ever be
a success... but... it's not a bad idea in crucial scenarios...
like in Poland from the years 1945 through to 1990...
it worked...
    and then... the reins are let go...
what happens? a diaspora is created...
   those adamant that communism didn't work
stay in the homeland... and rebuild it with a doubled
fervor... while those that thought that communism
worked: ******* to other countries...
i think my mother pushed my father into
looking at immigration: given she was a daughter
of a prominent member of the communist party:
**** me... my grandfather was a meisterschtick
in his profession... he was even asked to be
a peer... in a courtroom...
                     i.e. a member of the jury...

me? i was once a witness...
  a troublesome witness...
so me and m'ah "fwend" and some other witnesses
were walking down a street in the night...
some ****-
                          -stani pulls up in a car...
and grabs m'ah "fwends" phone out of this hand...
i tell the other witness to note down
the number plates of the car...
duly noted: we go to the police station
and report it...
   week or two later i'm skimming through
mug-shots in a police station...

idiocy goes to trial... i'm standing in the dock...
the lawyer of the defesense
shows me another picture of the culprit...
back in the day when there was an imprint
on the photograph: before photographs became
digital...
is this him? he asks...
i look at the face... then at the date...

this is two years prior?
    can you imagine me growing long hair in two years
time? can you imagine me growing a beard
in two years time?
so why are you asking me what someone looked
two years prior to a crime... if not asking me
what i will look like two years from now?

it was a simple ******* question...
i honestly don't know how the case finished...
i guess it was a failure because:
m'ah "fwend" probably felt scared
and couldn't identify the culprit...
whatever the case: "problem"...
i sort of lost respect for him and in a polite way:
when i was in my nadir...
he uttered the words: would you like me to
bring out a violin?
oh... ******... ****** ****** ******...
i wanted to tell him that the reason why
his parents divorced and why he was still
living with his dad
and why his dad ****** off to Thailand
and brought a Thai bride with him
and hy he now had a step-brother
and why his father was still playing Command & Conquer
and breeding Thai chickens...
and why his hygiene was terrible...
why he didn't clean his kitchen...
and the reason why his father divorced his mother
was because she was a terrible cook
    and because the third child they had
had serious mental disabilities... *******...

but... no... i didn't...
              this is how you repay me... after i stand
up to you?
   i remember parting with him after he left me
stunned with that violin quote:
i turned my back towards him...
raised my hands up and then... let them flop:
**** it... tower of Babel...

that was just prior to the "onslaught" of the pandemic...
me? i gained from it...
while everyone else was growing tired,
cold, distant: i was already tired,
cold and distant...
akin to the crab bucket: there was only one
way up...

friends! ha!

two more songs...
            Róże Europy - Jedwab...
Róże Europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

what are friends? in the dire straits...
only then... and by then...
you're befriending strangers...
no... no ******* childhood memories of people
you used to play hide & seek with...
or... by western standards: video games...
oh: to hell with that!

my Cerberus came to lie in my bed just
a minute ago...
i think i'll need him to stand watch should
any rat from my neighbour's garden try to nibble on
me while i take to sleep in the garden:
half frozen in nakedness on the hyper-"real" grass
that's fake...
i'll need him to watch over my sleeping body...
but that's the only great aspect of a heatwave...
while everyone else will be rotting in a household...
i'll be falling asleep in the garden...
illuminated by solar-panelled lights...
and i'll be: mostly glad to be alone...

just that silence in my head...
which i try to rekindled with multiple egos
like a Thespian and not a poet...

Communism worked... because it only works for
a while!
               it would work in Syria...
it could work anywhere for a period of 50 years...
up to... 50 years...
then it disappears... gladly...
it's not a permanent Utopian sentiment...
it's a crux: for rebuilding nations...
it worked in Poland...
                        it didn't work in the Soviet Union
because... Communism was anti-Tsarist...
but the French Republic could have...
turned into a Communist experiment:
which it did... post-Communism...

                         blah blah... i'm enjoying the music
more than the writing...
1:34am... i think i'm going to ******* to the garden
to sleep a little bit earlier before sunrise
arrives... i'll take my Cerberus with me...
to watch over my sleeping: dead body to mind
the rats not trying to give me either manicures
or pedicures...
            
    we'll have our fun... stars... moon...
a naked torso... the chill of night...
                       if i lived a place where the cold wasn't
a concern for raising bricks...
i'd be a... waste of time... or rather:
i'd be an untouchable...
i'd grow my beard to my bellybutton
and my hair strapped in dreadlocks
to my ****...

         but i do enjoy Turkish barber-pandering...
it wasn't all that bad!
         it wasn't!

see! i started off thinking about nothing...
now i have a narrative: genious sessions with Hans Zimmer!

but i really could do with certain letters in the Cyrillic
alphabet...

               i feel so bad for Maine **** cats and Huskies
in this weather...
don't ever leave dogs in hot cars in parking lots...

i really could do with some Cyrillic letters...
beginning with щ...

             via the word: truthfulness:

щerość > ščerość > szczerość....

                 i can't introduce the caron S or caron C
with the already available acute S and C...
better turn to Cyrillic...
because i'm / i am lazy... with Cyrillic being
what the English do with the apostrophe...

but i need several more letters...
i don't imply having to derive from the Glagolitic anymore:
i.e. Ⱋ...

                  i need the following:
to replace the SZ, CZ... RZ...
                  esp. these three letterings...
ж to replace rz
                              i know there's an alternative meaning
should ж be replaced with what replaces rz,
i.e. żaba: frog... rzecz: thing...
ergo?                                                  жecz..
ergo...                to replace CZ?
                                         ч...
i.e.                  жeч...

     what am i falling on? terrible ideals and mystical
Judaism... i'm trying to HIDE the TETRAGRAMMATON...

SZ...                          шatan...

hmm... this one curiosity: coupled with another...
it took **** Germany with Soviet Russia
to conquer Poland than it merely took
**** Germany to conquer France...

a human has 32 teeth...
the Polish language has 32 letters...
although... i'm trying to extend the bite...
by borrowing some Cyrillic lettering...
perhaps it's a "bad idea"... but i don't see any problem
with it...

the English language has 26 letters...
although, the same "problem": SH and CH
are also letters: even if they are composed
of two letters... sat and shat...
cat and chappy...
                                                                   no?

there are enough words in the ****** lexicon
that utilise the SZCZ (shch) coupling:

another example: szczegół...
i.e. detail...
i can't be bothered with writing one s after
two zeds before writing a c...
щegół...
                           hell... it looks pretty for any
English speaking crowd...
esp. the monolingual tourist types...

i like it... i think i'm going to stick with it...
frankly: i think i am...
but that's me... will it become popular?
i hardly ******* doubt it...
i'm just trying to hide the Hebrew TETRAGRAMMATON...
the Latin grapeme Æ in the name of the name:
in the first born Siamese of
yAh of Adam and wEh of Eve...
      the rugby goals of the HH...

   and all? because i'm writing in London...
outskirts... perhaps... but i can catch a train from Romford
toward Liverpool St. and arrive within 20 minutes...
or i can cycle...
       and still get there... with a whiff of
Bombay... and Lahore...
hmm... funny me looking at funny you:
WASP...

Richard Harris coming to England... to London...
smashing a glass window
with a poster: blacks... dogs... the Irish not welcome...
i adore authentic drinkers...
they make me believe that i don't
have a problem...
that the problem is outside of me!
because... the propable cause is that:
the problem is outside of me...
i just adapted to it with drinking...

best gain: **** prostitutes like a pirate
without a ship...
spend your night listening to phone-calls
coming in from Arab boys trying to attest
their ****-philia...

in conversation:

what's this with your husband? i'm bounding myself to being boxed as both confused with... yu need to elaborate... i promise to return a cryptic language... but just show me your head... i was going to write this... i think i will... "imaginary scenario"... a jealous man comes across a woman cheating on him... RED FLAG... what does he do? he asks the cheating woman... how about a *******?! what could be worse for the cheating woman... two men fighting over her... or... one man deciding... sure... if she's up for it... let's share! do i need that much crap or do i just allow the woman to play out her full fantasy? we're already reached a ******... we might as well elevate the ******... you cheated on me already...next stage? i share you with someone... there's no need to ****** on the wedding ring... it's what i call the de-escalation of symbolism...but all the FREEDOM! if i was in a relationship with a woman... and found out that she was cheating on me... i'd ask her for a *******... after all... mouth... ******... ****... ****... *******'s not enough: it would require a foursome! eh... you can spare him the nun antics...

Dear Mr Speaker,
(UK House of Commons)

Unity could set us free but instead you’ve  set us up to be a country of obscurity that doesn’t relate to you or me,
Why is the truth so difficult to tell from the green leather comfort of your wood panelled cell,
How come we’ve twisted what’s meant to be straight and promoted confusion as our number one trait.
Where is the logic ?
Where’s common sense ?
Your  rules are ironic and cause us offence.
Whilst the pedlars work out their policies to sell the faith of your people is burning in hell.
Dear Mr Speaker if only you’d listen and hear the extent of discord that’s arisen,
Dear Mr Speaker whilst you sit in your seat,
We’re being led into mayhem by the fools at your feet.

Regards
wM

Half raw truths
Dressed up as familiar tragedy
And swallowed bile-like
Between a drizzle of words
Familiar words
Soaking me
Waking memories
Indistinct figures
Move behind a frosted
Glass panelled door
Prisming their edges
Into ever diminishing
Stranded light and dark
My hesitant thoughts
Punctuate the gaps
With questions
About you
Stranger
My stories
Join yours
Whirl circles together
A dizzy hand holding
Look-into-my-eyes
Wheel of forbidden romance
Until our arms tire
And we let go