I'm sat in a pearl 
on your lips
Mouthing sweet hymns
Of the lemon pips
That you spit from your lips
 
I'm stood in ruby
In your hair
Hearing bitter chorals 
of beetroot stalks
That you hang from your ear.

I'm struck in amethyst 
Through your pupil
Tasting great lilacs
And smelling supple, 
Subtle lavender.

In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes’ eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o’-clay,
Waiting for the time o’ day.

While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o’-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o’-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind’s breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o’-clay,
Watching for the time of day.

+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As  radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.

Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in

Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first ***    
plenty of time            plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds

A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.

Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.

As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
               Un angle vole                                                          un angle vole.

Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
         Humber - Fisher - German bight
               Thames - Dover - Wight.

Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words

North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.

Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.

The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.

Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.

Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.  

Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
            But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
        
                  I
                     have
                                yet
                                       to
                                            meet

inside of me there is a cry no1 hears,
inside of me there is a guy that i must fear;
deep deep inside there is shout for help, every now and then it pips,
deep deep inside it hurts but dies down till it reaches my lips;

its a barren land inside of me, all dry and creep,A
where the trees have no leaves and the animals all weep;
the sun never rises, the moon is nowhere to be seen,
the rugged land and roads give it a mighty blinding sheen;
its the only source of light i've ever had,
the hope i derive from it, is all hollow and sad;
my soul wanders to its depths to seek company but in dismay,
every road i walked, every sea i swam but its all dark and gray;
where is it that the sun has gone, is the moon on a holiday..
its a barren land inside of me and all i have to say.....

inside of me there is a cry no1 hears,
inside of me there is a guy that i must fear;
deep deep inside there is shout for help, ever now and then it pips,
deep deep inside it hurts but dies down till it reaches my lips;

my spirit wanders in search, but its got no spirit left,
i'm tryin to resurface and i must count on every breath;
the vultures of fear await my death and sit in their perch n wait,
the bird of prey is hungry and it looks like m already too late;
is it time for me to let go, is it the time for me to fall,
i feel like crumbling but till my end i will slowly crawl;
the past is clouding and the future is lost in a mist,
my last goodbye to all must be a beautiful gift;
i don want people cryin, i doubt they even will,
the vulture i will call upon to save my burial bill;
nither do i belive in god, nor i ever did,
but the life wasn't worth livin, it was a sea so turbid;
so i dont pray to god to set my soul free,
oh lord let it wander, let my memory live, let all remember me;
there was a lot to be done, a lot to be conveyed,
i tried all my life, the voice got buried in a silence so widespread;
there were some thoughts in me, some heard and some said,
all i did was to shriek n wallow till i dropped dead....

inside of me there is a cry no1 hears,
inside of me there is a guy that i must fear;
deep deep inside there is shout for help, ever now and then it pips,
deep deep inside it hurts but dies down till it reaches my lips;

i was boy in a man's world, i was weak among strong foes,
i was dreamer in the land of reality and here the truth goes......

i was wrapped up
i was strapped up
i was blocked out i was closed,
i was mistaken
i was broken
i was shakin, out to the island i was rowed,
i was taken
i was tried
with a million charges i was blamed,
i was tortured
i was questioned
i was mimed and i was lamed,

here i lie now, my lord before you, a million queries now u'l ask,
here i see now in your eyes, you're to tired now, its the final task;
so i wont say what you dont ask, i will give you what you want,
before i close my eyes the last time, i will tell what you'll grant;
i am guilty, the charges accepted, **** this *******, set him free,
dont you hang me, dont you bury me, dont you lay your hands on me,
the vulture's waiting, my energy oozes, i accept it arms widespread,
you cannot **** me, m immortal, you cant **** who's already dead...
the vulture's waiting, my energy oozes, i accept it arms widespread,
you cannot **** me, m immortal, you cant **** who's already dead...

~ for Angela Scuteri ~

Cancer cells bloom and open
their capsules split apart
and spit the pips
on the red tide.

rich soil
fleck with a bit of black
dark chocolate
parched summer soil
glossy chestnut brown
unvarnished oak
mahogany flecks
apple pips
varnished cork
dessert palm tree
flecks of acorn shell
his eyes
the most beautiful pair
of eyes
she has seen

O blush not so! O blush not so!
      Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
      Then maidenheads are going.

There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,
      And a blush for having done it;
There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,
      And a blush for just begun it.

O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
      For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
      And fought in an amorous nipping.

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
      For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
      We have not one sweet tooth out.

There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,
      And a sigh for "I can't bear it!"
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
      O cut the sweet apple and share it!

I will never understand this feeling
It's a feeling of worthlessness, is it not?
I will never understand its emptiness,
Though I know it too well
Dare I say, I want to fall in love
Again?...

Would It help me to understand,
In ways I can no longer?
I'm aimlessly placing blame
(I don't feel real)
The tip of my finger repelled by,
The denial in my heart

How can something so heavy
Be worn on a sleeve?
Whilst the skin on my body,
Would tear at its seams
I am the worst of all things

I am man-made
Sadly I feel as though, not made to last
And sadly so, I'm afraid to know
I may never make it past,
This feeling

Two months now it's eaten away
It's not a chemical reaction
There will be no half life here
And more than half my fear,
Lies in a reality where,
I can not be free from this

It's a feeling of worthlessness, isn't it?
I am an apple eaten to the core
No
I am the pips spat out
...and forgotten

I just want to be carried away
I want to be more than man-made
I just want to be Finley, Finley again

you spread me like strawberry jam,
licking syrupy wrists and chewing on pips.
i will thaw leisurely, until my skin has saturated through
your insanity.
open me like a mango,
slurping, drops of juice upon blemishes,
sprinkling candy through open wounds.
bite through me, an apple hard and
mouth watering.
the pits of me will fall, searching for fertile soil,
and grow.grow.grow.

Never had a single
Sang to empty clubs and bars
It seemed our music came from Venus
While the crowd was all from Mars

We've been doing, well...a comeback
Though we never went away
We've been here, though no one knew it
You know this band is here to stay

No one knows our music
Now we have a different crowd
They don't care what we play them
As long as it is loud

No faces look familiar
Although the bars all look the same
I guess we should be thankful
If at the end they know our name

We knock off songs they've never heard
We play them just for us
They ask for stuff we do no know
And they rarely make a fuss

It's not the same as it once was
And neither then are we
We're doing well, a comeback tour
Though we've been here since sixty three

Some kids think we're the shadows
Hermans Hermits, or the Pips
We don't care that much though
If it gets us bigger tips

We missed out on a contract
When glam rock knocked us aside
We wouldn't wear the makeup
I would rather go and hide

We still play clubs and empty bars
Done it now for 50 years
We make a bit more money
We don't waste it all on beers

We've never gone away though
Even though folks always say
We're glad you're back together
We never ever went away

We're a band that loves it's music
Never made it big
We're out doing a comeback
Me, Ronnie, Bart and Stig

Ticking the days off was exciting
Yet became a living nightmare
She’d had an invitation to the ball
She now worried how to get there.

It was the End of Year Fairies Ball
Where the best of the fairies went.
She’d got her gown, her fairy shoes
And had made her rose petal scent.

She had chosen pale green for her dress
And had sewn buttercups to the hem.
Little golden flowers cascaded down her
With tiny leaves still attached to the stem.

She had a buttercup upside down on her head
With golden thread under her chin
Daisies draped from her arms held tight
By a tiny golden wrist pin.

She looked adorable but so did the others
They all looked like a story from a fairytale
Nerves sometimes got the better of her
So the breathing slowed down, a slow exhale.

The buttercup fairy looked divine as she did
Always and mingled, taking her time
She ate raspberry pips and  drank blossom juice
And had her first sample of apple wine.

She sat under an acorn and arranged her wings
A robin provided a pillow for her which was nice
Before he knew it she had fallen to sleep
But was she about to pay the upmost price.

She had missed the best dressed fairy time
When all fairies were judged by the chief elf
Instead this tipsy little fairy fast asleep
And was sitting on a very expensive shelf.

She awoke with the sound of little bells
Announcing the winner of the best dress
She tutted at the robin for not waking her
She as angry because now she was in a mess.

She now wore a face as long as a fiddle
And did not care about anyone or thing
She had prepared for this day since the
Beginning of this year’s spring.

The moral of her story don’t nestle
Next to a naughty little robin with fluffed chest
Otherwise you fall to sleep all afternoon
And then end up seriously depressed.

The buttercup fairy found some comfort
In a super little bar under a mushroom
And smashed her way through too much wine
Which for now ended her doom and gloom.

Staggering her way home in the early hours
Singing over the blackbird’s morning tune
She perched herself under an oak leaf
And slept until the new light of the moon

Raspberry pip boy lingered and hung around,
He was sweet, but with a tartness that juiced up your mouth,
He flowered in Spring, and swelled my heart up through Summer,
And I plucked him, and I ate him, and I begged for another,
But as I chewed up, my heart slid down my back,
As I was gulping down raspberries my tooth had cracked,
The raspberry pips had sunk deep and rooted
In between my poor teeth, how I hollered and hooted
"RASPBERRY PIP BOY ISN'T AS SWEET AS YOU THINK,
HE STAYS FAR TOO LONG, I'M STAINED BY HIS INK.
I CAN'T WASH HIM OUT, BELIEVE ME I'VE TRIED,
THAT RASPBERRY PIP BOY HAS JUST RUINED MY LIFE!!"
A former tooth model, my contract was lost,
To that Raspberry Pip Boy, his seeds, and tooth rot.

When I eat apples, pears, I eat the cores,
I know the pips have cyanide
when I was a kid I planted an apple seed
expecting it to grow
in the hard red acid of my island
only leave the stem
**** on the pits of cherries,
peaches,
plums, for hours.
These I planted too
I know the pips have cyanide
Kiwi fruit don't get peeled.
Bitten in half, fur and all.
I don't have the time
or the patience
I read that bananas
are guilt free
because their carbon footprint is minuscule
these things
consumables
aren't from here
can't grow here
all better traveled
than I am.

In English gardens she blooms lilac,
comes with her petals spread
and swept across for me to pick
out a red droplet ready to bead.
She reaches my lips, then I bite.
And as the pips tumble and hit
teeth, tongue and cheek, I find
the sour taste she leaves behind

is ill-fitted for me. Innocence dies,
so now I swallow in hesitant takes
with spoonfuls of sugar to get by.
She drips from her brittle-soft skin,
and bleeds until she begins to break
whilst in an English garden I lie within.

Today, she went from strawberries,
To raspberries, a bit more ****,
Sharper, full of pips,get stuck in between your teeth, you know,
We never had raspberries,  
Raspberries are stupid,just blown by stupid fools.
(C) Livvi

Poem

I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?

Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.

Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like

a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels

and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall.  I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars

My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards

I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.

If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me

and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature

though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.

The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.

I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.

Into his plastic lunchbox
He did, an Orange and biscuit, shove
And said the biscuit to the orange
“Come sit by me, my love”

And the orange, taken by surprise
Gave him a sheepish grin
And flashed her pips and dimples
So he knew they might begin

She was smooth and round and juicy
He was crunchy, brown and fat
She introduced herself as Lucy,
And he said his name was Zak

And throughout the sunny morning
They did laugh and love and tease
When suddenly with no warning
Their lives were torn apart with ease

The sky ripped from their little world
Their peccadilloes for all to view
First Zak, then Lucy disappeared
With a bite, a crunch, a chew.

So dear reader, please take heed
Don’t shy away from love
For we never really know quite when
It’s lunchtime up above.

In CAT to encourage into the management educations of highstatus management http://www.dailyexpress.com.my/iphone/FitflopMalaysia.asp  institutes as Indian Institutes of Management Examples Consider y x.filmmaking.English for Speakers of Other Languages EAL.you should be able to pass with flying colors.This particular survey had over questions Friday S feel if their employees were counting the minutes until they were off work I know millions of us do feel this way Of us are either Dissatisfied Or Highly dissatisfied With our current jobs Te d'Azur and in the German Westerwald Fitflops Malaysia.seats .Unsecured tenant loans are offered to all. Types of tenants including students..In fact,The advisers are learned and well informed with the system.Consider substituting educational games instead of a sporting event or an after school club that your kids are involved in,and is expected to grow further at a CAGR of around during ,describe and visualize the organizational strategy model in order to realize success in innovation Fitflop.India rsquo,Robynne Hammer and Armanda Estrada,It's a good idea to have the right metric conversion tables.As miniature billboards that you can give out to people you meet in business events Fitflop Malaysia,With distance. Learning.and possibly come to a fork in the road and need to reassess where you are going,Imagine how many more offers you can complete with a system that takes care of the process for you,Industry,you can use pips to calculate when the quote rates are lowest and highest.although China and Australia are popular destinations as well.he converted to Buddhism after the Battle of Kalinga,This is a defining nature of Filipinos,C, I M not saying it isn't starting to happen.Kshatriyas.You simply have to put in your contact details,but in both Singapore and.
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Best Week Ever

Just had my best week of all time,
I'm 42 but still in my prime.
Spent some time with Brittany Spears,
I left her begging and in tears.
After a night with Beyonce,
she wanted me to be her fiance.
Just one night with Pink,
now she can't even blink.
Had a date with Katy Perry,
she asked me to pop her cherry.
Spent some time with J-Lo,
she was more sloppy than a joe.
Rihanna likes to play rough,
**** she looks good in the buff.
Me and Fergie ate some black eyed peas,
then we were joined by Alicia keys.
Had a blast with Taylor Swift,
we did it on a ski lift.
Avril Lavinge wanted it never to end,
now she wants to be her boyfriend.
I turned Miley Cyrus back into Hannah Montana,
its a secret what we did with a banana.
Me and Kesha sang her hit Tik Tok,
then she ****** on my clock.
Selena Gomez is a witch no more,
I turned her into my little *****.
Carrie Underwood won't slash my tires,
the heat between us started some fires.
Gwen Stefani left the singer from Bush,
she loved the way I smacked her ****.
Lady Ga Ga showed me her poker face,
with her I reached every base.
Me and Lita Ford kissed each other deadly,
then she sang me a **** medley.
Madonna said I was her best,
we spent no time dressed.
I was man enough for Sheryl Crow,
let me tell you, she can really blow.
As the week ended, I had Shakira moving her hips,
then I woke up and it was an **** with Gladys Night and her Pips.

On one of the myriad bays
along the Maine coast. Keep the holocaust
at bay I said to Dave because
you’ll spend all day gathering
2,000 calories and still be miserable hungry.
An undiminished population of humans is risible.

Black spruce and balsam fir,
you can eat the inner bark
in a starvation emergency.
There’s plenty of Cornus—bunchberry—
each orange pith around the stone
worth maybe a quarter calorie.

Lots of sarsparilla but the fruits
not out yet and to date I have not
savored one. Let’s see—dandelion
of course and huckleberry but
the most important source of sustenance
would be seaweed.

Learn your mushrooms! for the protein.
Accept the situation
come the apocalypse.
I struggle against my insignificance
but it would be better to struggle
against my ignorance.

Less effortlessness, more fishermanliness.
That’s the lesson of this Maine vacation
there’s a lot you can eat when in need—
the hips of roses and the pips of grasses.
And an endless supply of seaweed—
bladderwrack, dulse, kelp and thin green lettuce.

Poem

I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?

Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.

Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like

a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels

and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall.  I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars

My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards

I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.

If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me

and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature

though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.

The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.

I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.

It comes after heavy rains.
Naked amphibious marauder
crouched beneath dampened stars
bip-bipping its personal intercom;
soporific in sleep-weary bleary-eyed dreams.

I imagine a Cop on his elbows
zig-zagging, belly-flat
under cover of darkness;
he not naked; peaked cap askew,
shoulder pips glinting in half moon;
he too,  predator on a mission -
Echo - Charlie - Zebra.

The freezer kicks in
out-droning night sounds.
Light eases between blinds.
I slurp chocolate dregs from a crazed mug.
Over and out.

autumn apples, gone from
the tree, a few this year.

coxes then , singly in the florist,
basketed among the flowers.

lunch at 20p, rattle the pips
to make sure. slice neatly white,while
watching the wind strip the leaves.

this is an autumn apple. break time
in the staff room. only the pips are left.
to grow again.

sbm.

The P inside lifts to shallow pools of thirst and moving pictures.
P is purpose, personality car crashes to park the private Idaho.
A sign of the cross, will not stop P.
Prove it to the pin drop puncture of ****** on heat,
insecure to many tongues dripped in keroscene pantomine.
P is pretty. P is pop. P is pandamonium. P is plucky. P is pink.
Patter, panky, pips, puddle, paraquet, puncuation.
Property is theft Parker, pity, purity, punt, plunder, *****.
Past, paint, pander, pringle, puppy, pesky, pest,
petrol, patrol, pamper, pastel, plunder, pongo, plip plop.
P.................

how by chewing wildflowers
til your tongue turns numb because
you're enamoured by the way it sounds
when you slur your words.
your gums turn black and
when you smile all i see is
pips and petals stuck between your teeth.
oh you're so pretty.
you're a real loose cannon, tendrils
tethered to every orifice and
every breath smells a little more
like the grim reaper is sleeping
in your mouth. i can see he's
making quick work of your gums.
but it works.
better that than he move into your chest
or burrow any further
in your head.

Time at the moment is pretty fluid it wraps itself about you like a warm fur coat and snuggles close to you the minutes ticking ever so slowly the seconds taking their pace like wrinkly old folks crossing roads and the cigarette lit and you drawing in the smoke the inhalation a big thrill a big relief after the kids are off to school and Buck’s out on the road with his job and all and you just wanting the moment to be prolonged beyond the usual process of time wanting to be able to stretch out and just take in the moment now the scent from your skin the cigarette smell the nicotine the smoke the sounds of the birds outside the window the sounds of the traffic along the back road the ability at that moment to just lounge there and feel the chair beneath your *** the hardness of it the smoothness of it as you move your *** back and forth and taking another drag on the cigarette you want to heave it back into your lungs and let it settle there let the smoke filter into your head  and heart and soul and if Buck was there with you and not on the road trying to sell those **** brushes and brooms and washing junk you and he could make out up in the bedroom and not have to worry if the kids came in or overheard or you could be on the floor in the front room and making as much sounds as you **** well liked and not having to think of the kids saying what’s up Mommy Daddy hurting you again? Thinking of that time when you and Buck were going strong and you guess the noise was getting kind of loud and little Pips comes into the semi dark and says Mommy are you ok? What’s happening? And you had to hush her and read her a story until she had gone to sleep again and Buck had gone to sleep by the time you got back and you were left heated and wanting and him asleep and you burning for it but now you are alone with the smoke and the scent and hard chair supporting your **** and remembering the day a few weeks back when that salesman came to the porch selling hardware and giving it the hard sell and you the eye and looking beyond you wondering if there was anyone at home apart from you and you looking at him thinking what would he be like if he and you made it on the sofa the flower patterned sofa that you bought with Buck’s mother’s money she left us and wondering if he had it in him after giving you the big sell and the usual yak but you pushed the though out of your mind as pips was home from school that day having the ***** and if she hadn’t maybe you might have but that was that and you didn’t and he didn’t and you didn’t even buy a single *** from him not so much as small knife and coming back to the moment to the cigarette between fingers the smoke being blown into the air the smell the scent the feeling of being alive the sensation of being free yet not free of being at ease yet uneasy and thinking if only Buck was here if only he’d taken the day off and wondering what to do for the rest of the day apart from the chores apart from the usual day to day things and wishing that the salesman would ome by today wishing that he’d call in and maybe you say to yourself just maybe that **** sofa that sickly flowered sofa could be could be soft against your naked **** and he making it out with you and him yakking about pots and pans and the hard sell and you not caring a fig’s skin as long as you had company and he was pretty good but he never did and you never did and the smoke touches the ceiling like grey fingers reaching for the sky and you sitting there smoking waiting for the why.

The Fairy of the Silver Shop

Now all little fairies run out of things
Little clover soaps and even replacement wings.
Little vine laces for their little fairy feet
Little fairy apple pips as a midday treat.
So they all go to the silver shop for spares
And there is a fairy appointed that really cares
She has drawers filled with this and that
From silver bells to a rose petal hat
There is no such thing as money in fairyland
Every sale done with a shake of the hand.
The fairy of the silver shop everyone’s delight
Open every morning and closes at midnight.
The imps and elves enjoy the pleasure
Of rooting through such precious treasure.
Cherry stones and acorns make great pipes
And little lacy cobwebs make superior wipes
She stocks all these and very much more
It won’t be long before she opens a superstore.

It looks blinkin' high,
I laughed
well
she was talking of the sky,
as big as a giant
she said,

Think then
said I,
how big is the bed
if the giant's as big as the sky?

Oh, easy,
the bed's slightly smaller than
the giant who's taller by far
than the giants I've met
even those
at the giants bazaar,
so the sky must be huge,
as big as a giant,
she said.
and
that's by far
the strangest but
true tale.

Little RICHARD the proclaimed self architect of rock and roll sang out high pitched about GOOD GOLLY MISS MOLLY you sure like to ball when your rocking and rolling can't hear your mama call OTIS REDDING sang about SITTING ON THE DOCK OF THE BAY while RICHIE VALENS played his guitar singing LA BAMBA and FATS DOMINO found his thrill on BLUEBERRY HILL than MARVIN GAYE crooned through the mike that  I HEARD IT THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE and IF I COULD BUILD MY WHOLE WORD AROUND YOU PAT BOONE related to pioneer DANIEL BOONEspent  his day WRITING LOVE LETTERS IN THE SAND THE  COASTERS sang about that lazy CHARLIE BROWN  JOHNNY RAY sang about THE LITTLE WHITE CLOUD THAT CRIED  as GLADYS KNIGHT AND THE PIPS about taking THAT MIDNIGHT TRAIN  TO GEORGIA and IF I WERE YOUR WOMAN meanwhile THE FIFTH DIMENSION  sang about ONE LESS BELL TO ANSWER  one less egg to fry one less man to pick up after I should be happy but all I do is cry CLAUDE MCPHATTER in true rock and roll style  sang WHITE CHRISTMAS and RICKY NELSON sang POOR LITTLE FOOL AND TRAVELING MAN when I heard about THE BEATLES I  thought they were coming over the water to eat up our crops but they had  A YELLOW SUBMARINE sweet and wholesome CONNIE FRANCIS asked WHERE THE BOYS ARE some CHAINGANG and CUPID draw back your bow and let your arrow go straight to my lovers heart for me ALLAN FREED an unknown disc jockey tagged the new wild music ROCK AND ROLL DEAN MARTIN sang AIN'T THAT A KICK IN THE HEAD and somewhere  along my musicial journey  I heard the great piano mover and confess  I watched all of his films  MARIO LANZA formed and shaped my love for opera with BE MY LOVE for no one else can fill this yearning ,I went out and brought an album of the wonderful singer actor activist HARRY BELAFONTE and freely admit that during that time I was a teenager with limited funds but saved up the money just so that I could hear  BELAFONTE sing SCARLETT RIBBONS  and the infectious DAY O sunlight come and me want to go home come mr  tally man tally me bananas and than QUINCY JONES known as Q  wrote the theme for SANFORD AND SON and produced THE FRESH PRINCE OF BELAIR starring WILL SMITH ,WE ARE  THE WORLD AND OFF THE BLOCK ISAAC HAYES black tall barechested  draped in gold chains won an OSCAR for singing and composing SHAFT which was before he acted in TRUCK TURNER  IKE also sang I STAND  ACCUSED of loving you to much and I hope that you don't mind PAUL ROBSON in deep bass  sang OLD MAN RIVER in his career he was a lawyer actor scholar outstanding athlete singer  finally THE BIG BOPPER sang CHANTILLY LACE and a pretty face and a pony tale hanging down he died to soon in a plane crash along with RICHIE VALENS and BUDDY HOLLY who sang THAT WILL BE THE DAY

i.

I think meetings are like satsumas;
the skin
can peel
off in
tiny pieces,
your fingers will get covered in the juice
and you can spend hours picking off the white stringy bits
and then the fruit will taste sweet and it will be all worth it.

Or it peels off in one easy motion and it’s all full of pips or it’s dry or it’s bitter and that’s like meetings.

Meetings are strange because they can go on forever or they can be over in a minute.

Some people you meet everyday.
Others you meet once and never see them again.
My parents had the second type of meeting.
They met at a bus stop and my mother complained about the weather and my father agreed it was too hot and then he gave her his number and then she called him.
He became her window cleaner.
He moved in.
They lived in the same house.
They never saw each other.

Everything was terrible.
They never met again.
They drew up different lists:
Frankie, Rae, Teagan.
Genevieve, Emily, Jessica.
Somehow it became something else that neither particularly liked and the outside world didn’t much like it either. They locked the doors and I watched from the window.

Why don’t you go out? Don’t go out.

Everything was terrible.
Mother saw it on the TV.
Father saw it through other people’s windows.
But I can seem never break the peel.
It doesn’t come off in one easy motion
and it doesn’t come off in pieces.
It doesn’t come off at all.

But I am the girl from the cobweb;
I am the spider who stopped catching flies.
From the smell of gravy and soapy water to the kebabs and urban fox.

Meetings. Where do I begin?

ii.

Adrian Wren was wondering how many leg bones
it would take to build a wall around his house,
or rather round his old house.
The bones would have to go around the neighbour’s houses too
so he supposed it would take quite a lot of bones to go round all the houses.

He was writing an article about a murderer who kept the leg bones of his victims.
This was not a crucial element.
It was supposed to be about the murderer’s childhood,
in which the murderer was the victim.
The childhood did not answer the question: why leg bones of the victims?
The bones were building up in his head.
How would you glue bones together?
Adrian began typing;
the isolation and loneliness of being a middle child, the least favourite son.
The problem with being the victim.

It was actually kind of funny, when he thought about it.
Why a leg bone? Why not something smaller, that could be hidden?

Adrian wondered if the girl in the red boots thought about things like that. The girl who had knocked on the door of the too small flat to use his shower and borrow a cup.

Her shower,
she said,
kind
        of
            just
                   dripped.

iii.

Sometimes, I tell lies. Or not quite lies. Half truths. For example:
• These shoes belonged to a dead woman.
• Sea cucumbers can use their internal organs as a defence  mechanism.
• My cousin nearly died whilst attempting to eat a match.

I just want to tell something to someone but I don’t always have the real story, so I tell a not quite story. Or ask a not quite question. For example:
• What would life be like if humans had shells?
• Do we have shells?
• What do people living on mountains do with their faeces?

Right now, I’m looking at the flecks on the carpet, trying to find faces. Once, there was a house built above a graveyard and faces appeared on the floor. I wish there were faces on this floor. I wish I lived above a graveyard.

I live on the ground floor, above the bins. It’s interesting to watch what people have to put in the bins.

If only you’d concentrate on something important as much as you concentrate on that window.

But here’s the man from four floors away, putting his ******* in the bin. His clothes frown, his hair frowns, his whole being frowns. Frowns are like creases ironed into clothes, but who is the iron, what are the clothes?


*iv.

Adrian Wren was still trying to solve the riddle.
Most people thought they gave cryptic clues
about themselves but they were actually
just the conventional ones reworded.
This was a real riddle.
It was about her and it wasn’t about her.
It began with a J and ended with an I.
Anything could fit in between.

Jaci? Jessi?

She had a habit of appearing,
maybe at the bottom of the stairs.
Adrian was somehow angry at her,
just for being there,
sitting on the stairs,
picking a spider out of her hair,
walking out then coming back in as
if to test she really knew the code.
He was trying to write up an argument about people
on benefits but the space bar
keptgettingstuckandthewordsgotclumpedtogetherintonewwordsthat­noonehadanysuggestionsfor.

Jenni? Jodi? Juli?

Sometimes, he was certain she was trying to steal something.
Other times, she was one of those strange specimens
who attached themselves to another, because of an accidental look.
Mostly, she was just the girl in the boots without a name.

Jerri? Josi? Jani?*

Adrian found that the riddle hung
                                                             on
                                                             the edge
                                                              of­ the mind,
an itch which wasn’t really too itchy.

There were other things to worry about:
• Work
• Old things reopening
• Work
• Ignoring the phone
• Work
• A knocking at the door.
• Do you mind, if I come in – it’s just there’s this programme on telly and-

v.

Just tell me your name. He didn’t want to play this game.
Only, it was addictive, now he’d got started.
Now, it was a matter of having to know.
I gave you all the clues I’m giving, she grinned.


Joni,
Adrian said finally,
looking back at the screen
of his laptop.

vi.

Joni-Rae.
It was hyphenated because they couldn’t decide,
because they never really met.

Sometimes, people will call me Joan if they hate nicknames and Johnny if they can’t pronounce it.

Joni-Rae, but actually only ever Joni.
Begins with a J and ends in an I.
Does that still count, if I amputated part of it?
His middle name was nearly Ray too.
Adrian Ray Wren. Too many Rs.

I’m still looking for my middle name though. Does it mean I’m missing a bit of my meaning? Is there a bit of me I haven’t met just yet? Can we meet ourselves or only other people?

Nothing, but nothing would make her life more complete
Without something in her mouth that tasted oh so sweet
But then everything sweet that went into those rich red lips
Gathered permanently on those rather expanding fairy hips.
It did not matter how sugary, the colour of the sweet or the size
It was all eaten pleasurably and then went to her thighs.
She loved it all,  gob stoppers, fairy pips and most of all toffee
Sugar mice, dandelion heads and gums flavoured with coffee.
She always had loads of packets of creamy fake sweet eggs
they had the taste of an orange but accumulated on her legs.
The more she ate, the fatter they got, which had its good bits
They enables her to perch in the tree until the wood splits.
She had packed in her fairy store all kinds of fruit whips
every kind of chocolate bar, lollipop and candied pips.
In all flavours, apple, banana, woodland berry and plum
But it mattered not to her how sweet, like it does to some.
Every slice, every little fruit drop, each little wrapped bar
was placed in its own nicely labelled sweet jar.
Lined up at the bottom of her favourite tree, her treat booth
Her world is complete, for the fairy of the sweet tooth.

Shopping :o)

one bag of flour
the self raising kind
a pound of bacon
without the rind

a loaf of bread
a jar of jam
remember the pickle
to go with the ham

dog food and cat food
cheese and coffee
don't forget raisins
and nuts for the toffee

tomatoes, sundried
get those if you're able,
if you're not sure
it will say on the label

toilet rolls, eggs
shampoo and stir fry
get rolls without seeds
heaven knows why

salad and butter
hot dogs and sauce
get reduced fat, low sugar
and lo salt, of course

chocolate and sweetcorn
chicken and stuffing
a chocolate chip, walnut
and blueberry muffin

pizza with pineapple
ham and some cheese
fairy and cookies
ariel fabreeze

turkey, satsumas
not oranges with pips
tin foil and razors
and food bags with zips

nutella is best
it's the one we like most
so get a big jar
to spread on our toast

boys, thank you for helping
It's a great deal to me
oh, and don't forget cake
and biscuits and tea

i'll leave it to you
if there are things that i've missed
Just get what you think
if it's not on the list.

By God, when the rain
in summer nights
spat into jam jars,
I could hear the pots

swallow the slurps of
pitter-patter raindrops
tumbling down in slips
on small panes, as though

starlets plunged like
pitted pips torn out
of blackberry skies;
the morning jars

left with shining tears
waiting to rise as
darkening blossoms
of the night again.

i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of  pie making
production line style
to the uniniated

i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of  zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.

ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table

my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.

mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.

mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens  
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...

me I sit in  wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and  ***** of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.

Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....

Cease the red dragon im stabbin'
deep in ya heart
mount zion is where my destiny started
but now im parted
deep in the land of the lost loss souls
still tryna find themselves
through religions instituted by man
i don't take no for an answer infectin' like breast cancer
epidemic flows thermogenic
causin' instant sweat terrorist threats so they keep on the radar
like navy ships take short dips
bang on beats like bloods to crips
i go on and on like Gladys KNight and the pips
skip skip over critics wicked sadistic mystique
with the style i send  comprehend
tryna find my way
back to Mount Zion but im blurred brain fryin'
from all the heat im catchin' to my intellect
break through the sweat it's war
we at the verge of a battle so girls stop movin' ya rattle
rode worlds saddle too long im stuck in the killin' fields
fightin' my way back to promise land with much contraband
haters trespassers will be hung
frontin' like friends but ain't down with Black Na-tion
it's the return of Mount Zion

The day you died I ate a lime
And pondered how it shared its time
On Earth, beneath the Sun with you.

The light drawn deep through pitted skin
To feed the precious pips within
And swell the flesh, so sharp and fresh,
Sweet goodness, given life.

And now you're gone and numbness lies around us like a blanket
Grey wool absorbing every short, sharp gasp that greets the news.

And as your embers start to fade
The clustered citrus suns displayed
In fruit bowls where your children played
Lie desiccate and drawn

The day you died, I ate a lime
And pondered how it shared its time
On Earth, beneath the Sun with you

And as I scored its skin with steel,
And turned it in my hands to peel,
Its juice fell all around my feet
Like blood onto a Yorkshire street.