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Winter Sunrise


November day with overhung clouds, dismal grey on a diet of windswept trees, scant and scarce as winter begins. The icy lilaic pink sky peeks through sunrise, a kiss of the day ahead and at the bus stop, the branches sigh. Oh! What tales to tell.

A delayed bus is a delayed life. Broken down ambitions. Stalled and choked on the piston called life. A full circle race track and I am back, the tarmac eats its own tail.

The driver speeds full throttle or the equivalent, of an electric low emission bus. The chariot. Carrying those to the daily ritual and those who still chase the dream. The golden sun peeks through a slit between two clouds. The eye of Rah.

Foretold, I had my own pursuit of the philosophers stone, almost cracked my enigma code. Training to arrive at some destination, muddle through more like. Running through the threshold again, the uninvited guest. I neither jog, nor sprint, more of an involuntary propulsion. There is a strong case for stasis of the homeopathic kind. A steady study of what is, the bus timetable predicate, ordinary life astrology, head out of the stars and into a website, book, tablet of virtual stone.

The mason’s chisel upon 21st century materials. At the very least I am familiar here, in some scriptures the least is the most. This is what I know. This chapel of my familiar.

Winter, you are my sunrise, opaque and frozen. Cold as an exsanguinated heart. Even so, I keep you warm. The memory, the the idea, the ideal, because there are many years between us now, but still you haunt my thoughts, like unexpected faces in Halloween photographs.

I did very well not to drown whilst dunking for apples in that big river. I did very well to make it home, after asking for all those pennies. I didn’t give up, but my turnip face gave way to extraneous circumstances and a strange passive inability to assert my will.

Winter, you are my sunrise. I can make claim to this miracle upon miracle. All of what I know, I saw in your closed eyes, like a Stanley Kubrich scene. The blind vision of Halloween lanterns.

I shall find healing clay and press it on my wide open affliction and incant a prayer so you appear and say something like,

“Put the kettle on.”

And I will say something like,

“Of course, anything for the winter sunrise.”

.

Strained


Tea leaves
She presses,
with the back of her
Silver plated spoon.
Could even be stainless
But I doubt it.
The reproduction retro cloth tells of nostalgia, for an uncomplicated truth,

The ones that can be stolen from overpriced vintage stores.

Fakes and faking it, the tea leaf wet patch.

Strainer tarnished.
Not coming clean,
And the mystery of the leaves,
Rustled and hustled and brittle.

Tell me
Why we all leave,
Only shapes and inferences.

Oh! Crumbs!

“Cake?” She enquires.

Baking it.
Looking for signs.
The clue.
Stirring the cauldron.
The brew.
Signs in the the tea cup
Residue.

“I care not for the filling.”

I say with my mouth full of lies.

Paper doilie patterns of the who we once knew and the where we once were.

(Not here).

Tannin trickles the spout.
Silently spreads in slomo
Over the faded and jaded
No, I never made it.

Only served,

The unpoured profanity,
that I wipe from my serviette lips.
I doubt very much if that will ever come out,
The strain of the stain of the tattle and tittle.

Tea stewed.
Leaves hanging
On that raised finger.

The stains
Remain

And we linger
Only
A little.

October Rose


Please stay.

Please want to be with me.

Please come back.

That is.

Come back.

Truth is I don’t even know if you were ever really with me and

I wanted to txt you and say,

“No. I will keep seeing you regardless. I will lower my expectation of myself even further to keep this hallucination of a relationship real. I will accept whatever demeaning conditions you apply to stay part of your life, however small, however insignificant and meaningless.”

But I didn’t, only because I have the experience to know that ultimately our disused railway track of a relationship would have ended anyway, parallel lines, not destined to cross and meet, not even at the abandoned coal mine. The end of the lines, the parallel lines.

Nothing but an optical illusion.

For you and I,

I am grateful that we never reached that destination. That loud and painful screeching derailment. That particular kind of rail crash, because I kept a semblance of dignity by saying,

“Leave me to get on with my life and find somebody who wants to be in a relationship with me.”

And so I trawl the streets taking photographs of dying roses as symbolism for the love we never had and the relationship neither of us could believe in and I take comfort for the loss I should not even be feeling, as a result of the thoroughly hip non-relationship that just didn’t end. How could it end if it didn’t exist in the first place.

And I miss you and the thought of you and the fraction of a life I had in your arms. I liked it there, in your arms. I was too scared to tell you. Afraid, I would say too much, only to know there were no words I could ever say that would be powerful enough to keep you.

Deep within my soul I know that you mustn’t have felt for me, the way you should feel when in the presence of a woman you love.

There was never any mention of love.

Love.

The final taboo.

As the rose petals wither.

The October rose dies.

Surrender of the Storm


As if I had been taken by the current of your magnetic pull, I moved with the fatalistic knowing of an inevitability of galactical and interstellar proportions and even though I knew there were other options, still I moved with only the compelling certainty of a sand storm in a deserted desert, a storm that rendered me blind and buried me in a dune so high and magnificent it could be seen for many light years.

Such is the magnetism of my body towards yours, such is the understated and underestimated force of divine wisdom.

I give up the glory to the divine, partly because it is best to be humble in such matters, but mainly because I did not plan this and I take comfort that my perfect incompetence may actually have been only turbulence in the grand design of the universe.

(It wasn’t my will).

And against all gravity defying logic, I am here, as was always and  eternally predicted.

‘Don’t you worry, don’t you worry child. Heaven’s got a plan for you.”

A summer song from a summer playlist echoes in my head. Good. Well that’s that sorted then. Phew! I can carry on now happily making a mess.

What a mess.

I am no longer certain, (if indeed ever I was), at which specific moment the synapses in my brain exploded. I only know that they did.

What a mess.

All over various countries and counties. All over an array of innocent bystanders. All over a vast variety of room decor.  All over myself, inside-out.

What a mess.

Here I am. Against the prevailing wind.

Space punk.

Gypsy antagonist.

Overwhelm junkie.

Surrendered storm.

Vulnerability


Anything I say, anything I do, makes me susceptible to being vulnerable. Pressure to be quicker, faster smarter rends me only incapable and I admit wholeheartedly that I haven’t worked ‘it’ out yet and I would surrender gladly to this fact if I were not afraid of losing my will completely. Believe in anything at all, rather than nothing.

I have not had a conventional life. Everyday I wonder if I will ever fit into life, the way a raspberry fits into a mouth, or the way a cloud fits into the sun.

I am lost again, this is usual, when the words don’t make sense and my perception heightens and I lose those everyday anchors, like which way is up and down and right and left. Such trivial wordly necessities.

I am woman then, and girl, pure and simple. I am Spirit. I am nuisance. I am vulnerable in my very existence. I never know if you will understand this, mostly you do not, my life has been an ongoing lecture theatre of how not to be who I am. Who I really am terrifies you. Terrifies me too, because you are terrified.

I fear. Yes I do. I fear you and your perception of me and the lies you might believe to reinforce the lies you tell yourself about who you really are and who we can and can not be to one another.

I know nothing but some jumbled up words made into some jumbled up meaning, because you won’t look me in the eye so we can see who we really are.

M1


I needed a soldier
To fight me a war
Once upon a time
And then I needed a butcher to
Slaughter me the beast
Then I needed you to sit at my table
For the feast

Of you.

I belonged to you only
For that fleeting breath
I saw in your eye.

Glimpses of your naked and
involuntary soul.

If I could have made a different decision
My love
I would have chosen you.

I would have lain surrendered
Underneath you.

Sheltered in what I would have believed to be love,
And now I fare-well on a predestined highway.
God is my right of passage
Not you.

God is the architect of my soul.

Whereas you.

You will feast at anothers table
And I will sip from another cup.

And it will be how it is meant, whether we like it or not…


Light ning. Dash ing.
Street walker.
Fleur de lys.
English rose.

Lady. Lady.
What a path you chose.

I thought of you as stardust.
As God breathed life into my bones.
All those years ago at zero.

Have I been all people yet?
All nations.
All colours.
And genders.
And all religions.

Every breath in every one.
Every woven and unwoven thread.
Every time.
Every pulse.

It all counts.
Fingers to thumbs.

I thought of you as stardust today.
I thought of you
As I think of you
Every day.
Like stardust.

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