Creative Writing

WaTer element

2012-02-07T13:34:00.001Z

FiRe element

2012-02-07T13:33:00.001Z

EaRtH element

2012-02-07T13:32:00.001Z

AiR element

2012-02-07T13:31:00.000Z

WRAPPERS

2011-11-19T15:54:00.000Z

The C.E.O. of W.R.A.P. welcomes members of the W.R.A.P. (formerly R.A.P. and W.A.P.) to this E.G.M. to discuss matters arising from the W.R.A.P. interim meeting concerning changes to the constitution. Members, to be forthwith addressed as WRAPPERS, who SMS’d A.S.A.P. will have already received the agenda comprising A.M./P.M. items. The P.R. to the P.A., currently in the E.U. investigating U.F.O C.C.T.V. footage on borrowed V.D.U.’s was unexpectedly detained by the M.O.D. following BBC and ITV broadcasts in which he appeared to be pointing an AK47 at the sky while driving a TVR S2 shouting, “Guns don’t kill people WRAPPERS do” and emptied a large waste paper basket of fruit salad wrappers onto the kerbside. Consequently we are unsure of the P.R. to the P.A.’s E.T.A. but will press on.
It has been brought to the C.E.O.’s attention via a memo entitled ‘F.A.O.: C.E.O. from the A.A.A.A. - (Association Against Acronym Abuse)’ stating that the A.A.A.A. board of directors categorically object to the overuse of acronyms by the WRAP in WRAPPER broadcasts and lyrical promotional material and they use the following e.g. “Rolling a C by the MTV aint for the likes of me, in my PCV, don’t need no smokes, tripping with the turkey tinsel brigade hits my OCD like a BLT and a G&T…”
Therefore the first proposed change in the constitution relates to item E-40: “Where possible use abbreviations to make best use of word count” to be amended to “Write wot u goddamn like, u is a wrapper and aint no constitution gonna mess wid r heds or make us squeal to the feds, big up the word count, ho ho ho, like it xmas daddyo.”
All those in favour shout ‘Booyakasha’.

a wordle of my blog

2011-11-03T12:11:00.000Z

Is it? Did we? What?

2011-06-14T10:48:00.000+01:00

Is it underwater? Like me, like my lungs?
Suffocated with the promise of change.
Is it Libya? Syria? Afghanistan? Egypt? Bahrain?
Are we at war? We are war. Backwards raw.
Clapping in the heroes, the dead, the roadside bombed.
Earthquakes shake-shake. Flood. Contaminate.
Did we know ‘tsunami’ when we built our sandcastles?
Did we care about a budget deficit when ice cream vans patrolled our park?
Caution sniffs pheromones in airport queues–eyes search out scented words like ‘insurgent’ and ‘improvised explosive’.

Then there’s God.

For these natural events read:
Volcanoes erupting as holiday plans scuppered.
Cyclones as senators battling for votes.
Earthquakes as infrastructure re-build.
Tsunamis as nuclear meltdown.
This illusion will drown us all. Landslide us. Tsunami us.
Wipe us out.

Discuss.

Topical Veg

2011-06-14T10:45:00.000+01:00

The Spaniards were heard to complain:
"You Germans are quick to lay blame..
Don't dis our pepinos
you're making us so cross,
Go check out your sources again!"

Invitation

2009-06-18T16:41:00.002+01:00

I’ll let the tide come to me
wrinkling its skin and curling up
the beach with its whispering voice
giving me a tongue lashing with it’s
thirst quenching, gut wrenching bulk
pushing up pebbles and flotsam and sand
looting the lugworms burrows with salty liquor
shouting move back - move back - make way
covering the dips and hummocks of the shore
making it flat once more, kicking down castles
and moats, providing a mooring for boats and
fishermen’s floats, I’ll let the tide come to me
licking and creeping to my toes and I’ll let
its nose sniff me out like a dog wanting its tea
I’ll let the tide come to me while I sit ashore
watching and wanting the water to wash
like a brimful of hope from an ancient sea
cleansing and healing the devil in me
I’ll let the tide come to me

bonfire

2009-06-18T16:37:00.001+01:00

She left a note to say
Bonfire material in the porch
If you like.

Cold chills crept through the cat flap,
As sly as winter itself
Keeping me captive.

Afternoon dampness subdues my mood
I do not venture out today
The fire can wait.

I anticipate tomorrow’s flames
Licking at my face
Drying my cheeks.

Morning sunlight pierces hollow clouds
Two matches ignite the paper shreds
Slow smouldering teases the leaves.

You lift the edge with a stick
Breathe life into the gaps.
Deep orange cleanses my mood.

Twilight now. I look out through glass
Ignoring the smoke signals.
Remembering heat and our mittens.

awaiting Prince Charming

2009-06-18T16:36:00.001+01:00

Princes have washed hair. Their horses smell of fresh hay
and roots of cowslip. They will lift you with one arm about
your waist and gallop towards a cinnabar sunset.
Birdsong and crisp air prevail in this fairytale.
I’m still waiting for the distant coconut shell of hooves
and waft of shampoo.

After your day of fishing

2009-06-18T16:35:00.000+01:00

as we danced you told me
about your day, the breakfast
the people and the sausages

we waltzed on the carpet
hands held then you twirled me
about you, the tv on but we talked

and I could smell the scent of lake
and catch on your cheek
as we danced in the living room

you kissed me on my cheek
told me you loved me more
our end to the day was complete

with you dancing the minutes
knitting it back together
with hands and feet and lips

Martyrs Hall

2009-05-20T10:14:00.000+01:00

Mad as graffiti, a smile, a poem,
a death among plastic flowers.
Gold embroidery, a defiant flag
unwaving, entombed, defended.

Mad as signatures, as visitors,
filled books, filled eyes.
Mad as love, as graves
as pictures, as guns.

Mad as good, as bad;
a museum, a mausoleum.
Mad as a bedroom recreated,
as shoes, as a civilian suit.

Mad as a tyrant’s tomb;
a carnival of collected nostalgia.

Mad as war, mad as men.

Wasteland

2008-10-17T13:56:00.000+01:00

High rises wired up, connecting flex.
Channels and lines and lives and sex.
Hidden vices; crushed cans; stubbed out fags;
compact disc wastelands; smog; perspex.

Burnt up forests, bulldozed flat.
Arteries swimming in chip fat.
Dial tones waiting for numbers not names.
Dumped fridge freezers, sofas, the cat.

History buried, carpeted in cement.
Layered noises, voices, false sentiment.
The rims of styrofoam cups nibbled flat.
Builders yard tyre tracks, a cancelled event.

Man-made; disposable, unclean, misused.
Raiding the piggy bank for penny chews.
Sold out. Burnt out. Pent up. Lost.
Make up applied on last nights bruise.

Shooting Stars

2008-08-18T17:24:00.000+01:00

Are you still waiting until i look up?
i turn my head, twist back
you are a transient mass of dots
but still hypnotise those in the past
your past. You are long gone, set adrift
to roam as particles of dust.
i want to watch you die
to burn and split apart
creating light across my sky
your death a whooping cry to my ears.

Wadi Rum

2008-08-18T17:21:00.000+01:00

I try to sleep but cannot rest
the desert noises reach my ears
creaking tent poles, snuffling canvas
like wolves noses drawing near
a distant echo of dogs reminding the moon
to be still.
yet the wind ignores their plaintive cries
to lick the rocks and wadis
whip up the night darkened sand
testing my eyes.
beyond the thin veil of sky
the diamonds prick the ebony
some faint, some bright
all burning past eternity
constant amid the deserts natural song.

Fire on the Grand Pier

2008-08-18T17:15:00.000+01:00

Mountains of fudge cascade; a sweetened river
meeting scorching coins released from melting booths.
Hungry flames lick at kiss me quick merchandise
crumpling to ebony ashes. Smoke fills the eyes
of the shooters in the hill-billy shack;
nailed feet, expressions stoic as the heat rises
to their neckerchiefs and melt their plastic hearts.

The ghost train puffs its final journey
authenticated by the smoke and wailing.
High above the rafters the werewolf grins and topples
destroyed not by a silver bullet but a chip pan.

No more promenading hand in hand
licking icecream lips and smearing sticky fingers
along the railings, cheeks pink with floss
peering past bare feet
to glimpse the sea below gappy boards.

Music not a soft twinkling background
but a crackling, crashing symphony of sirens, glass and wood.

You do the maths....

2008-04-28T17:55:00.000+01:00

I counted up the nine weeks,
since we met. You’d let me down
six times, a ratio of three to two.
Your excuses showed a mode average
of ‘fell asleep’. One sixth when your car lock broke
(after you’d fallen asleep), another sixth when
you didn’t forget and did forget!
The probability of repeating this
was high, so I estimated a fraction
of my time telling you to stop pissing me about
equalled the correct answer.
The sum of your lies and taking me for
granted was calculated: the indirect correlation
of your smoky presence and my creativity
only became apparent when my muse returned.
So I’m ruling you out based on unreliability
and lack of validity. Not the data I was seeking.
This equation should explain it further:
T + P = history.

Butterfly Dæmon

2008-03-07T20:12:00.000Z

Heart follows me, flying beside me.
Alighting on my shoulder, my cheek.
Heart dances when I smile.
I see him all seasons,
delicate pin stalk feet, silent,
resting his wings, soaking up daylight.
Red and black, heart changes,
carried by currents,
swept by sea spray.
Any ocean, any continent,
heart needs no attention from me.
He waits until I’m still.
Heart beats for me when I am rushing and pushing.
He waits until I’m still.

a poet met in a drawer

2008-03-07T19:59:00.000Z

Your notebook I discovered in a drawer,
transilient the scribbled plans and lists
of how you know that real women have flaws,
the ones that leave red smudges on your lips?
Amid your displaced words, I circumvent
the warp and weft of unformed poetry.
The day to day between the dissident
into my mind I capture and set free,
neglected toys, Miles Davis, apple pie
to morph and merge as footprints on the sand.
Most men, you write, would concentrate on size,
more weighty issues rest upon your hands!
Apologies for spying on your world.
Take heart, your notebook let my muse unfurl.

****check out Yemisi Blake's blog****

We forget to love the dead

2008-03-07T19:57:00.002Z

I came across your tie.
Thick striped greys,
it made me cry, to think
I had forgotten how I loved you,
years gone by. That tie
took me back to silent visits,
TV volume up, comfort in a teacup.
The memory can lie.
Your shirt. That tie.
The one you wore for best,
now coffined in my drawer.
At rest.

Sylvia Plath’s little god

2008-03-07T19:56:00.000Z

god with a small g wanders
behind me, catching my heels
jarring my wheels with scree.
he is the laugh in the corners
of rooms, dashing like sunlight
a witch on a broom.
god with a small g creates
an ache in my heart, i try
to follow, I start.
god on a footstool,
in the branches, the twigs,
the veins of leaves
a fingerprint like my iris,
my soul
is his.

Garden of a tyrant

2007-11-06T13:03:00.000Z

Attila’s rockery was adorned with the skulls of dormice strategically placed to create a waterfall effect into a pool of icy water. He liked moss and had lined the birdbath so it provided a soft landing for sparrows, starlings and various tits who would bathe ostentatiously amid the gladioli, honeysuckle and bougainvillea. He had employed a catamite to polish the statue of Boadicea so it reflected sunlight into the eyes of intruders from the west side of the garden, in the morning. When it was not sunny or in the evening he positioned his potted nettles amid the home grown blackberry thicket so anyone attempting to invade over the razorwired fence would be met with a stinging or a pricking. Chained to the gate, which was heavy and wooden were horns or wildebeest and the skeletal jaw of a crocodile; each tooth sharpened and fairy lights intertwined like a macabre Christmas decoration. He liked to put them on when he had neighbours round for summer barbeques. Pride of place high up in the branches of an old oak tree was a treehouse, the floor covered with the skins of his conquests and a pile of Caravanning Monthly magazines stacked neatly on a block of wood.

Crow

2007-11-06T13:02:00.001Z

Its harsh cackle pierced the warm air around the garden threatening the noisy hum of a spring day. Twice, three times it made its presence known by breathing powerful croaks while balancing ungainly on the old wooden fence. It tilted its shiny head to eye the party of humans scattered across the lawn amid bread and meat, unfinished remains of charcoaled food and upturned glasses. Its wing glistened like a freshly chiselled piece of coal as it precariously kept its weight distributed on its twig like feet. Robotic movements created a vibrant metallic sheen as sunlight hit its jet feathers. It swooped in a billowing breeze reminiscent of a dark sheet settling as it dropped to the grass, bouncing audaciously its stark black mass outlined against the dull earth like an oil patch on carpet. Ever cautious it observed with intrigue the humans sat watching at the table, not quite bold enough to snatch at the bread left alone within its reach.

A date with the devil: Seven deadly sins before lunch

2007-11-06T13:00:00.000Z

I awoke from a fitful, flighty night of dozing, dreaming and waning, dehydrated from the sloth that blanketed us in mutual consent. Our skin had absorbed the pheromones released subconsciously when we had fallen into our pit in the early hours, grape-breathed and reeling. Now stirring as the leaves on a great oak, my loins reminded me of my favourite sin, extreme desire, a deep pulsating scarlet adorned with glistening beads. Crushingly primal but all too fleeting, like the bang and flash of lightning on consecrated ground, lust cooled to make way for contaminating pride. So inopportune and destined to spoil my date with the devil, pride mirrored my actions hiding parts of me from you, manoeuvring to display the best view. A careful positioning of an arm or leg, a sucked in belly and moistened lips. You speak of past times; times when I was not part of your life and envy bubbles like a cauldron-thickening broth beneath my green eyes. I want you and you alone, all to myself but still the horned creature that you are leaves me empty, wanting more. Such is the nature of greed, an ever decreasing whirlpool of covetousness. And still you taunt me, winding me up like a stopped clock, pressing the red escape buttons, jeering me on to take a swing at you, come on you say, invading my personal space, jutting your forehead into mine, taking wrath to the edge of reason. I don’t react at first but the volcano inside me knows its exit and I spew forth the obscenities you encouraged, flaming out of control. Then you are gone. You capricious legend of old. You steer me through the sins with spidery finesse and all before lunchtime. Now I sit before a gluttonous feast alone, ravenously gorging my senses but never feeling full. I lick my dripping fork one last time. Aching jaws and stretched stomach with bruises in the space between remind me of you. A date with the devil.

Using the senses - Taste

2006-12-18T12:19:00.000Z

You meeting me tastes
Like a melting marshmallow
Like a cool ice breeze on a hot tin roof
Like a wave on scorched driftwood
Like firework smoke and bonfire blues
Like a damsonfly summer dipped in homemade lemonade,
Like a precious stone in the deep freeze.

Like a peppermint cream that has been
boxed in a tissue paper tomb and delivered
Like a million lips
Like roaming lavender filled fields
Like parma violets and sweet shop open signs
Like a candyfloss kiss on a dozing cheek
Like sugar strands after dark.

You meeting me tastes
Like it should

Coded letter to a friend

2006-12-18T12:15:00.000Z

Dear M,

You wouldn't crosshatch the stuffing I've been keeping in my wormysponge. You know I fluffed you about that grungepot last week, the one with the fingerspikes and matted danglies? Well, the grungepot poofed like a genie at the fantamart, right next to the molten lactose and runnycold. I didn't know where to higgle my piggle. So I faced the grungepot with a chocolately visage while strategising my exitation at the best available opportunatem. It was not easipus.

The unreal ball of sleep must cause his wormysponge to ache, but that's not my nessibiz. So, the trip to the fantamart was cripted and I forgot to yub the iciclesoup you fluffed.

Slobby bout tat.
Cake Tear.

P.

Potato - a poem

2006-12-18T12:12:00.000Z

You cold, hard dismembered limb
Smooth and shiny surface clean
Freckled back and waxen skin
Scars from metal, earth and man

You silent, staring malformed mass
Blind, yet housing many eyes
Earthy roots abandoned past,
Still and stoic, mortal feast.

You dug up remnant from the field
Tumbled, washed, inert and free
Moonlike craters, smiling grooves
Innocent flesh, you fill a need.

Dart Suspense

2006-12-18T12:03:00.000Z

It was one of those depressing days at the end of the summer holidays when rain clouds hung silently and dampened the spirits of children, imprisoned behind dappled panes. Kat had given up clearing out the cupboard under the stairs, a half hearted attempt at finding something to make for the British Legion flower show. The spiders appreciated her company and now crept tiptoe back into their dark corners.

Stu, Kat's older brother, had been playing Shakin Stevens 'green door' at full volume on the LP player in their play room. The luxury of having a whole room designated to them was never fully appreciated but well used nonetheless.

'...the old piano and it's feeling hot behind the green door...' warbled Shakey. Stu attempted to mimic his infamous leg move and grinned mischeivously as Kat scowled at him from the doorway. "Let's play darts!", he said, happy to have a playmate now his friend Richard had gone home.
"No, I know what we'll do," he added, "we can practice our aim first."
Kat the younger of the two went along with his suggestion, if only to placate her older, wiser brother.
She sat on the old foam settee with the maroon textured fabric and picked at the threads.
"Hold still," he said, "I'm going to get the dart in between your legs."
Holding his aim towards the settee like a knife thrower at the circus, squinting one eye then the other he lifted his arm level.
Kat sat, as still as a cloud.....

Never liked pigeons

2006-12-18T11:58:00.000Z

I've never liked pigeons. They are always under your feet and flapping in your face, dirty feathers and grimy feet. My phobia of pigeons, I'm sure of now, started when I was abandoned by a fountain in Weston Super Mare. I'd been mesmerised by the fish, all glittering and elusive like fools gold in the pond, I didn't even notice that my entire family had wandered off expecting me to trail behind like an obedient puppy. The fish hypnotised me.

Watery fins and lily pads glistened with diamonds and I daydreamed until a feeling of space entered me. When I looked around, no-one was there.

Except those pigeons. Cooing. Cold, dark staring eyes with unfortunate staccato rhythmic heads. Ready to attack me with their dusty feathery bodies. So I screamed; so loud that they all took off and one brushed my cheek.

molecular structure of a tear - a question?

2006-08-31T19:34:00.000+01:00

Does anyone know the molecular structure of a human tear? Does it differ from a tear cried by another species, for example an elephant? Do elephants cry?
Crocodiles do but what are they thinking?

First and foremost though before I digress, is there a chemical pattern for a human tear? Do tears have different energy patterns connected to the emotion they have been shed for?

Any bio-chemists who have the time or inclination to contact me will be rewarded with something beyond their dreams and imagination.

Karmic Flies - an essay

2006-08-31T19:22:00.000+01:00

Summer is a tragic month for the fly population, scorned by the inner dwellers who despise their audacious insurgence to the living space. The auric field of the fly stretches to the imagination of the perceptor who clocks it on entry and cannot dismiss it until dead or gone. What does a fly equal, it = filth/vomit/rotten/decay/disease/putrid/faecalgatherings/maggots/eggs/hate?

Is the invasion of privacy also a factor when windows akimbo they appear uninvited to buzz and land, land and buzz, vomit, spit, fly, buzz again.

Man who catch fly with chopstick, he can achieve anything! Man who bash fly with swatter or rolled up magazine, he can relax back onto sofa without being bothered by troublesome insect.

What if each fly swatted carried a karmic repayment, destiny by the wheel of fate, not ours to decide, here a suggestion to the muses who may liken the tragedy on a greater scale than that of invertebrates.

1. Trapped by a spider in her web = sacrifice, suicide
2. Fed to a spider but rejected = died in vain
3. Would not die after several swats = resistance to death
4. Balanced on swatter edge & tipped out window = missing presumed dead
5. Squashed against mirror = Sudden and bloody
6. Bashed on carpet = messy, tragic death

Enough of this fly talk...

Where is my lover?

2006-08-31T19:09:00.000+01:00

Is it possible that i will ever have a lover who knows what i truly desire; rose turkish delight; hot sweet tea; chocolate covered rich teas; sunlight; fresh air; roses; laughter; philosophy; intellect; green silk dresses; steam trains; songs about life; rain on a window pane; puddles; cotton sheets; black socks; red balloons; crystals; books - lots of books; paper; pens; incense; love; beauty; truth; good red wine in a crystal goblet on a moonlit night in Cairo; coffee shops; walks on the beach; lies in on a Sunday; bubble baths by candle light; cities at night time; parks in the summer; waves on the shore; stars; paintings sexy shoes; gateaux; wavelengths; synchronicity; handwritten letters; spaniels and whippets; black and white jellicle cats; hotel foyers; eternal love; that perfect moment when you see someone attractive and don't know anything about them.

And never having to ask for any of the above.

Still don't know what love means...

2006-08-30T12:12:00.000+01:00

DREAM: 25th August 2006

wrapped around your body my tiny arm
jigsaw fit, solid arm on my shoulders
safe and sound
muscles/sinew/skin.
entwined tendrils unison
ignore the throng and busbomb
we escape
to my room, a room below the sill
you and I. Unknown soul twins
we are one.
lip kiss, you aged more than mine
from a grecian hillside.
before at the cottage we met
by your field. you a worker
i a watcher.
eyes like lasers unbroken
you said i take you home now.
i would walk but we go,
past a barn,a church
press our ear, hear coloured pane hymns
complex beyond love, you and I.
Synchronised.