Putin the clown, juggling fire up on hind legs for the liar the circus bear is dirtied brown folk tales tell of eastern vampire blue and yellow tears falling down juggling fire, Putin the clown
I stand with you, Ukraine in need I stand with Russians taking heed those standing up for their world view arrested in protest, they plead freedom and liberty subdued Ukraine in need, I stand with you.
Anxiety is like the game which you lose when you think about the game
we’re all playing it
by any other name the alert perceptions of ones-self are natures preservation mechanism but, when the caveman can’t run it is a prism where all your insecurities are reflected back a prison in a disco ball
peering through the crack the party is going on all around still outside nowhere to found can’t climb down
inside into a little hole of isolating thought
ones downed and, twitching from the taser enforcing the no fun policy the law of psychology that won’t set one free
a life sentence
waking up late after, little sleep the man with the paper umbrella lead his black sheep hooves, to the cafe crushed a sleeping pill over saintly benefaction eggs benedict chewed the hay - bless thou the stomach and, hope to feel ones devilled mind eggnesthetized stitched to the chair upholstered and disguised he surveyed the yolk dribbling in feral ribbons away from the body of the beast he’d created
shakes tempered once shrieking gibbons now, coffin ready stillness
the black of breakfast Guinness glissading forth over froth into decanter beneath table cloth hair of the dog to season the broth of disquiet deafened, dumbed and blinded to satisfaction
the world walks by in silence masked, and insensate voices kiss cheeks lethal without violence the pepper of airborne droplets attack in world of tv static
numb, for the moment stunned, unconscious he wondered what he was ever worried about ...
Written for dVerse: Poetics, and National Thesaurus Day, celebrating Peter Mark Roget, born January18th 1779, who collated synonyms extensively throughout his life, to use in his own works, and temper his depressions – first published in Rogets Thesaurus, 29 April 1852.
Baring it all, I feel I’m not in my natural habitat. I lack the wherewithal to fight the internal pelting frost. Bearing it all, turns me into a snowball packed tight and melting slowly lost. It can be difficult. - I can be difficult. In a state of tumult. I don’t mean to be grizzly if my mood is black. When my skies are drizzly I brood and crack. I’m delicate. I mean well I know how to be good. And try. Still, that boy from childhood always asking ‘how?’ and ‘why?’ who watched Care Bears and, dreamed in Hollywood sparkle.
but, here I am, in this poem, narrating, coexisting with my half-witted, half-hung-over self, writing in half-baked-prose, wholly-cogitating over the clogged sink, woefully ruminating, thick as I think, imitating a mind, and lips, moving in sync,
Im alright, mate.
Liar. This is your internal voice, manifested, who’re you tryna kid, kid?
You’re barely opening up, from the eyelid. You’re not some battle hardened warrior. You’ll let down your guard like a lead balloon.
Dropping armour, and shield, you’re jelly in a pot. Jiggle jiggle.
I could tear you in half with a spoon.
Why we don’t rhyme much anymore, no one knows,
when did we forfeit rhyme, for half-price prose? It’s a giveaway.
Im only human.
Did I just giveaway the plot? Or, did I lose it …
I can be anything here; wise, beyond my facility, inflating my own sense of ability - I do fear.
Can you confirm my sanity? Im stuck in a feedback loop, attending to the fermentation, of novel ideas, confirming the bias, refracting the spheres, bending the sourdough, oozing out of my ears, into little wreathes, ready for the oven.
The words have risen, they must be removed before they burn. Yet, they must crisp a little longer, if I wish to learn …
eat up, masticate, and churn …
grow and develop.
Oh, the irony, finally, I see. Open me up, an autopsy. With me, alive, screaming and flailing, all the little gingerbread men, come marching out, entrails trailing, spilling truths, from within, fresh off the pan
… can’t stand the heat of the kitchen.
It’s near time to sling my backpack, and, up and fly to Japan. Non-fiction.
Running through neon streets with my stomach stitched, laughing deliriously.
How did I get here?
Now, let’s see … let’s see you try and live, without the host. No more intrusive thoughts, just butter and toast. Staples.
They love robots.
These emotions do not compute. Troubleshoot. Troubleshoot. Trouble, shoot, shoot, shoot. We need to hit reset - reboot.
Wake up. One sleep hasn’t cured you.
Who’re you kidding, kid, you just can’t shake em’, can you? Stress, anxiety, fear, nervous energies, self deprecating tendencies, all crazy, up in yo headspace - Robin your content, and, his band of merry fuckin’ men following behind, singing until they’re blue in the face.
The English call it a ‘French Exit’, to leave a party without a goodbye, and surrender out the door, in lieu of trading novel pleasantry, as socially conservative mercantile,
prudent in saving seconds, let’s Frexit, no need for pomp, it’s not Versailles, though, I admire your buildings, Monsieur, for their historic architectural integrity, you may consider me a Francophile,
you’re still my neighbour, despite Brexit, we share a narrative; rival, or ally, spread our lingua franca; Hello, Bonjour, and in an affinity to avoid pageantry, the French call it “to leave English style”.
December, ducking out the back door still drunk on holy merriment bondsman, and the warrantor dangling the carrot of sanity turkey carcass martyred in teeth good sense, crying from vanity the oven cooling
slinking to a lonesome end the apotheosis of twenty twenty one naive eyes watch truth bend with the other eleven wounded souls skin particles in the bell jar beyond fickle hand at the controls the oven calling
ashes to ashes, dust to dust ringing in the new year beached and bloated, trust to trust bullshit guidances mockingly spoken fireworks silenced, we shuffle forward sand in the wild wind life, wading shoreward us, crawling to the hereafter, unbroken.
He was lonely but it was painless January came silently in the night a carbon monoxide libido pill to kill any drive he had left
Women spooked him February was scary he, awkward as a bad wig secluded himself to work from home with the ghost of Valentine roses
March marched in, goose stepping he feared the fierce footsteps from the attractive neighbour bringing in spring, passed the mat outside his flat door
The skeletons in his closet rained bones when he got himself dressed old jumpers, and jeans bought by lost loves April brought showers so, he wore his birthday suit all month, instead
The nuns take pity they serve a greater purpose in chastity yet, he tossed his chances in the ocean a pilgrim abandoning his May flower for the savage coast
There they crossed in the hot corridor, in June the kitten heeled führer at flat #5 and the hallway acrobat Spider-Maning by, as an inverted introvert
the weather lady kept him informed of the July sun he obscured by blind in good company of the tv yawns poured over cereal risen to eat on the stroke of noon
August-us stunk like a dirty engine the street greeting the window, ajar stuck to his skin an uninvited house guest ruling his sanctuary as an emperor
A knock at the door! sheathed phallus in waistband morning glories hidden point toward terrifying beauty bringing baked goods Septembers harvest was bountiful
Visiting his vicinal Valkyrie with favour returned October ousted an oven fresh “Octo”pie tentacle fingers burned on the baking tray apples, currants, sugar, cinnamon, butter, flour, egg and angst a magic eight ingredients, wriggling in the heat
The first Saturday of November erupted he blew compliments like budget fireworks dry, between sips of velvety Syrah her tongue of Egyptian cotton spun chat his thoughts were hieroglyphs
Jolly and red faced, with festive breath artificial mistletoe of flashing neon street a kiss to fruit their flirtations juice of his veins, sweetened December ended with something new.
A present wrapped tight with family ties chilled brandy butter on warmed mince pies nowhere else I would rather be maced stuffing from my Granny’s own recipe her voice in the steam rising skyward living on in spirit and by word for all, a full belly and heart.
At 1 years old as babe in arms sweet as cotton-candy Mummy from blushed lips blew dulcet lyrical jingles spun sugary rhymes they purled in the the air fingers in pigeon tuffs of hair
a runaway train on piston knees so innate she stood tall and proud bouncing on firecracker feet o’ bliss at 2 she stuck to Daddy just like glue
turning 4 Mummy went to “heaven” so, she smooshed the frogs with a unforgiving stump scattered at her mercy on the muddy banks where they sat
years later, she killed a tomcat with an air-rifle she was just 8 her nerves were cold as winters hold on the trigger a crusading knight she lined him in the sight felt a righteous charge as if she had found her religion Daddy lost his temper though, she played coy
she would kill a boy at 16 years young she fired a different gun one made of disloyalty but he, her boy-love, had two eyes to see; duplicity with the truth his heart came in two black and blue
she fit the glass slipper an immoral Cinderella to her prince, harming the ‘c’ transparent no charming cuteness care just … heart shaped petals wilted crashing made of chalk to colour his pain across the floor
if boys are from Mars she ate all the stars and planets in the galaxy whole swallowed in a black abyss the hole who commits all that who enters to the belly light churning obedient wolves learning it’s not safe even in the pack losing their nature become dogs crippled three legged mutts hobbling chasing tail to her whistle and call
before the fall at 32 she carried another mans child nine months, concealed beneath a thin film whilst doting husband built the cot the lies and deceit grew so heavy cradling the confession itself became motherhood
swollen and rotten - driftwood washing in and out of life secrets unholy and inconsolable she tended to its silence with fury, and violence ivory cheeks dead as the elephant in the room ethereal fingers on piano keys to play in the newborn
thorns to adorn the babies crown piercing his innocent skin for her sin
when tales made their way back to ears fatherless, and too young for tears the infant grew to know no different
she felt vacant inside as she stood beside her Daddies coffin doubled over at 64 she captained her conscience fought for the right emotions to portray a struggle and screech cats tied in a hessian sack clawing and catching one another
her psychology would smother authentic sentiments in lieu of surrogate soothsaying forecasting the necessary sensations for the benefit of others
a cerebral tactician posed for the exposition friend, or foe alike fall by the wayside dragged through the performance as heavy stones around her ankles
her limbic system liquidating narcissistic personality dominating her vision she saw only the silver lining shimmering in the bleak church her fraudulent left face fearlessly crying in view of all
inheritance glowing beneath a lazy sob smug in the burial of an inside job
Days dropped away - a countdown in maddening mid December
running toward some prophesied narrative where everyone is grateful
in my naivety I had come to think that meant in my heart, too but, the nativity of another unwanted child-hood trauma re-emerging rears its bald and bloody head
winter had been generous, however with its spirited yield of white powder falling, and disappearing at the tip of my nose
whiskey, or some cider coloured piss to wash it back alone in my smoky, magnolia dungeon
it was all ok, until I lost my teeth now, I’m lonely, toothless, and there’s no fairy’s or, white bearded philanthropists creeping to my bed in the night in some-sort-of state sanctioned home invasion
the fat man in red visits, occasionally he works for Royal Mail
I used to order myself gifts from Amazon just for the human contact now they just choke-slam my parcel into the mat like it’s Saturday morning wrestling and run off before, I can even trip over myself trying to get my stained underpants pulled up and get to the door
those were the days not as in: the dreamy, rose coloured sense those were the days, it all went to shit it all started one cosy curled-on-the-carpet duvet draped morning
days dropped away - a countdown in maddening mid December
sheep sheared for the season counting reindeer to fall asleep daydreaming of sleighs elves and stockings
the morning smelt like cinnamon the sky was marmalade on toast and, the river Thames was spilt tea down the side of a porcelain cup
it was 1976’ we had a new television Andre the Giant was slamming men to the canvas like they were Amazon parcels all whilst wearing a little black leotard
I couldn’t wait to pull my wellies on and make a snowman with Dad
he told me to eat my cereal and watch tele until Mum came home
he made me promise, I would
“Dad?”, I called out
“When are we going outside?”
with one red left footed wellington boot on my right foot and the other in my arms I pushed his door ajar to where there were two bare feet suspended in the air
he was just there …
just there … like some, appalling Christmas angel
a grotesque decoration hanging without a twinkle
I never understood why
it was so easy
not, to do it but, to leave us
I thought I never would understand …
I always did what I was told obeyed the rules until, I didn’t until, I opened that door in a way, I blamed myself I imagined if I hadn’t opened that door if I had just waited with my cereal and tele and excitement like Dad told me then, none of it would have happened I knew it wasn’t true … but, I couldn’t help myself
so, since then I alway do as I am told but, it’s not working everything around me is burning and I’m just sitting here doing as I’m told
(unavailable) please take a step back
days dropped away - a countdown in maddening mid December
smouldering charred from the inside out with a bucket of water on the doorstep - I’m told it’s contaminated with pathogens or, was it the PH is off? I forget
days drop away - I tell myself not to worry they’ll be more; that comforts and scares me in equal measure
a countdown to a time when I can breath freely, again
in a maddening mid-life crisis persistently preserving the jarred pickle of my quarter-life crisis and my beginning-life crisis - between my pre-adulthood and post-child-who-should-not-be-dealing-with-a-crisis-crisis
I passed flat #5 today on the way back from getting milk biscuits and long skins
the old girl was out she must be in her maddening mid nineties amazing women she is mind is near completely gone she wouldn’t know her son from the delivery boy double leg dropkicking her mail-order knick-knacks down the hall yet, she always got around like a twenty something even in her nineties well, until, yano
I said hello she smiled and, I smiled back
like an old friend not the stranger, I feel
it’s been so long since I saw her I wondered if she was still around
With the picture provided by Shay, at its base, I tapped into the Slavic folklore tales of Baba Yaga, the infamous witch with the taste for children’s flesh, who is said to live in a hut on chicken legs.
What is life without community? I would love to connect with other nicecissists out there. Reach out, let me know what you think in the comments, and of course, give me a follow for more – nice!
II. Light, warmth, sound, darkness, cold, shape. Finger tips searching. Finding. Impenetrable shrouded shield, protecting, as muslin sentinel. Fours on the carpet. Food on the table. Food on face. Food for thought, everywhere. Hope, promise …
… expectation …
III. … hands up, who knows? Gold stars. Pink cheeks. Red knees. Stabilisers stabilising. Imagination emanating. Feet on the ground, running. Pencil shavings on the table. ‘Kiss, Chase’ worn on the face. Investigation, anticipation …
… impatience …
… 4 wants 5, 5 wants 6, 6 wants …
… 12, 12 wants 13, 13 wants …
… them. Her. Him. Him. Her. Whom the heart desires, beating heavily. The first taste of their chewing gum in ones mouth. Tongue warm inside, exploring. Candescent adolescence. Green steps on uneven ground. Heartbreak. Heartache. Some give, some take, most all will shoulder it …
… a disco ball of sensory stimuli reflecting off every surface. The panacea of tomorrow’s promise. Contemporary conscious, wading into future, forecasting …
IV. … Friday, grafting, gasping for liquid salvation. Saturday, groggy, rasping for a breath. Sunday, snoozing, stealing a moments moratorium. Monday, moving, moving, moving …
… Friday …
… foundation building, counting digits in the ether …
… Friday …
… tripping over shoes in hallways. Picking up articulated objects of mass distraction. Pygmy packed lunches for little priority magnets. Focus, commitment …
… sacrifice …
… the treasury of the heart, opulent, abundant. Candles burgeoning, twinkle beneath bright eyes, reminiscent. Belly full of cake, trying to keep ahead of the game on a full stomach …
… chasing something, always something to chase, trying to catch ones breath. Wheezing through the weeks, drawing in the decades …
… sudden was the creeping tiger. A quiet house. Empty rooms. Plethora of flora and fauna, lively beyond the window, by the comfy chair - an orange, black and white tail, disappearing into the long grass …
V. … the jar of pickle, shelved, is from 2008, forgotten, beneath settled dust, and lassitude. The children - children no longer - used to visit on Sundays, now so infrequently, it’s been surrendered to serendipity. The joy of of the grandchildren’s laughter, echoed on the walls once more, added value from the absence …
… rediscovering long lost pleasures, one admittedly wishes they’d have spent more time in the occupation of. So much time for leisure, and so many options, it’s difficult to get much of any done …
… reminiscing is chief conversation. Television is company …
… speculating how well ones faired, and benefitted from all they gave. Wondering what could have been. Scared of so little. Scared of so much. Embarrassment parted ways many moons ago. Now, a graver companion strides beside, pointing to the endless horizon, looming; the knowing, the not knowing. It is humanities torment. The fear of finding out, and the irony of not finding out when …
… what does it mean to be human? Complex, transitory …
… mortal …
… realising the trade off, for everything we get to see and feel. We know the consequences, ventured regardless. The pain of loss, weighed against the the fruits of love …
… sun through the window, sweet as summer blackberries, dappled on the skin. The door ajar lets in an polar draft, sending the grizzlies into early hibernation …
… knowing what one wants, needs, and will accept is a wizardly talent. One can wield the tongue as an artifice of considered dexterity for personal gain, or philanthropic pursuits. Knowledge is a precious commodity. Wisdom, expertise …
… recognition …
… lazy Sundays, lazy Mondays, Tuesdays …
… lazy Fridays, Saturdays. All days flowed and merged, in a confluence of time …
VI. … seized joints, raptured long ago by some unknown numen. To move about the room came with great effort …
he felt on precarious footing as they trespassed the mournful walls in the hotel corridor
it clutched the cigarette smoke as withering keepsakes she surrenders
leant against the doorway she blew smoke rings through an exotic red lassoing his dilated pupils
she stole his liquorice heart an acquired taste; whether she likes it, or not she has acquired it
they fell through the technicolour wallpaper
mouth dry as Spanish sun dark-haired, onto pale sheets oil slicks on virgin snow she took control and rode him as he struggled to regain grip
slip sliding in her sherbet kisses
the many faced chameleon curled on the tip of his nose
he could see the colour of her soul hear her skin move
composer of thunder classical, as black on white romantic, as red on red - the irony - to all else in the world he grew as deaf as Beethoven
a synthetic symphony no. 5 rained out Viennese skies crystallised they fall and rise fall and rise in the room
he felt her love surround him astound him confound him he tried to take her heart, too to find his fingers in the meat grinder
it dangled in strands the severed flesh of materiality haemorrhaging black as crude oil
sudden as the Venus flytrap a snap flashes of reality he buzzed and swirled within
a feverish delirium the sand cloud that enveloped scathing his eyes worked to mop up the mess slowly - unsteadily it confessed its ceiling the parting storm revealed the edges of the room pockets of rational thought between the hillocks
he tried to recall the details as they hid behind a gauzy wall; sequences of a lucid filament, muted
his acid was wearing off and he was alone with nothing but tremors
nothing, but the colour of sound illuminating the palisade that kept his inspirations repelled now, free to be leapt
with Hermes boot he kicks the sheets clean off left naked and exposed a flash of her hits him with a dagger of discomfort
alone - with nothing but, himself
nothing, but fire for the forge to paint, to write, to craft to take that ‘nothing, but’ with him, as muse
nothing, but himself
now, he must sleep - sleep it off
there was nothing, but the morning and a peculiar dead cigarette propped, half smoked, in the ashtray lined with rouge.
Thirsty, he took up his best crystal glassware from the cupboard
ready for a mouthful to quench the drought
valuable dedicatedly displayed elegantly shaped and perfectly formed delicate ornately arrayed and decoratively adorned
opening the fridge he grasped a readily available bottle of something fizzy
glowing from within on the backlit row she lit a skinny cigarette beneath his eyes and hung on beside him
S. Pellegrino, of Bergamo, Italy the natural partner of prime position to any course of banquet
the corners of his mouth frothed with the sticky white of dehydration parting under duress with cracks and flakes as a disused wooden window frame his seized lips squeaking open for a curious tongue to fly out as chubby robin dampening the borders, expectantly before they smacked shut
unscrewing the cap he tipped her round bottom skyward and watched her glug loose sparkling mineral water showering into the glass
he placed the glass on the table and fell into his chair
excitable bubbles gyrated up
raising a finger he dipped it in
effervescing tickled him with formless subtlety
moistened he dragged the finger around the rim of the glass freeing a vivacious ring
pleased with himself he sat back and dropped off to sleep
in his dreams he saw her bouncy and young on the Italian cobbles she poured herself between each suitor a single trickle of something satisfying to wet the whistle
when he woke up her sparkle was gone
the glass stood flat stagnating before his eyes
he dipped his finger de novo and grazed the rim she whispered her sweet nothings one more time
taking the glass in his hand he upturned it in the sink and poured himself a whiskey.
Day 13, since you moved back in and we agreed we’d give it us “one last shot”
working from home I’m sat in this swivel chair twitching like a downed deer
perhaps it would better to put the last shot in my temple
you’re across from me laptop set on your knees headsets drowning out the silence between us
your mother thinks you should leave me I heard you on the phone earlier she never liked me much “too old, and too soft to start a family”, she once said Merry Fucking Christmas
Things with no emotion; • This swivel chair - although, it gets more screws than I do • My coffee mug, stained with a bitter residue - we are kin • The potted plant, sat on the windowsill, which casts a shadow that looks like a thumbs up, across my desk at 3pm, each day. Don’t you fucking patronise me, plant. • Your face
fluid feelings found flooding the pockets of his parchment shell super soaking the contours of the cavities where his headaches thudding from the night before
the retrofitted facade of a man barely holding back the impassioned puddles forming on his brain the episodic attack insecurely trickles in droplets of consternating rain seeping out of his ears
he, the paper water pistol purpose built for living wondering if this is all there really is as his soggy sentimental self slumps unforgiving a pulpy mulch upon his mattress built to fulfil - to feel he has a purpose
yet, it all seems so… pointless limp and jointless a completely random animal instinctually protecting himself from anything that scares him vulnerable to sharp objects blunt objects projectiles objective objects of all styles infectious diseases and all trials one must face to be a complex creature of the human race
thoughts turn with a regrettable tinge to the flashbacks which make him cringe dismounting him from those worn tracks he tries to stay on a runaway mirroring his a departing youth the mirror always tells the truth when he stares it stares back
he digs his pupils in to the landscape of yellowed skin crows feet perched beside ashen bags trashed by another boozy night a sickly sight down the road from the bright lights and flashing signage of adolescence he can’t jazz it up he’s faded perceptions, jaded writing off his character the Bleeding Gums Murphy of evanescence
not good for his health or, his happiness he knows (them) as if they weren’t the same thing nosediving the quivering white (k)night who serves the king (of impulse) “Has't thee cometh to saveth mine own soul?” or, scratch that itch drawing his sword to get a whiff of the green pastures on the other side
“… and so, we celebrate the triumph of our hero…
Arise, Sir Knight the alarm is about to blare and you’ve been lying there feeling sorry for yourself for far too long this isn’t the chivalric romance you were after
and being somewhat of a crafter of poetry I will confess to thee it doesn’t get any easier to be a paper water pistol…”
he, the paper water pistol impaled by the spear of his alarm manages to disarm his combatant and peel his pulpy piece from where it’s drawn to (e)merge on the…