When it snows

If I ever got married, if I was ever so inclined

To make another forever mine

I’d like it to be when it snows

Cheeks red with cold, perfect scarlet apples, breath like puffs of smoke

I’d want clouds, across the sky blown by winter wind

No sun blazing at my wedding

Imagine Rod Serling

Introducing the twilight zone

His face bathed in monochrome shades

All my photos in an album of sepia tones

Love may mingle with the snow, neatly filling the Hollow

As a tiny church nestled inside sleepy walls

Sets the scene

And completes the tableau

*This little something was inspired by the last lines in this gorgeous (and v. emotional – for me) tune*

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5th of November

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5th of November:
Outside, the air suitably smells of powder, smoke — it’s bitterly cold but no matter, because for the crowds, it’s all about homegrown terrorism and Guy Fawkes.

A penny for the guy and a penny for your thoughts, before you play your hand — straight As for your poker face and the impressive attention span.

It’s a royal flush of course: you win, take everything-including me-on the table. It’s messy, it’s bold, the cards tumble, fall to the floor.

“Preposterous” I mumble.
Why? I don’t know, maybe the wine was responsible, or this is what happens when sanity crumbles.

“Say it again” he tells me…he insists, when I don’t reply instantly.

I oblige: “Pre-pos-ter-ous”

Possibly the strangest dirty talk ever, have I done weirder? I can’t recall.

Nevertheless, as long as there’s no straight jackets, give us a cell and padded walls—sex laced with intellect from dusk till dawn—I guarantee I’d never get bored.

Pre-pos-ter-ous. Possibly my new favourite word…this, I discovered on a night filled with fireworks, on the
5th of November.

*Posted this time last year, but I kind of like it – occasionally, I write something that’s very, very ‘me’*

Halloween Lover

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So it is that soon I will rise again

I will come up

through the mud and dark earth

emerging in a damp cellar

dry flesh craving the touch

of an unwilling lover

will it be you that I caress

stroke with my ice-cold fingers

embrace for one fleeting moment

my frigid skin peeling, shredding

my eyes unseeing

your screams rising

in the raw glacial night

what a sorry plight

is yours, wretched victim

of my yearly Halloween yearning

*I have posted this before, but it is one of those I like though I wrote it ages ago – it’s got that sexy creepy vibe. And I just love that pic – it deserves to be reposted just for that*

Image Credit: Beautiful Decay by jaded-ink @deviantart.com

Same

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A year ago exactly, I said a final goodbye to somebody who had been a close friend. We’d shared many happy times, but that was before he decided to obliterate them all with a weird obsession and a determination that was really quite admirable in a sick kind of way.

Yes, Tom, a year on and I still can’t quite comprehend why you drove me to the edge of insanity. Because I was the ultimate prize in your eyes, I guess, and a narcissist must obtain and then destroy just to feel, just to be.

There were explosions of colours all over the streets when we parted for the last time, leaves scattered everywhere and my heart was heavy but I felt free at last from your manipulation and your sick games. October then was an end and a beginning, cliché as it seems.

Autumn has arrived again, my favourite season, always has been, which makes it strange that it should be without fail when self-loathing hits me like a tsunami. The same leaves are covering the pavements, the leaves I kick childishly as I’m walking, while wondering how I always get things wrong, how every time I think I’ve got this life thing sorted, it turns out I haven’t at all.

One can’t raise the bar when it’s already sky high, so I’m left stranded while the tide comes in, I stand still, breathing salty air, pushing aside all thoughts until I’m surrounded and I can no longer ignore this sad state of affairs. The ghosts will keep tugging if you let them – them with their fucking chains – but underneath the self loathing, buried deep but there all the same, is the certainty I will win this fight eventually.

Maybe I am doomed to keep making the same mistakes, even as I keep raising the stakes, maybe the fact I keep getting it wrong will be inscribed on my grave. In any case,
there is only one thing to do to survive, and it’s to get new feelings to replace the old ones.

Photo my own

Hero

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I’m not asking you to:
Scale the walls
of creepy castles
Dive into a medieval moat
Slice anybody’s throat
Send complex smoke signals
Ride into the savage storm
shooting scarlet arrows
Battle blood-curdling cyclops
Wrestle wild aurochs
Banish ghouls or ghosts
I’m not asking you
to be brave, a saint, a hero

Why would I?
When you’re not even able
to return a fucking phone call

Image credit: cat-girl-q8.deviantart.com

*First posted last year, but there’s always a fuckwit it can apply to*

Upgrade

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Someone said today
I should upgrade iOS
but no way,
it’s the world that’s due an upgrade
not my phone
I’m not even asking for anything difficult,
(Ok, I kind of am)
not demanding we get rid of all evil,
just
reality TV, most stupid people
political correctness
terrorism and fucking candles
victims cards should be abolished —
play the game properly
without constant tears and whining
if you can’t handle it
for fuck sake, don’t play
why make everybody miserable
every time you stumble
fall
and blame, always blame
everyone but yourself
has nobody
got any sense of responsibility
anymore?
don’t answer that, don’t tell me
I used to be filled to the brim
with feelings and empathy
these days my finger is on the trigger
of a metaphorical gun
I’m all out of patience
no I haven’t got a license
to carry
neither do the jihadists
come to think of it
yet they kill
with impunity
in a war we’re not fighting
as we’re not even allowed to admit
it exists
if you think I’m angry
too right, I’m often fucking seething
and not just because of ISIS
or the refugee crisis
I’m applying lipstick
I bought in Paris
it’s bright red, it’s Chanel
and what I see in the mirror
is the colour of blood
on my lips
I taste nails and excuses
acrid smoke
rusty razor blades
bitter flavours
requesting a whisky chaser
so yes, I need an upgrade
to wipe out the horror, the terror
I’m not going to get it from Apple
though
or a society so goddamn brittle

Image credit: Apple Vortex on deviantart.com

Empath

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On the outside, I was
well put-together, a polished shell
luxurious mane of dark hair
skin delicate porcelain
bright cyan eyes
popular, clever, straight A’s
window dressing at best—
at worse, half-truths and lies
which were betrayed
by chewed-up nails
hands continuously restless
overflowing ashtrays
piling up around me like used cars
in a dealer’s yard
I ran with scissors
juggled with razors
under the cover of darkness
this, the predators
knew, felt
they could smell weakness
a need to love and help
so great
it would seal my fate
tie me to a runaway train
for more years than I could bear
they—could hardly believe their luck
couldn’t wait to fuck me
and fuck me up
defective and mean
they’d bite
claws digging into soft flesh
they’d forgotten or didn’t recognise kindness
perhaps never knew it,
lacked it, hence hated it
either way it came to the same thing
and it’d always end in the same fashion
I’d bleed, weep
my tears falling, for myself
but mostly for them
I hadn’t managed to fix my pain
but even worse, I hadn’t fixed theirs

*Posted last year but I like it. I’ve grown tougher over the last few years, thank f**k, but overall, this is such an accurate description of my (early) life. Oh, and on reflection, the pic of my eye is slightly creepy, sorry about that.*