No rhyme, no reason

Bikini body in the sun, half-cocked gun, a summer weapon, a sassy siren sensing and inviting desire, it was a wave rushing towards me, I was riding the crest, eyes closed beneath my shades, heat spreading between my legs, 

but suddenly it all changed, no rhyme, no reason, what the actual fuck was going on, my crazy brain switched moods randomly, I’ve always been my own worst enemy – it was

a senseless dream starting with a less than vague promise of sex and ending with

Van Gogh penniless and in despair trying to drown himself in the deep sunflower fields—which had long haunted him—their colours and shapes having intensified his misery.

What does it all mean? 

I woke up tangled in my sheets—

I had too much to dream 

last night

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Tragedy

It might be a chance meeting, somewhere totally random, at a time when my thoughts are turned towards the mundane—why didn’t I bring an umbrella? It’s going to rain—or more lofty matters, probably the former though I have no way of knowing what my mind will be occupied with. I am unprepared, though in my dreams I’ll have lived this moment a hundred times or more. I’ll see you across the street maybe, first doubting what my eyes are telling me but my racing heart will know long before my mind has ascertained the truth. 

Call your name or walk on?

A few seconds to make a choice, too little time to decide. 

I walk on, away…and it takes a little while for a pain so sudden and so great, so fresh it might all have happened yesterday, to fill my chest and spread, making me stumble and try to catch my breath. 

I stop, hesitate and call your name, first in a whisper, then louder, because I cannot let you disappear, again. You see me and there’s no wavering for you, you know what to do, you come to me as if this moment was always meant to be. My body is stiff when you hug me, it’s been years since you last held me, years filled with many things, some of them happy but a life nevertheless underlined with a particular kind of misery. What, next? A pub? Probably. Very little talk to start with. I take you in, a bit more grey in your hair, more lines etched on your face, you look pretty much as I imagined you must do, every time I allowed myself to think of you. I don’t know if I’ll find the words, alcohol might help or hinder but maybe no words will be needed, perhaps the touch of my fingers will be enough for you to understand I have always loved you, even as I ran from you, even as I kept away, all these years when we were separated but together all the same, you and I held by a small, powerful unwinding thread—forever isn’t just found in fairy tales. 

Which will it be? One way or the other, a tragedy. 

Red

Red like the pathetically fragile organ you tried so hard to protect,

Without success

as somebody squashed it like a miserable bug,

but

if you’re going to run away with fanciful ideas,

store them somewhere safe, as squirrels do with nuts

before throwing the key down a bottomless well,

then

quite frankly, you must accept

you deserve everything you get

Daughter

Slowly the sun goes down

Splashing dying embers

In her mane

Of untamed hair

With regret he pulls down the shades

To keep the scented summer

Fragrant with life

Outside

A subdued light

Tinged with tiny pools of dark

Invades

Her domain

Sleep softens her features further

He – the faithful sentinel watching over

his delicate flower –

Can’t help but fret

His chest feels tight

Aware the world

Will reach out with eager fingers

She will know hurt

He will contemplate murder

But for now the princess,

Just turned seven

Dreams still intact, untouched

Rests peacefully

He kisses her sweet cheek

Pulls back the covers

One last look, lingering, tender

For now she’s safe

Her innocence preserved

*Photograph found on Pinterest, try as I might I couldn’t find anyone to credit for it*

P.S. for whatever reason, WordPress is not letting me reply to older comments so I apologise to anyone who’s left thoughts on previous posts – I didn’t mean to ignore you, honest!

Thursday Thoughts

Nobody wishes to be cannon fodder,

nobody wants to constantly bleed for others

Even the most selfless sometimes need to be handled with care

If they falter, fail, if they break, them with the patience of a saint,

there is nothing left. No hope. No faith.

And so Sisyphus rolls his boulder.

*I’m still here, though I haven’t got much to share, or maybe I have too much. While I ponder this further, some pics from last night — 2am selfie madness.*

Unrepentant

Somebody who follows me on Twitter – no idea why since they object to pretty much everything I say on there – asked me yesterday why I was always angry. Well, I’m not ALWAYS but it’s inevitable I should sometimes be in the current climate since, you know, I don’t go through life like a mindless robot.

No apologies for that.

I’m definitely too old for the number of Brainy t-shirts I own, but: I identify – I can be as annoying as he is but I’m unrepentant about using my brain.

The Importance of Reading Books

Please go and like the original post, thank you.

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

Life doesn’t happen in chapters — at least, not regular ones. Nor do movies. Homer didn’t write in chapters. I can see what their purpose is in children’s books (“I’ll read to the end of the chapter, and then you must go to sleep”) but I’m blessed if I know what function they serve in books for adults. — Sir Terry Pratchet

I’m aware that this title appears to be advertising the bookshop of Berkshire’s leading commuter town, but it’s been drawn to my attention by no one that I’ve been so busy blogging about writing books that I’ve not looked at how to read the blasted things. Every reader knows how to buy  books – see a previous blog : https://lifeassistanceagency.com/2018/12/28/how-to-buy-books/ –  but reading them is an art form itself.  In a modern world of boxsets, bagels and Brexit it’s a wonder anyone is reading, yet the literary…

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Staring down the barrel – How To Start a New Novel

Please go and like the original post – thank you 🙂

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

“Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.” John Steinbeck

To be honest this should read how to start a new blog, as I’m sure I’ve started one like this before. Yes. All writers have been here before: the hinterland between the joy of completing a novel and the niggling sense that it’s time to start another. Life basically becomes a decision between buying a dog, or writing a new novel. Mind you a book doesn’t plead to be walked or fed, although it does rest its head on your lap and look up at you expectantly; wondering when you’re going to do something. I only ever had the ambition to write one book, I thought that would be enough, but it’s strangely addictive.

Unfinished Business was published last month as a continuation of the Life Assistance…

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Midnight Remorse ~ Remord de Minuit

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I get off my throne 

Take off my clothes

I keep my crown

My silver bangles

Get down on the floor

Crawl

A slow

Deliberate animal

I lick my lips, shake my hair

I can see your hands tremble 

Such are our desires

An urge, intense and primal

To play predator and prey 

At times you are my slave

Others I am yours 

We revel

In filth and shame 

Games of pleasure and pain

Now

You stand over me 

Still statue carved in stone

Silent with burning eyes

 

You are already mine – 

 

But my submission 

Its meaning 

My legendary pride 

Discarded

For you, thrown aside

A queen purposefully brought low 

 

makes you even more so

 

Placing the final piece in the puzzle

So complicated and yet so simple

The contract that binds 

Is the one left unsigned

Your hand on my throat 

My fingers in your mouth 

The sharp intake of breath

I expect 

When you’re on the edge

When I know you’re close

Tomorrow

And the days after

I will bleed into your thoughts

Seep in little by little 

Until

The need 

To taste me again 

Takes over 

Colours

With crimson red over monochrome 

Controls

You – body, mind and soul because

 

Mine is the name you can’t say

I am the secret you can’t share

What should have been sunset-lit

But instead

I am your midnight remorse

Je suis ton remord de minuit 

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Once

We escaped gloomy cages

Breathed new air outside the musty pages

Of the books we’d sheltered in

For so long

We were bewitching birds brought back for a single song

Dried butterflies,

Wings untied,

Briefly swelling with life

Drunk on sun & scented promises

The sweet sound of stolen kisses

For a little while, we were allowed

To fly once more – high, above the clouds

It didn’t last

It never does

Alas everything must die

Go back to ashes and dust

But,

I’ll always remember

How once we emerged

From the cocoon of past winters