Lucky Just To Know

26 April, 2007 at 09:08 (Uncategorized)

‘I want to get inside your head’,
Has to be the sexiest thing you’ve said in a while.
A few chords and a lingering, piercing look,
That lasts that tiny eternity of a single second.
And a babbling brook and a tiny escaping look,
The spell is broken,
Because reality entered when the door opened,
And I left a while ago,
You should have mended the hole in your pocket.

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25 April, 2007 at 18:41 (Uncategorized)

If I looked up from my distorted mirror,
It would be obvious to me that there was no knife,
Slicing through my belly,
But if I looked up, then I would see the immeadiacy of now.
I cannot live here when I prefer there and then,
When every action and inaction is redone,
Drawn out again according to melodramatic pen.
I wonder, if you think that I reflect, absorb and redo,
Or if you only realise these glasses are fairground mirrors,
Sewn across my eyelids,
Until I can tear from the centre of my chest,
Another piece of glass,
Sylvie – have you chosen yet? Because I refuse to choose,
I cannot look up yet,
Obsessed as I am with exactly how the knife would fit,
Were it to go here, or there, or then again,
Between my heart and soul,
Cutting out any chance I have of looking up and out across the path,
That leads across pleasant plains now,
Far away from the cliffs, that my telescopic lenses have so near.
I’m just silly right, nothing serious here.

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23 April, 2007 at 17:57 (Uncategorized)

Blood brothers linked to the soul,
All that split them was the gold,
They never sold their love, would never sell it,
But all she valued was it,
Blood-brothers linked to the soul,
All she valued was the gold;
So they said.
They don’t have the understanding she does,
All that linked them was the soul,
They don’t have the understanding she does.

Blood-brothers, nothing between them,
Blood brothers, she who split them,
Golden hair and golden love,
All a castle in the cloud was her talk,
Golden hair and golden love,
Her robe was split to above the knee,
All visible beneath was she,
Blood-brothers, for all their talk,
One declared his love all out,
Beneath the surface plotted he,
One keep his counsel as long as he could,
When pushed he surfaced with it.
Such different men,
The link was blood, the link was soul, the link was good.

All that split them was her gold,
Gold that poured from her hair, from her soul, from her silken voice,
She raised her pale arms up,
They had her, they marked her, they tore her,
All she loved was the gold that they paid her.
Never one to whore herself for money,
It was the gold of the tales, of the love, of the cream of men inside her.

Blood-brothers shouldn’t be split over only a woman,
But there are tensions in the gold,
There are wires that can crack and one cannot resist,
To pull at all the cracks and make them tear,
It is he will lose her,
He has no respect for her gold,
The castles in the air are hers,
The clouded gold is hers,
All that they left her she will take with pride,
Never one to sell herself, never one to accept a cheaper price,
The brothers are trapped in their ways of knowing,
I do not think that they can see,
All the reflections in her gold,
All they see are the globbets that they left, drying and cold now on her skin,
And they think that that is it.
They think that the castles in the air come down to that.
If they did, then it would be worse that they broke the bonds that they shed over.

She had shed a thousand times more than they,
She has bled six months or more for them,
But they simply see the strands that, for them, were gold for only seconds,
For her they are a lifetimes worth and more,
Six thousand miles gone.

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here

21 April, 2007 at 12:11 (Uncategorized)

What the hell am I still doing here?
Waiting for the mould to consume me, to subsume me, to fill every part of me,
What the hell amd I still doing here?
Didn’t I egt out? Or was it just a dream?
Did I really just stay forever in a tiny little village,
A place I never called home before,
Waiting in my room for nothing to happen because nothing ever did.
What the hell amd I still doing here?

I can see it you know, it’s resting over the hilltop,
it’s a shining light,
It’s coming and I am here and I’m not sitting here waiting,
Not for anyone,
Not waiting, not letting this mould in,
We’ve got to run you know, follow the hill to it;s natural conclusion,
I’m not still here, this is a pause,
We’re running, the light is there,
Just be careful not to lose it, even for a moment or it will forsake you,
A questing army without belief will never be allowed to come within an inch,
And the mould take you.
And the weed take you,
And the moss consume you,
But never me, never me, just another hill to climb, Got to get to where the light is coming from,
What are you waiting for?

Are you still here?

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The maze

21 April, 2007 at 11:21 (Uncategorized)

This isn’t a path I recognise, the swamp was that way and I avoided it,
So where am I now and what is it that these signs say?
Did I forget how to read along the way?
The cliffs over there so where am I now?
This labyrynth I’m in isn’t just me,
This maze is surely not of my making,
Was it waiting for me all this time,
This isn’t like the swamp I don’t know how to float through stone,
This isn’t like the cliff I can’t climb hand over hand,
This is made of obsidian.
The woods were easy compared to this,
Or is it that I can’t see past these carved trees…
I don’t know where I am, I can’t see the way out.
You’ve cast your lines now,
And I’m confused by these words,
These aren’t paths I recognise, these aren’t the ways I know.

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Not Forgotten

21 April, 2007 at 10:52 (Uncategorized)

I’ve been low since your birthday and thats almost a week ago.
I haven’t seen you since that awkward moment almost two years ago,
I came back and you were long gone.
Long gone, since before I left if I’m honest,
Gone from the Briary that scratched its words into your skin and mine,
The marks healed as they tend to do.
A million faults wrapped up into a single home.
A memory for your birthday and your favourite colour,
When I hear your name it’s as if you only began when you left,
Theres never mention of how it looked when you smiled.
Theres never mention of how it was when we laughed,
Its as if we never existed together, just a bottle of mistaken red wine,
A blip on the radar that left a tattoo or two,
You’re long gone and mostly forgotten it seems
Just not entirely by me, and all I knew of you is simply distilled,
Into your birthday and your favourite colour.

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21 April, 2007 at 10:33 (Uncategorized)

The elves are coming.

The elves are coming.

The whisper was so quiet now she might almost have missed it, had she not spent her whole life waiting to hear it.

The elves are coming.

It was very nearly too late but the whisper said that they were coming and she was still waiting for them.

The elves are coming.

She stumbled to the window to look at the sunrise, the boiling, churning golden light that was filling a world without elves for the last time.

The elves are coming.

Yet the voices on the wind were very faint, she almsot couldn’t hear them, or was it that she had strained so hard that they were shouting loudly and her own hearing was letting her down? She looked about her but no one around her seemed to hear. No one around her seemed to be reacting to the great joy and fear that the elves would bring… the elves were bringing… that she had always thought must accompany the elves.

The elves are coming.

Perhaps she had got it wrong, she had spent so long waiting, perhaps she had misremembered how they were supposed to come, spent most of her life in a fantasy of elven greetings that she had twisted up the words inside herself. She sat down heavily, they were coming and in amongst this boiling gold light she couldn’t think of what to do.

The elves are coming.

She could barely hear the words now. She turned her hearing aids up as far as they would go and sank back into the armchair, her breathing was heavy and she could barely hear the words on the wind. The windows of her council flat was as far open as they could be so that she wouldn’t miss the heralds. The sun pushed more of its light into the world without elves and she squinted to the west and away from the sun. That was the direction they were supposed to come from wasn’t it? She strained to remember her father telling her in rhymes how they would come. It was all so long ago. She had waited such a long time.

The elves are coming.

The voices were those of dried leaves and barely their autumns. The boiling light continued in it’s journey and she at last closed her eyes. Finally the heavy breathing did not overpower the almost silent voices on the wind.

The elves are coming.

The sun rose. She no longer moved with the churning light or heard the voices on the wind.

The elves are coming.

The elves are coming.

There is no one left to greet them.

The elves are coming.

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The Dead Rabbit Again

20 April, 2007 at 19:59 (Uncategorized)

There is a dead rabbit in the canal, it’s been there all week, perhaps a bit longer.
It’s just floating from one end of the town to the other, brushing up against the reeds,
Plastic bags hook over it’s fur, it’s shiny fur that had such promise, years ago,
Do you suppose the rabbit wondered, when it was young, if it would grow old?
If it’s fur would show grey when it had littered litters a thousand fold,
Or perhaps a dozen more, did it slip into the waters of the canal as it played,
Unknowing that it was just a little too close to the edge,
Maybe it was pushed? Or jostled by a rabbit who didn’t understand the dangers the waters posed,
Jostled accidentally until it slipped, fell, and the waters closed overhead,
Gone when its tired, tired paws stopped being able to swim.
Did it struggle? Or was it a blessed relief? No more worries, no more unkept promises,
Just release from this life that is too long, just an endless night that began in the waters,
It’s been there all week, it won’t let me alone, that rabbit that floats,
That is just fur and bone and no life you understand, the spark that brightens eyes is long gone,
But the way that it floats, just goes with the canal, the drey water that dies and dies all day,
Enfolds the rabbit in gentle liquid embrace, did it die in the town or out of it,
No question need be asked, it is the town that kills as it pulls you in,
It is the town that squeezes all life from you and the spark is gone,
The rabbit is gone.
It was there all week.

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Stay True

19 April, 2007 at 11:55 (Uncategorized)

There is no shame in loving, oh why could I not say that aloud,
There is no shame in loving,
The shame is only in silence to your self.
But you have spoken, there is honesty in your soul.
There is no shame in the flame, in the burning,
The passion is yours truly, and the honesty burns you pure,
There is no shame in the loving, only in the actions you take.
There is no evil in the loving, oh why could I not say that aloud,
Loving itself is a pure thing, loving itself cannot be corrupt,
Your choice is what keeps the flame burning,
Your choice is to keep the love pure,
There is no shame in the loving and never was,
Only by your actions can you make it so,
Only can you betray the love (far worse a treachery than to mere people),
Only your actions can debase the flame, cover it over with mud and trip through sullying pathways,
There is no shame in loving and never was.

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The Dead Rabbit

18 April, 2007 at 22:37 (Uncategorized)

There was a dead rabbit in tha canal today,
It slowly wended it’s way to us as we ate lunch.
Boats came and went, pushing past the wet fur of the rabbit that nobody noticed.
A woman at the front of her barge hooked plastic bags out of the water,
Made a wet plastic collection of them dripping over her prow.
The rabbit was pushed to the side.
It had died, perhaps, before the canal had reached the town,
Fallen into the sucking waters that pull inexorably back to Lancaster,
Been unable to climb out,
The high tribal banks at which rabbit paws scrabble ineffectually,
They extend even into the reeds and the grasses and the greenery outside the town.
Imagine falling into these pulling waters and staying there to drown.
Or perhaps the rabbit fell and was knocked by the barges,
Huge to a rabbit, that pass through,
Back and forth and forth and back and do not ever really stop,
But just keep chugging along the canal,
The dead rabbit a casualty of too much pushing, forth and back,
Restricting the paws it tried to use to swim,
As dangerous to the rabbit as the high banks.
The dead rabbit wended it’s way in accordance with the currents of the canal,
The canal which seems so still pushed the corpse along,
We ate out lunch and watched the rabbit out of sight,
Dead and touching us only because we’d happened to see it.

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