Between Takes

22 June, 2007 at 18:35 (Uncategorized)

Sometimes chance is on our side,
Sometimes time is too,
Just occaisionally it all works for me and you.
A meeting down a sidestreet,
A casual glance and you are there,
It’s what makes this planned out streetmap,
Something I can bear.
There are no hidden orchestras,
No pathway to the stars,
This not the story of a hero meeting his heroine,
These are the parts they cut from the book,
These are the in betweens.
Chance meetings over juice,
Don’t even merit the subplot, of either book,
Afterwards the cut has it seem,
Even before breakfast, that we’ve always been
Strong enough and ready enough,
To go and chase a grail again.
So I’ll go and kill a dragon, in a little while,
You go and rescue the princess,
In just a little while,
For now lets take the in between and ride it to it’s end,
Then walk back to the scene,
Someone shout ‘action’ again?

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Failing

19 June, 2007 at 21:35 (Uncategorized)

Tenuous my definition,
Of how to keep a promise to my sister.
Tenuous my grip becomes,
Looser, looser, looser,
You have to admit it eventually,
That there is a point I’ve reached,
Which is almost,
Failing to keep a promise to my sister,
Only keeping it really,
On a technicality.
As for asking for help,
Whats the point?
It seems so useless when,
I’ve no idea what help to ask for.
Nothing got any better,
I just ran away.

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An Evening With Friends

18 June, 2007 at 09:34 (Uncategorized)

And nothing will end and nothing will end,
As the evening draws the curtains in,
Nothing to be said and saying nothing,
Simply to sit, simply to look,
Simply to read another book,
Look over a shoulder, eat perhaps,
And concentrate only on living.

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Third

17 June, 2007 at 13:54 (Uncategorized)

So easy to imagine that were you here,
You would, understand everything.
So easy to believe, that, if I were to remark to you,
As I remarked to them yesterday that you would understand,
You’d disagree, true,
Tell me that the remix wasn’t at all you.
But, you would, have known what I meant.
Too easy to inflate the nothing we had into something,
So long after the events.

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Posing

16 June, 2007 at 23:42 (Uncategorized)

I forget, do you need an audience?
Or is it just a particular male gaze that you are into?
Touch me then, be sure they see,
Never really thought you’d touch me for me.

And cruelty records so certainly,
When you read in reflection your own actions,
Touch me then, mirror my kisses,
Let our actions be each others.

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Ralie/ – Happily Ever After

15 June, 2007 at 10:38 (Uncategorized)

It remains a notion of mine that you can never really judge someone’s relationship from the outside. As soon as you are away from whatever love or passion drives a couple then you simply can’t know whatever it is tht keeps them together.

They had met, as many people do, when they were children. Eventually they had married since that was what people did. That was when all of their stories had come to an end, stories always do when the protagonists reach the happily-ever-after bit. They do this so that there can be new protagonists of course. Getting married is a way of writing a full stop at the end of your tale, a way of pulling across the red curtain with the big gold letters saying ‘The End’ across your life. I don’t, obviously, mean that marriage is like death at all, it’s simply a way of saying ‘yes, now I am a bit part in somebody elses life’, because, simply put, marriage is all about children. They had never had children. They lived together, after their marriage (never before because people didn’t in those days, or at least, they didn’t very often) in a small detached house in some pleasant suburbs. People cared about the fact it was detached and had a nice garden (‘So nice for the children’ they said in the early days of their marriage and then stopped) and lots of people cared about the lovely parquet floor in the kitchenette-diner, but then I have noticed that when people reach the ‘happily-ever-after’ stage and they are content to become bit parts they start caring about the strangest stuff and often talking about things like morgages as if they were at all imortant. It is a theory of mine that once all the passion for living and for whatever it is that drives your story is no longer useful then it needs to find a way out somewhere and so it oozes out over parquet floors and DIY barbeque pits.

As I said, they lived in a house that was nice for children until it became clear that there weren’t going to be any children. Then they continued to live in the nice small detached house because they didn’t really know what else to do. He had found a job before they got married in a newspaper office and by the time it became obvious that there weren’t going to be any children he managed the newspaper and cut other people’s stories into shreds to make them fit on the pages. He rather liked cutting out words and making them fall all over the newsroom’s floor. It reminded him of a time when all the words had been terribly, terribly important. When, if he had seen words cut into nothingness and discarded, bereft of meaning on a floor, he would have screamed in worry and panic for it would have meant the end of everything. Now though, there was no end of everything, this was just another job and these were only words, not important in and of themselves anymore and fit to be wasted and spilt all over the floor like bad coffee.
She grew flowers and made them into beautiful bouquets so that when other people decided to end their stories they could carry her flowers into church with them and be surrounded by her beautiful displays. She always thought of the flowers as if they were raw sunlight streaming golden life into these final flourishes to a life. It wasn’t long before people stopped asking her to give them bouquets and flowers for christenings and so she stopped doing them and only did weddings, and, eventually, funerals.
Funerals have always seemed to be immensely pointless, no one is moving in the coffin and so, really, whats the point? Cut them loose and then get on with the next thing. Perhaps you think I’m heartless? It might be so, I’ve never been entirely sure what happened to that particular organ after it was cut out and it was cut out such a long time ago. She held me down whilst he did it of course, but that was how it always was in the old days before they ended everything.

I’ve explained them, I guess I should really try and explain myself. I’m not sure that I can but then who can really give an accurate description of themselves? I didn’t need to get married, by that I mean that I have always been a bit-part. Some people are I think, born to be bit players in other people’s dramas. If this were a novel then I suspect I would be drawn in as the loyal friend, plain but kind, doomed never to have a romance. But then in novels a lack of romance is essentially a doom whereas in real life it’s something of a relief. I met them before they were them, when we were children, when we had a story and a meaning and would have had to have parquet flooring explained to us. Of course it was quite clear even from that first meeting that they would end their lives together, it was like being in a film with them with the end credits signalled from the first soaring strain of music.

I think names might be helpful if I’m to keep telling you about them. If I were you I’d call me Lilly (short for Elizabeth Olive, I don’t know what my mother was thinking either), him Robin and her Raven (her mother was worse than mine I think). We were very ordinary children and they became a very ordinary couple, of course our story is not ordinary in the slightest, except that sometimes I think that it must be and that it happens to every child, more or less, but of course this is not some sort of E. Nesbitt fairytale and we really have to start with the beginning of the end, which was their marriage. It was when their skins were crinkled and their eyes starting to fade that the next part happened. Sex was always something that they found difficult, you might think that that was why they didn’t manage to have children only it wasn’t that, sex was difficult but not impossible and sometimes, in the beginnning it was very passionate as they were very much in love (which i think helps). The thing though, about passion, when you have signed your life over to being bit-players, is that is disperses. I think it’s supposed to disperse quite naturally into being a supporting character, but of course when there are no main characters to support it disperses into morgages and parquet floors and golf and in Robin’s case into cutting up other people’s words. Theres only so turned on you can get over a parquet floor, and when sex has always been difficult and the passion is all in something else it just gets worse and worse. The last time they had sex was both the worst and the best since the first time. But the first time they had sex I was there and we were all in the clouds, so the last time was very different.

It happened in their bedroom in the nice, small, detached house. She sat there, on the bed facing the wide-open window (it opened onto the backgarden so no one could have seen them except me), naked to watch him disrobe. His pale skin glinting with borrowed life from the sunlight. She reached out hands that seemed suddenly to have nothing to do with her and ran them over the sunlight, wishing that she could touch only the light itself without having to meet his skin with her own. His hands cupped her breasts, held them, squeezed tightly and let them ago. The expected reaction occurred. His fingers traced a well worn path between her breasts, scraped the nails across her belly which was much fuller these days. Then he stopped the required distance from her thick pubic hedge as if it somehow barred the way in actuality as well as in sight. He looked up at her face at this point, but then he always did.

Quickly he took two paces and climbed onto the bed, pushing her back hurriedly and pulling her legs apart. Once, she had found this passionate. The sunlight played with the remains of his hair, his slight frame glowing with it and she raised her lips to the place where his throat met his shoulders and she tasted the sunlight and the beginnings of a pathway that she had once trodden in childhood. His fingers found there way between her legs where the slick trail of wetness made a slim path down between her cheeks, as always his fingers traced the path, teased over the place that made her tense, and as always he smiled as if to say ‘only joking’ before plunging two fingers mechanically inside her. When he deemed her wet enough it was then that he began to press his hardness against her.

He leant up on one arm above her, swaying his hips, his hardness rubbing against the soft fat of her belly then his free hand traced the curves she knew he loved down along one side of her, to take hold of himself and rub the head against her opening, against the tops of her thighs. She gasped, as they both knew she would, and as expected, widened her legs. He grinned, suddenly lupine. His hips moved carnivorously to plunge himself within her. They rocked each other to the expected vaginal and penile orgasms then lay there spent.

Suddenly, the scent of him, the feel of his warmth seeping within her made her aware that the sunlight had gone, no longer were they living on borrowed light but simply existing in the coil of their own making. The cloud that had taken the sun from their window was small, and passing quickly even as she realised these things. The scent of him made him real to her again and she discovered her arms about his neck and her teeth at his cheek. She pulled back and simply kissed him, enjoying his eyes on hers exactly as they had been years and years ago in another place, before sex had come to spoil all their innocent plays. She felt him softening within her and gloried in the feel of his skin touching hers as she had ceased to do a million light years ago during sex. It was then that she saw the ancient sunlit pathway closing behind him in that brief second that she had between the cloud moving across the sun and it coming fully out. She kissed him again, passionate and hungry, all the time looking beyond him and when he pulled himself up onto his hands and out of her she was off. It was two long strides across the room and she raced them before he had even sat up.

Naked she sprang from the bed and out of the window. This was the sunlit path, no more borrowed light for her and she exulted in the rawness of the air.

I saw everything. I saw Robin on the bed with his mouth open as for the first time in all our time together she took the path without either he or I to help her. Robin didn’t move quickly enough, by the time he was at the window the sun was out and Raven was gone. He turned his back on me of course and stood there with large tears, wet and salty creeping from his eyes and down his face. Her disappearance had come as something of a shock to both of us because we had assumed you see, for years and years, since a little while before they got married, that the sunlit path was closed to all of us. Now it seemed as if she had found that path, not through our childish games as we had first found it, but through something so adult as to be unmentionable in any real children’s book. It confused us and all he could do was sit on the empty bed that had been full, moment’s ago of what he mistakenly thought passion was, and cry big, wracking sobs that shook his whole body.

You can never know whats going on in a relationship unless you’re in it, and sometimes I think even when you’re in it you haven’t got any real clue as to whats going on until things are far beyond too late.

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Sunlight

13 June, 2007 at 15:11 (Uncategorized)

And she sat there, naked to watch him disrobe. His pale skin glinting with borrowed life from the sunlight. She reached out hands that seemed suddenly to have nothing to do with her and ran them overthe sunlight, wishing that she could touch only the light itself without having to meet his skin with her own. His hands cupped her breasts, held them, squeezed tightly and let them ago. The expected reaction occurred. His fingers traced a well worn path between her breasts, scraped the nails across her belly which was much fuller these days. Then he stopped the required distance from her thick pubic hedge as if it somehow barred the way in actuality as well as in sight. He looked up at her face at this point, but then he always did.

Quickly he took two paces and climbed onto the bed, pushing her back hurredly and pulling her legs apart. Once, she had found this passionate. The sunlight played with the remains of his hair, his slight frame glowing with it and she raised her lips to the place where his throat met his shoulders and she tasted the sunlight and the beginnings of a pathway that she had once trodden in childhood. His fingers found there way between her legs where the slick trail of wetness made a slim path down between her cheeks, as always his fingers traced the path, teased over the place that made her tense, and as always he smiled as if to say ‘only joking’ before plunging two fingers mechanically inside her. When he deemed her wet enough it was then that he began to press his hardness against her.

He leant up on one arm above her, swaying his hips, his hardness rubbing against the soft fat of her belly then his free hand traced the curves she knew he loved down along one side of her, to take hold of himself and rub the head against her opening, against the tops of her thighs. She gasped, as they both knew she would, and as expected, widened her legs. He grinned, suddenly lupine. His hips moved carnivorously to plunge himself within her. They rocked each other to the expected vaginal and penile orgasms then lay there spent.

Suddenly, the scent of him, the feel of his warmth seeping within her made her aware that the sunlight had gone, no longer were they living on borrowed light but simply existing in the coil of their own making. The scent of him made him real to her again and she discovered her arms about his neck and her teeth at his cheek. She pulled back and simply kissed him, enjoying his eyes on hers exactly as they had been years and years ago in another place, before sex had come to spoil all their innocent plays. She felt him softening within her and gloried in the feel of his skin touching hers as she had ceased to do a million light years ago during sex. It was then that she saw the ancient sunlit pathway closing behind him. She kissed him again, passionate and hungry, all the time looking beyond him and when he pulled himself up onto his hands and out of her she was off. Naked she sprang from the bed and out of the window. This was the sunlit path, no more borrowed light for her and she exulted in the rawness of the air.

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17 Syllables Long and Over In About Ten Minutes

11 June, 2007 at 17:24 (Uncategorized)

Satisfaction doesn’t cover it,
The perfection of a haiku,
A moment amongst longer poems,
Every syllable directed to an end,
That comes, considered and passionate,
Bringing with it the sort of smile,
Longer poems often miss.

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Reflection

11 June, 2007 at 10:04 (Uncategorized)

What exactly did I recognise,
That night I took your arm?
How exactly are souls formed?
Tell me it’s by my own actions,
Not the things that get done,
Around a life, within a life and to,
My soul is my own, I have to believe that,
My soul is my own, not made,
By someone else’s actions,
What exactly did I see in you,
That night I took your arm?
Was it simply the way survivors,
Take one look and say ‘You too huh?’
Nod and say ‘You too huh?’
Now, let me take your arm.

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For Archangel

11 June, 2007 at 09:46 (Uncategorized)

Watching as the black viscous thing surrounded it’s prey. Watching as it’s voice oozed gentle comforting words into the prey’s ears and the hallucinogens produced by it’s skin showed the prey some vision of perfection. Watching as the prey was finding harder and harder to match up whatever it saw with it’s hallucinogen baffled eyes with the sensations of being digested and devoured.

Watching through binoculars as the hideous nature of real-life natural history begins to scream, at first full-throated, right there on the beach. I’m sure that I should run to save the preybeast, but on the other hand doesn’t the law of natural selection apply? The scream is no longer as full-throated and it’s obvious, that even as the black, slimey tar-like beast pushes a viscous black tentacle down the poor prey’s throat, the prey is still high on the natural hallucinogens and envisions some surrounding of wonder. It’s thrashing now, it’s screams can’t be heard as it is surrounded, and finally, digested hole by the black creature reminiscent of some amorphous slug.

Now, though, I sit up, my brief pangs of morality forgotten entirely as the more interesting part of the cycle begins. If I had called out my presence after the slug-thing got to the prey I would not have been heard over it’s soporiphic voice. Besides, the prey knew I was there before it got caught in the slug’s embrace if it had wanted my help it would have tried to get it.

Laying there on the beach, the slug-thing awaits the approach of her young, she is sated, fat and bloated and unable to move. The young, two of them, have been raised carefully by her for the last two years, now they are ready for their first meal. They pounce upon her living flesh, exactly as she has taught them, they rend her with their teeth, rip her apart with her jaws and feed upon her black blood and partially digested prey. They do so with an eagerness that borders on obscene, she has taught them well, a fact which she must surely realise as she lays screaming, on the beach.

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