Skinny's thread

hi there
i love this poem
its full of sudden reminders about reality
yours maybe...
mine even....

who would have imagined a world full
of these demons...
thank you for posting
love n peace from saff

 

Happy little sister skipping,
clutching coins,
squirreling them away with acorns
and shiny paper. Baby Lucy guards it
day and night.

She had a magazine
for little French girls
She siphoned eau de Cologne
into Lucy’s bottle. Dabs the teat behind her ears
at playtime.

She pulls her hair up
socks down
shouts au revoir at home-time
like Chantal. The cover-girl is
an unwitting idol.

Happy little sister skipping
clutching Lucy
missing parents reluctantly
here in France. The hostel
is crappy.

She had an early night
with the others.
She awoke stifled by eau de Cologne
round her, and the pinning hand of the man who thinks
it’s playtime.

He’s been drinking
all day
and lined his stomach with pills to cure
the illness. The cover-girl is
his unwitting victim.

 

It was me.
I breathed lightly on your arm.
Snickered as you embraced the blanket
up under your chin, shuddering at the touch of my hair.

It was me.
I rubbed my hands all over your skin.
I warmed you until your forehead trickled
sweat into your eyes, and into your half open mouth.

It was me.
I bounced on your bedsprings.
Giggled as I filled your blankets with lice
that made you bounce too, and toss and turn.

It was me.
I forced the breath fast into your lungs.
Conjured the images that raced
behind your lids, causing whimpers to escape.

It was me.
I made your eyes flick open.
Your back cracked bolt upright
as you stared at me, playing at the end of the bed.

It was me.
I made you lift up your nightgown.
Inhaled you as you pushed at my ethereal form
trying again to escape. But I'm dead.

It was me.
You see me every night since you screamed.
Every night since you whimpered your sad little story
in the courtroom, to the press, in my head.

It was me.
I'll never let you forget that.
When I was scraping the tiles in the cell,
you only dreamt me. Then they stabbed me and I became.

 

Every time
the crack by the keyhole
lets in a draught,
I watch to see if I made you remember.

And when you turn even the new mattress,
I want you to know that it's me:
I sow the scent that lingers still.
The scent of my passing.
The smell of brutality.
And I cast the shadow on every sheet
you lay there.

I fling my cloud of memories
from my favourite spot
here on the ceiling beam,
over the bed that you're fluffing up now.
I always hear you curse the feathers
that remain hard and unyielding,
even when freshly plucked.

And at night I listen out for
the troubled breathing from the bed below,
the consternation in their snoring.
They never met me.
You never tell them.
But I make them remember me in their dreams.

 

My withered flanks
never tire
of the onward urging
of the flat side of a sword.

My buckled back
never arches
against the flimsy burden
Of the spectre of Destiny.

My dilapidated limbs
never ache
from their ceaseless gallop
across the plains of eternity.

 

ok... I could see my breath as i read Your Personal Malcontented Spirit my breathing quickened, and then stopped toward the end... cracklin' good sensuously chilling...

More please...

 

Thanks Stargatekeeper...and someone rated my thread...yay!!!

 

So much green
smells
enchanting.
Moss catches
under nails and sets up camp.
Plucking roots of wild grasses
for something to do.
Hot heaven
stretches overhead
interminably.

Baking asphalt
melting into car tyres
behind us now.
Gravel snuggling between toes
kicked out in anger.

It's far too hot.
Old burns begin to rebubble
but we're determined to enjoy this.

Reluctantly we cling to the edge of shade.
Our skin dapples scarlet,
Noses shrink, shoulders ache.
Cover this soft patch in blanket.
Itchy. Lumpy. Too hot.

Laughter.
Aluminium tins hiss.
More laughter, tomfoolery.
A man
juggling badly
entertainment for all.
Ballgames forbidden here.
No swimming.

***

Grit and hours squinting are
taking their toll now.
Creeping headache approaches unnoticed.

Longing to flee
into cold, indoor comfort,
and freedom in isolation.

Boredom is better
than this.

 

hi there
i really love this piece
it holds such a picture of movements.
human feelings and the thoughts we hold.
{do you see yourself as you read this piece.}
love n peace from saff

 

I can see ur well liked here (for obvious reasons) I like ur style and expression in writing, I think most of it is only on the surface though, I think u can go deeper within urself and explore more within ur very mind to bring pieces to life that u have yet to dream about, keep at it I know ur excelling and keep it that way. I like the descriptions of items, events, feelings, and people, including urself and ur thoughts, keep this up. Ur very creative, I think u should experiment with new styles to spread ur genre of writing. peace

 

These are my experiments....I have been deep within me, and go there on my own choosing. These are all me, at points in time, some fleeting, others still raw. I am constrained by styles only because it is in my nature to be restrained. It is in my nature to observe, and those are here. You'll get no more from me if it's not there to give, and more so if I choose not to give it.

 

Thank you Saff, for reading and the feedback. I originally wrote this as though I were a spirit, haunting the place of their demise (it's called Caroline's haunting - I imagined what Caroline Dickinson's poor soul goes through while her parents await justice this week), but ultimately, my own perception and desires filtered through, and yes I see myself in this, not so much as I am now, but as I have been many times in the past, observing, trying to present my will, but silently, and being a shade in the perception of others.

 

You Rock Skinny, I'm glad for all u share... I think if you look too deep into a person, you run the risk of looking right through them...

Keep up the good work...

Rock on!

 

I agree StarGateKeeper. A little mystery means a lifetime of learning. To bare everything is to leave nothing for you, or those who would love you.

 

I crept downstairs one night in December.
I was cold
or couldn't sleep
or wanted milk -
I don't remember now.
But that night was the first night I glimpsed
my best friend and confidante,
who sits here now,
miserable and balding
staring with his one remaining button
out of the window.

I was elated at breakfast,
one morning in December
when he came into my custody.
We were, I determined, to be great friends.

The night before
I'd watched my father fighting with a bear
and brown paper.

Framed long and thin by the wall and hinges,
I saw my father pin paper and bear
to the floor with his big, man's knee.
I saw my father's fingers trapped in the scissor handles
and the grimace of his face trapping tape
between clenched teeth.

The bear fought back
He puffed up, so grizzly.
Cotton claws pushing outwards
fur elbows, black nose, more defiant than I have ever known him.

The little bear struggled long and hard to evade capture
but was silenced, ultimately, by the stronger will.
Father's knee came crashing down,
flattening bear's snub face,
and the paper shroud encircled the still body.
Tape fixed it in place as an execution mask.

I was elated at breakfast
that morning in December
when he came into my custody.
We were, I determined, to be great friends.

 

I dream often
of your lips
on mine.
My sleeping heart beats wild
like the hooves of mustang herds.
I wake breathless, but comfortably yearning.

Awake, I dream often
of your lips
on my temple.
Lazy Sundays spent enthroned
in a feathered palace paradise.
Conversationless, but comfortably yawning.

 

Scribbles by flourescent light,
small comfort,
set against temper tantrums and muddy dogs.
Open planned space and artificial breezes
ruffling pleasantries. Distraction
from daylight and moonlight and traffic lights.
Stifling nylon underlay and static stunting,
causing persistent growling, shrinking, slippage.
What a bad day at the office
means in terms of boredom secondhand
is a learning curve steeped in burning ears and buried dignity.

Sigh a little alongside, and watch small comforts flicker.

I scratch furniture, pluck upholstery. Hide
amongst the tomato plants, with blushing limbs and tatty nails.
Taken over my own growbag. Tossed out the peas
and huddled in the dark awhile
damp and grinning. Now just waiting for the sky's invitation
and up and away to be small comfort for someone new.

 

You smiled and leaned into
a sweetpea curtsy. So low, your subtle form
fluttered round my knees and ankles
in a delicately scented homage.

I swayed in the breeze you blew;
danced with dead leaves. In that concrete arena,
I gathered lichen in lines on your back
and you pebble wells in your kneecaps.

You glowed in the brief illumination
of passing headlights. I bit my tongue
and barely respired, as you continued, diligently,
avoiding the gaze of the audience sky.

You smiled and stood,
sunflower tall. Beaming in dusklight
and glistening. I wiped your chin
and you thanked the willow for her accommodation.

 

Passing glimpse:
no time for editing,
for filters to whirr.
Should never
have opened Pandora’s box
on a whim
looking for something to do.
Adrenaline shot shatters
every time.
Rips through here and now
and suspends belief indefinitely.

Now I have too much to think.
Absorbed in this slideshow of morbidity
I scour enlarged versions
for something familiar.
I don’t like the smoking carcass
Battered, humiliated.
The trail of dragged dust and mortality
out of view in seconds.

Meanwhile
tearaway informants distract.
Time ticks away with the ticker tape.
27 minutes ago, 2 minutes ago
that shot of adrenaline.
News!

And now we’re clear.

 

Hm... I dream often... MMMMmmmmmm....