All entries for November 2008

November 26, 2008

Memory – Flash Fiction

There were balloons that day. There were orange balloons, red balloons, yellow balloons; floating like colourful rubber blimps above us all. It was my day. There were mounds of thickly iced, moist sponge cakes. The largest one caught my eye, speckled with candles like darts on a dart board, ‘Happy Birthday’ written in edible pinks and purples with a careful hand. There were beaming faces, broad smiles, blushing cheeks. Bright eyes. She arranged my presents to one side, the smell of home and familiarity blooming all around her as she discarded the wrapping paper and silently kept everything in order and in the right place. I never knew quite how she did it. He stood beside her, solemn but proud, and they watched me dashing about the place, giggling with friends whilst dodging waiters and waitresses who were hurriedly tending to impatient customers.

At once I remembered Peter, and sought him with my eyes only to find him sitting alone in a chair set next to the long brown table. At the tender age of seven, being the only boy at a party saturated with gleeful girls was so shameful it had brought blood to his cheeks. I mirrored him, colouring instantly at the realisation of my forgetful neglect and tiptoed awkwardly over to him in my shimmering green frock. He glanced up, saw me and smiled. It was a sheepish and cheeky smile, but a lonely one nonetheless. He was persistently tweaking the thumbs of each hand with the other, then pressing his fidgeting hands tightly together in his lap. His shirt was blue, his trousers black. I wondered if he had chosen to wear it, even picked it out in the shop, or if in fact his mother had dressed him for my birthday. The latter was the most likely. I blinked out of my reverie to the sight of him holding out a package. It was so close to my face that as I breathed the smells and textures of glossy paper and festivity filled up my little lungs. I wrinkled my nose and gently took it from him. He smiled again. This time it was much more genuine. I noted how two tiny dimples dipped into his cheeks when the corners of his mouth lifted, and I smiled back, curiously touching my own face but finding it dimple-free. He was watching me, and I realised I had to open the present. As I was burying my fingers into the paper, I absent-mindedly wondered how I should react if I didn’t like it. What if it was something I didn’t want? I would say I loved it, obviously. It was perfect. That was the only answer. The only thing I could do. That was it.

My fingers suddenly found soft fabric and the wrapping paper fell to the floor, scattered around my feet like fallen birds. I was left holding up a pair of beautiful cream tights. They were littered with gold blemishes, glittering in discreet and mesmerizing patterns up and down, up and down. Peter saw the reflection of gold in my eyes, and bit his lip. I thanked him. Instantly I turned and fled to her, and to him, clutching my precious new tights to my chest. Delight lit up my face. She told me how lovely they were, how beautiful they would look, and he told me I couldn’t accept such a pretty gift. As my parents pulled me to them and hugged me feverishly, I glanced back at Peter. His hands weren’t in his lap anymore. He had stood up, and was waving at me, shyly, with adoration. I flushed and turned back into their arms.

Weeks later, she told me I couldn’t wear them. “They are so pale,” she had said, “they’ll get filthy, save them for a special occasion.” How could an occasion be more special? I only attended friends’ parties and sporadic christenings. “They’ll get filthy.” Protectively I tucked them away in my drawer, and there they remained for months, for years. At times when I remembered, I searched for them in vain. They were gone, and I had never worn them. They were still perfect. “They’ll get filthy,” she said. As time passed I found I had not forgotten. Sometimes I wonder if he still remembers me.


November 09, 2008

Chernobyl's Fallout

Come to share your regrets with guilt in tact;

Follow fleeing feet through billowing dust

Return to the ghost town of Pripyat.


Broken dolls lay strewn between the dry cracks,

Thirsty plains of tumbleweed bleed, unjust,

Come to share your regrets with guilt in tact.


Wan, silver wolves illuminate the black,

Foraging for shards of her sweet, loose trust

Return to the ghost town of Pripyat.


Yet still we feel resentment biting back

From the town we loved and the fallout crushed;

Come to share your regrets with guilt in tact.


Children’s laughter huddles where bricks are slack

Skeleton trees shed poisoned leaves and rust,

Return to the ghost town of Pripyat.


No trivial chaos to rein act;

She wept as we ran from death, so we must

Come to share these regrets with guilt in tact

Return to my home town of Pripyat.


Tunnel Vision and a Loss of Innocence

Silently, he thirsts for this fall from grace

While innocence blossoms in his wide eyes

Just tell yourself kisses shock, fingers grate


And still in quiet minds I wonder why

Celibacy drips like milk from his hands,

From his fingers. Lips are clean lacking mine.


I mind his scent, covet his heart and

Quietly corrupt his beautiful eyes

With tales of longing in distant lands.


I tell him in verse, don’t play with fire

You’ll burn and spoil your softness, your skin

But to feel his mouth warm, stuttering, shy


Is delicious as nature’s breathless sin.

How I want to break this, such dangerous

Chastity calling, enticing me in.


The need for preservation shackles us,

Me, but it burns thickly smouldering black

In my throat, now growing tumultuous.


But nature took advantage of my lack

Of forwardness and want in infant days

She scaled his body, traced like a map


She was his ruin, I can’t count the ways

I’d scorn her and how she lined his body

With wicked puberty, manhood and pains


Growing, hair scattered like rusted money

As childhood crept out from his slack throat

With octaves purged, stalked and hunted


Like vermin, now he is all I want, show

Me thicker allure in another part

And I’ll bear their thorns, my veins tighten, oh.


Turn away as I lay siege to his heart.


November 02, 2008

Decadence

Forgot yourself amongst the lies,

With shaking hands and bloodshot eyes.

The desperation brought you here,

Into my house, and void of fear,

You took whatever you could find,

And stole away so cold and blind,

Into the dark forgiving night,

Skin punctured, damp and sickly white.

You took from me and sold to them,

To get a precious fix, and then,

With bitterness, I see delight,

And watch you gently lose the fight.

Your heart is crippled, your blood sings,

To tunes of what addiction brings,

And when exhaustion cannot free,

Your poisoned mind you’ll come to me,

To play your life out without lies,

With desperate, crazed and weeping eyes,

But seven years have passed, so how,

Can I expect to reach you now?

Back on that quiet night we lost,

Each other in that winter frost,

Nobody’s heart survives misuse,

Through cold and selfish drug abuse.


November 2008

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  • Aww, thank you. :) That's so lovely. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside now. Eeeeee. by on this entry
  • I absolutely love your poem but I have had a glass and a half of wine (one large, one small!) which … by Sue on this entry
  • standing ovation That was very, very, good. Remind me to steal you talent when next we meet. ;) by on this entry
  • i love the way you write! i really do – it's just so like .. i dunno .. free and descriptive! keep u… by Stephen Gates on this entry
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