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


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.

October 29, 2008

Home is Where the Heart is

Cold warmth is my favourite smell,

Rough, fierce tenderness

And it's forgiving me;

Holding naked bloody flowers

it arranged like a jigsaw

For me, through me,

On the table I once touched and knew.

I opened my heart and it told me,

You told me, at home I will always find

Flowers and faces, forgiveness

In my favourite rooms.

But I loosened my ties and I fled.

I have broken a perpetual sky,

Depth shattering the eyes of God.

Still standing, its hands now follow a luck-strewn pavement,

Bending amiable street lights into spiders' legs

That throw bright silk at the shadows, at the walls

My shadows, my walls, cupping my house.

And this smacks of life, so it said

If this is where you want to be,

Come outside.

But I can't when walls and windows

Are locked as my winter throat.

Though powerless, I smile and know,

No need to look inside to see

That this is where I want to be.

October 22, 2008

Ankle–High Haiku


October 19, 2008




Oh, goodness, sweet freshness,

Dragged in, thrown out,

Dragged in, thrown out,

SMASHing chattering teeth

Whilst I'm picking, picking, picking his scabs

With curious nails, splintered nails.

Don't you take them from me you invisible wretch, jealous wretch,

With your snakes and your slaves and your sorrow and your-

                                        Stop it! Stop it!

Eyes, ears, eyes, ears, ears, eyes,

Bloated with cotton wool

And flaking skin


Won't you wait a while, my ravished lungs are burning.


October 16, 2008

All Saints

Sometimes I watch him falling

When crippling hearts draw blank and dismiss, wavering,

Uncertainty an insult to insanity, coating his mind in beautiful dust.

And sometimes when they go up in flames, I find I am the only one

To crave, with envy, this humming scaffold of madness.

October 15, 2008



So I just realised I've actually posted 2 poems today and I haven't written a single thing otherwise! It all seems very unfriendly.

I spent a long time fussing over what to call my blog. I wanted something profound in the top corner; I'm hoping something amazing will come to me soon. I've also discovered that I find it a lot easier to write outside. I'll be doing that more often.

I saw a tree today and was immeasurably inspired to write my haiku.

I'm probably going to go to bed soon. I like this, it's like a stream of consciousness. But a little more disorientated!

More writing to come!

... Hopefully!

Ciao. xo

Woodland Children

A tangle of wooden childrens' limbs are in my way,

Please, forgive me if I spread you out on the forest floor,

If I flex my heels, splay my heart and strain my toes through your

Humble mistakes. When all I wanted was my pathway.

They suck my skin like glass, man-made but beautiful,

A paradox, their grasping fingers falling through my outstretched arms,

Blind fumbling for myself amidst their silent cries and helpless palms

But I cannot return to them when love is null.

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