Black attack

image from babyandblog.com

“ What does black attack mean?” Josiah asked his mum one day as they strolled amidst the organized orchids in the park. The sun was low and full in the sky, too arrogant for summer, yet too polite for spring. “ It’s a word you should never use as a black person. Along with, “ she paused, then took a sip of oxygen. “ when I was younger my parents said everybody looked like animals in some way,” Josiah laughed at that, his mum was known for her quirky sense of humor. “ Then one day I told a black girl she looked like a monkey,” Josiah was silent for a while. Was that good or bad? Her tone was heavy. “ That is how I got this scar.” Josiah shook his head he knew his mother was quite animated so the teachers at school described her, each parent evening had them casting a look of dread upon his docile expression. The look meant your not as innocent as you seem, look what your mothers like. She tugged the blue chemise cardigan she had on, and dragged on a tan cashmere skirt. “ What’s that got to do with black attack?”

“Your usually talking about Pokemon”

He shrugged. “ Royal Lukeson stabbed a boy in the neck cuz ‘e called him black attack and African Monkey, “ he shook his head slowly, “ those African’s can brawl man.”

“ During slavery, black people were seen as less than. Black attack is actually a term meaning there is too much of you,” with that Josiah was tilted to face his mum, she had long aqualine features, and sultry grey eyes, her skin was so dark it was almost purple, and when she smiled at people they said it was like the sun had come out. There was no laughter now, an expression as severe as gravel was buried eyes that were usually bewitching with merriment. “ Masters raped dark skinned women, and had them working the fields, light skinned women were to work in the house,” her eyes narrowed as her words took on the lecturers grace she was known for. “ If you ever use words like that you will never dine at my breakfast table, do you understand?” he nodded appropriately. Her tone was soft but as Sharp as a knife. “ When we say these things we dishonor the people who died so we could sit here, in this sun, whilst they were denied their Freedom. They were treated less than pigs.” She stretched out her hand. Josiah knew this game well. He stretched his out as well,

“ How beautiful is black skin?”

“we are the extravagance of god’s creativity,

We are the genius of his architecture,”

“how beautiful is dark skin?” She repeated

“ God made no mistakes when he made us.” She smiled at that. “People have died so you can look at a mirror and smile as a freeman and say….”

“I am gods happiness” 

At that she grinned at her teenage son, almost a head taller than her, wrapped him in a bare hug and winked. “ To that we say….”

“Watch out world the dark ones are coming.”

Word Up: Profound Spoken Word

The narrative stretch (Short piece)

I love the way he says my name, it rolls off his tongue like a soft wet kiss, I am his ocean, as we dance divine, all the answers to the questions I seek unravel, he is my cocktail, I am his hourglass, and in the midst of this chaos we are nothing more than naked people. No more two left feet, where the whole world is a compass. How do you like your scrambled eggs, I say in my head? How do you like your pancakes? What's your favorite movie, the one where if you really need to use the toilet, you'd pinch your hips just that much longer, bite your lips that much tighter, for one more scene, then you sigh, and everything peels like an orange, relax ed in the chorus of all your emotional messes. I read the psalms a few times, I'd say to him, I have naughty eyes, but I'm a good girl I promise. At that he'd tell me about something unfinished of which he's practicing on. I hate things unfinished, loose threads, yet somehow I yearn to fix everything broken and in between. Maybe it's the choirs curse of the books you read, and the films you see, or when your tomboyish and shovel your hands so deep in your pocket ready for an ant march. You just have to look at him once. His eyes, maltesers, and then he smiles and says in that organised voice, that does something to your jelly body, " how can I help you to day? Can I help you with anything else." then the brain freezes, eyes search desperately for the exit, and in side your relieved. Because your walking out, and hopefully it's something outsiders can't even see.  Such as the Shadow that has already left you, or the pocket full of useful words, you'll pat politely, because comment t'apetu? These feelings are not for the English verb. They are for people who walk on mental tip toe. For it is a secret, as nervous people own them.

Turn Up: Something to turn up to

Let your Earphones Explode!!!!! Raw culture. Olamide Turn Up

Cultural Creativity: Celebrating Afro Beat

Let's not play hide and seek with our Cultural identities, in the words of Shakespeare if music be the food of love play on.

Erykah Badu bad as she wants to be

I love this track. One for the ladies!!

Awesome poetry

                                                                                   This is Talent!!!! Ted xeter shows us how its done.

The Forever Child

The Open door
Of thoughts we've seen
but once before
We search for our future
Quest for ourself
In this time
There is nothing left
But the trident thoughts
which betray our minds
the sleepless shadow
wandering blind
Reflections which
our eyes see with contempt
As we hearken painfully descent
I was Horizon once before
Again i will
I'll stake my claim
For on this land
I write my name
Glory rests here
It is the promise
of the Forever child.

A caramel Kiss

It was the cockpit, she called it. The emotional dreggs of falling head over heels, over feet over Skirt, over shoes, in love with a feeling she couldn't even contemplate. She was the Horizon and his smile was her Sky. Elias pulled a string of Chestnut hair laced with it's beading behind Elfish ears, she pursed her lips like a Blowfish, waiting to engage in the Kiss that shadowed her through the day. " How was work?"
" The usual, me and everybody else's agenda,"
" Spill." She dragged a wooden seat beside her Husbands Giant frame. It was three in the afternoon, the room was caked in the scent of Cinnamon Pancakes, the Oven was at low temperature and a glass of Chateau Monet stood like a Mannequin at the counter top. " I have a new division manager, who knows nothing...." he paused and smiled coyly, " but she touches my hand a lot."
" Like this?" His wife ran slender fingers along her Husbands Wooly arm. His Cafe au Lait Skin, and Grey eyes had captivated her that day at Eva's diner. He'd changed his hair since then, it was long now, and his lashes fell like a  broom, brushing at high cheekbones. He was a work of art, and she stared often. " Tell me how evil this woman is?"
"How did you know it's a woman?"  He quirked an arched brow, a seductive smile creeping across his dimpled mouth. " I think she's trying to make me fat." He cooed, " These pancakes as i manage the books, running a self publishing company is extremely hard work, and then, " he paused for effect. " she walks around with these stockings on."
" Stockings?"
He released a broad grin, " and every time she kneels to put these pancakes in the oven,"  he fixed the napkin to his collar rolled up his Shirt sleeves and picked up the fork and knife, " it's like she's trying to punish me," his wife cackled loudly.
" If i am to be punished, i might as well be a naughty boy," he dragged her to him, covering her in seductive kisses. Each touch sent tingles of electricity coursing through her Veins, sweat glued them, they were as a stitch. " I'd like ice cream with those." She stood to attention.
" With caramel untop."

Youre Not my Mother

My mother is beautiful
warm and kind
blessed in Spirit
Righteous in mind
A gem in the eye
She sparkles
For us,
and the none of us
that are those
Who try to take her place
Understand
you dont have her face
have her smile and have her touch
My mother
is far too much
A royal one
the world must see
That's why
you have
So much
Envy
This is my mother
Her home is her sight
An  immitator
has no right.

The Shelfman

He was a shelfman. Life was in neat boxes and tidy rows, everything was organised and well kept. Everything had to be, because she was here in his home, amongst all his things, amongst a smile and paperwork that was usually unfinished. He'd done the dishes this morning, first thing, 50 clock. It was before she woke up, and he'd even baked the lemon sponge cake she enjoyed so much. Though her face was round once more, he ached for the simplicity that came with being their team. There was an ease which came with Joyce, a flow, routine even, that didn't happen with the other women he dated. Though not as striking, she was beautiful to him, and warm like a mug of hot soup, she warmed his insides out. She made him not afraid to Love again. " Happy 64th Harry,"
"and a merry one it'll be ," he toasted with the glass of cider. His Irish stronger on the it'll. He smiled a broad smile, and waited for her to lean in and give him the kiss required.Glory Temple had been his High School Crush, he'd wait by the Bike sheds watch as she dropped books and pens, she was a clumsy one. In that blue uniform, with the pink knee high socks and the pig tails she was a sight for Sore eyes, and she was always a sight for him. He'd run fingers through thick curly hair, pose as she took air strides towards the black Gates of St Mary's.  His first conversation had been a "you've dropped your pencil by the way," at that she nodded stubbornly, fixing the broad glasses on her nostrils. She would only reply polite thank you's and walk by with royal finnese. She was his Glory he'd decided, as soon as he turned fifteen and was at the Bike Sheds again. He was a shelfman, his father had been a Shelfman, his father before him had been a Shelfman, no one outside their family knew what a Shelfman was. His father had told him, we are the Gatekeepers of every generation, we covet our women, and treat them with respect always, we are the tidy men. Everything is neatly organised, we bring structure to every conversation. Glory had mused at him when after much anticipation, a jitterbug he was, he stood before the gates of St  Mary's a rose in hand.
"Your friend Mary told me you like Yellow Roses, " she smiled sweetly. He liked that she didn't coo.
" Thankyou," she spoke, " There's a Cafe they serve really nice pie and Mash," he made a hell of an impression. Yellow roses and then Pie and Mash. The two seemed to contradict, the flowers made her think of chocolates, violin's and harps, whilst pie and Mash made her think of a Chef's gut. The flowers were taken, sniffed as though they had a poison attached to them. Then Harry stood frozen as a kiss was planted on his soft cheek. It had been 46 years of on and off, and on again since that blessed day. Since a kiss led him to think of words such as this. When she'd probed him about the concept of Marriage, he'd said with ease, " i'll just be putting some shelves up." underneath is where the ring was found.

The Island

Imagination is the tide
We strike the balance
Between whats within
Carve the chaos from our sins
and weave the soft threads
of what once was
We are the condemned ones
hungry for the
love
of a womb that bleeds
segregated from ink and paper
 Chapter verse
We are the lines.
If you look for me
you will find me
between the gaps of salty tears
within the knots of crows feet
behind the scabs of a Tramps dusty disguise
or a brat that harrangues her mother
I am an Ocean of stories,
and the questions with the answers we
cannot find

The Maybe's amongst Love

image by nemesis

Her promise to him, was to love him. She would covet all his hungry needs, be loyal beyond belief, for she loved him, and her brown eyes told a story. Jacob stared at the loose threads of his Shoe laces, wondering what would happen if say one day, he told her the truth, that these beautiful shoes, didn't belong to normal feet. That this loving man, wasn't human. He stared out at the Vast Ocean view, the Fish that dipped, and backflipped into a sea of  Green. It was the water that made them so free to live, so free to breathe, so free to love the way they did. Angela Ross stood on the banks the golden sea shore that danced between her toes, and the sun the Orange sun that baked their skin like two hot potatoes. "  I am very different to you," he spoke it quietly, as though it were Oxygen.
" We have different personalities,"
" It's more than that," he stooped low, his hand raking through the water. He gazed at his reflection, his maker had made him, a model man. The kiss of perfection. A twist of beauty, elegant features, crystal blue eyes,  a strong nose, and a thick masculine jaw. He was an Anchor of men, and she was supposed to be his passport to humanity. " How could you love a man such as this," he began " i yearn for a story, yearn for your kiss, through the tenderness of your eyes, is the love that i supplied, Peep through the window, a soul it delays what once was mistreated." he glanced back at her. She was stiff with alarm. He knew her words, the words buried deep inside a womb of herself. He knew the longing, he understood the calculation that equated to her. " I'm not a human being,i'm different somehow,"
'What do you mean?"
" I was made. I was put together." He stalled waiting for condemnation in her eyes. He predicted shock. It's not everyday you tell someone you're not human.She remained statuesque, frozen in time. It was a moment for a polaroid, a look he would never forget, a watercolour palet of shock and horror rolled into one. She remained unmoving like the dead. She stood transfixed, maybe time had transported her to a self she didn't recognise, to a man she had once called he own. It was crazy to think that once upon a time, she was a normal woman, with a normal appartment, looking for a normal partner. What was normal in the scheme of things? She cushioned her seat as she positioned herself beside him, on the shore where they'd once s a batch of Gulls eggs.  "Everybody feels plastic sometimes,"
" it's not a feeling. It's what i am." He rolled up his sleeves, and a stretch of jean, it revealed a layer of thick white plastic.  Her brown eyes were as large as orbs, wide enough to eclipse the Ocean. She ran a soft hand along the thick plastic, " i'm sorry," she spoke softly. " this won't be the ending you want."

The Age of Aristocracy

image by chris weeks

"You're an evil woman," i piped. " I hate you, and i'll hate you for the rest of my life." I shot daggers at my mother as she stood opposite me in the La Costa De Ca, shopping mall. Why did everything have to be all about her, she was so self involved. " I'm just trying to look younger,"
" Younger whose looking? i hate these clothes on you. A mini skirt who wears that at age 53?"
" I can't afford plastic surgery so i do the best with what i have." Mum joked. I threw my hands up in exclamation mark frustration. My mother looked like a Movie star, A gentleman caller once told her she looked like a young Diana Ross. My mother beamed at that, ignoring the insecure daughter beside her. I have always been compared to my Mother, i look like her, but not quite. " He's not coming for you you know, he comes for me?" I wanted to make sure she understood. I quirked a newly plucked brow, hands on hips sternly. I was talking about my Ex  boyfriend Carson Leeds. We were 'divorced' he called it, mum was predator. From flicking of hair bangs, to champagne giggles, and the stench of abused parfume, i couldn't bare to witness mum's over eager attempts at flirtation. Grow old gracefully, geeze, i'd mutter to myself. Last week Carson had arrived in that red biker Jacket, that hugged everything which bulged, he looked butch and masculine, as confident as i'd seen him, women's stares were dripping of him, as he made his way to our front door. I watched him walk, as i'd often done. Feeling those hunger pangs, and the flutter of a butterfly stomach. Carson walks like he owns the street Mum used to say, he looks like an Adonis, and thinks like an Einstein. "Too much for you, but tender for me, just kidding baby, just kidding," she'd winked and laughed. Yet i'd seen it there. The blades in her eyes, razor sharp, competition, and the need to suddenly be everywhere we were in a house that was like a hut. " I agreed to come with you, today because you said you just wanted wrinkle cream," i paused, suffocated with annoyance. " It's never just with you is it? You always want to push it, that much further." Mother had indeed. Here we were on Tuesday afternoon Positioned near the Bikini stand, directly opposite the Security card with the tight buns and the dimples. I should be revising for my GCSE'S, readying my Uniform for Cadets, instead here i was, me and mum's giant Ego.
"I have my eye on the yellow bikini,"
" you have your eye on something that's mine." I stood defiantly, superglued to mum's suddenly nervous stare.  " You are obsessed my friends don't see you like that,"
" More self esteem issues," my mum waved a hand of dismissal. I grabbed it sternly
"You don't plan to parade yourself in front of Carson in these WINTER BIKINI'S do you?"
Mum gave me one of those mischievous grins, "this really isn't the season for insecurity."
" I'm not insecure, you just need to grow old gracefully." It was said with stubborn finality. It was winter, i navigated my way towards the Cardigan stands. "Cashmere, your favourite," Mum took slow steps as though she were an animal being dragged to a Cage. "What does la costa de ca mean anyway?"
Mum laughed at that " I don't think even the owner knows." Although i knew mum liked to think everybody else knew nothing, and by six O'clock when Carson arrived somehow the yellow Bikini would have happened into her bag, and she'd stumbled into our bedroom in Catwalk high heels.

Red Eye

image by aurorawienhold (deviantart)


Red Eye
to the wind
You thrill me
My polka dot princess
All your spots
and all your prizes
Many a time
they mystify me
All your words
and those free thoughts
A soul like
this cannot be bought
For we are one's with polish
Token
to a jedi king
Fighting what rots
within the garment
Of our tattered flesh
Lend me your eardrum
Pipe in my ear
Whisper the song
i'd like to hear
For the chill
of winter's wonder
soon may come
and here i sit
still holding on
You are the blue of this
Red eye
Jedi
where's my kiss
For we are different
to all our stars
Planets like us
know what we are

Kamal Saleh: Rock on (Amazing poetry)

Check out Kamal Saleh he is a phenomenal poet, an inspiration, and his words speak the truth. He is Epic.

The liar's Den

image by kegriz

It was true of this, true of him, the lies he told lefty me riddled in confusion. Every syllable left me questioning myself, asking deeply what was it about us that made him tell so many lies. Each breakfast date, each luncheon, a new story was spilled. I'd clink to my coffee mug, unsatisfied with a new pitch about a life that never existed. " I went to Barcelona last week," i nodded aptly, already bored.
" How was it?" I supplied.
" It was incredible, i saw the," then he went into a steely monologue about all the beautiful things he saw, i felt myself clutching the green in my stomache. Maybe i was Sea weed, maybe i needed to believe he was such a liar because i needed to believe these things weren't real. This him, that Patrick was, the exhibit of an explorer. It made me feel like an ink stain on an A3 sheet of paper. My family are extraodinary people, but we've never ventured beyond our local Cornershop. My mother has a fear of all things new, and all things cultural. I stirred my Coffee with the plastic spoon, i took a bite of the sugar donut, because i was so fucking angry at him, and life being so damn unfair. " What else did you get up to this Summer?" I offered whilst glancing at the couple knotted together like a Cane row on the opposite bench.  " My family are going to Van couver next week, wanna come?"  I scanned his pinched features. From the shiny bob of chestnut hair, green eyes, and pursed lips, to the cafe au lait skin, that once upon a time, i had yearned for. Patrick did that to you, and then you were a black hole as if the feelings you had, had never been there. I anchored myself regularly, justifying that he was too beautiful to part with. That girls like Kia Moore don't get guys like Patrick Cansey, a man who looked like he'd literally jumped off the pages of a glossy magazine. In comparison to him, i compare my self often, i was slightly rounder, my ex boyfriend told me i didn't have an especially beautiful face, i had handsome features, but tits that made him sing like the choir.
"It depends on the dates your going, what will we do there?"
" Fishing, Swimming, diving, ever been jet skiing?"
" No not so much, but it's something i'd like to try." I lied. I didn't want to try any of it, i was tired of feeling grateful around Patrick. Someday's i wondered where the Venom came from, maybe they were my insecurities. People say i have beautiful eyes, but their hardened like grey marble, my features are bold and pronounced. A strong Aqualine nose, high cheekbones, a voluptuos mouth, and skin the colour of warm chocolate, well it was said in a chat up line.
"Patrick.It's over." The fork froze in his Salad, his mouth was half open, he had a look in his eyes like a deer pleading not to be shot by a hunter. I straddled between an Apology, an excuse, a handkerchief, or to simply start sobbing. I would remember what i did for the rest of my life, as if i had replaced myself with someone else. He cleared his throat, wiped some dressing from his mouth with a tissue, and took a swallow of the Champagne glass beside him. I simply picked up my purse, scraped the chair back, and readied an exit.
" I'm sorry," i said, " i don't have the feelings i should have."  He nodded, as though he wanted to say more but pride wouldn't allow it. " I'll miss you, take care." He returned to his Salad. I was an icicle, where was the weeping, the mourning, the sick tears of loss, the on his knees pleading with me not to leave, hands wrapped round my steely fist, the secret engagement ring, the song he would recite. There it was, in a nutshell, and i knew it. He was done, long before i was, in Patrick form he was waiting for me to do the hard work. I took another sip of Coffee, knowing i had always been paranoid about these things, always felt the scales didn't balance in some way. I bit my lip till it bled. Stood up, and took bold steps toward the exit. I glanced back at him, his frame temporarily melting in the distance. For a giant he looked slightly smaller, had this been what was lurking inside all along? Did i want to see him crumpled, broken, torn to shreds, something like anger arose in me, he was too cool. Patrick had always been as cool as a cucumber, it scared me at times, made me a spec of dust in the middle of the floorboard.  A year later Patrick was married, and as i flicked the pages of new business Magazine, there he was, in the man to Watch section. Chastity Kane's article predicted he'd be a millionaire in the next two years, and Aztec zoo his electronics brand would make it's first million by 2016. I had been the only liar in our relationship.

The crush

image by bloody pencil

This was how i saw us. It was you i said to myself. I blamed him for all the hungry kisses and the sighs i experienced in the Sixthform Cafeteria. I'd shadow him, lurking in a river of my own quiet anticipation. I was hopeless, i was gone, and he was just living his life. In my head we'd had a million different conversations, i'd say i'm a Libra, i know your a capricorn, i can teach you things about my starsign you never would have thought. He'd say in return, the lonely boy in the corner. Something,something, along the lines of how his last two girlfriends traumatised him, and then there was me. I study him regularly, the smoothe sophistication of his height, the lashes that cover soft brown eyes, and a crown of chestnut hair like a halo around his head. He reminded me of a cherub. That innocence that was afforded to him. Today he stood outside the bins in the open doorway, his fingertips framed by a sillhouette Ciggarette.  " I'm handing out flyers," i said nervously shuffling from one foot to the other. " It's a poetry thing, i'm reading and i'll be performing."
" Cool," he took it from my easy, lazy fingertips. I was staring too hard, like i always do when i saw James Marcus Anderson, he played for the local Rugby team, and in his spare time wrote for the  Park View Daily, our local newspaper. " Do you er..." he always had a look like he was a sentence away from saying the sentence he had in mind. I liked that about him, he was Arithmetic. " It's on the fourth," i urged.
He scanned the pages of my plastic imagination." Looks cool. So what's your poison anyway?"
" My poison?"  I had only just turned sixteen, and hung on the fringes of loose teenage conversation. I wasn't hip, or cool like him, i had a streak of purple down the front of Midnight colored hair, and had two piercings in one ear because the man doing it had made a mistake. " What drink do you like?"
I shrugged because i'd seen my friend D'angela do it, and curl loose strands of brown hair around her finger.
My uncle said my one redeeming quality, was that i'm like a Cat burglar, so quiet you never hear me slip in and tease out. " I drink normal things,like Coca Cola,"
" I'm talking dates, events, meets....are you with someone?"
" There's no one standing right next to me," internally i apologised for performing, whilst being lit up.
" What's your name anyway?"  At that i halted. My pancake Stomach flipped, And then it hit me, he didn't even know my name. I probably knew the colour of his vomit. I knew he had  a set of marvel comic books he flicked through during the lunch break, i knew he played Bob Marley when he was down, and wrote songs when he felt uplifted in the park in Greenwich, i knew his favorite food was the Special Fried Rice in Chinese Inn, and his favorite drink was Mango juice. I knew when he was five he'd been forced to play the Violin, and he'd negotiated to the cello. I resigned myself to the realisation that maybe he wasn't the one in the romance books, i felt nauseous, he didn't even know my name, and he was asking me out for a drink.

Check this out: A royal one Akua Naru

This is poetry at it's finest, loving her style, her flow, this woman will move you, shake you, and make your body melt. Akua Naru Rock on.

Missing

image by Claireveiler

It means the slip
of a tortured soul
A pool of wet
As we loose control
The sunken dreams
and hardened flesh
the phone box chimes
As we ring collect
A call to the outside world
Fingers pressing the dial
hands jittering like a christmas
tree with lights
"hello?"
he say's.
I melt like
i am my own Cocoa butter
Chew the gaps between supposed words
Pose on a foot
"Hello?"
Outside the streets are micro chipped
Inside this hub
i am animal
"Hello?" his voice melts me. I shake
the quivers
For i am his little jitterbug
I think of conversations lost
Conversations missing
blood from inside my mouth
rushes to my Teeth
I am a mass of paperclips
he is my Wizard of Oz
"Da.." i gurgle a sentence;
Then remember why i left.
Reciever is oil in my hands
i am slick with my own near
miss.

Apostrophies (Exploration)

image by Fionarose (deviantart)

Pieces of the puzzle
Slices of the pie
we open apostrophies
with the squints of our eyes
dot the lines
that paint the eyes
cater to streets
where shadows mourn
the crucified self
we cry old spirits to sleep
Teasing between our teeth
The knitted wool
Of the fear which plans to Seize us
I am short,
and tall once more
One minute high
forever small
Inching to the freedom
Graves lie where selves once used to be
In between
A folded me
I miss myself
Old crooked grin
The way i loved the soul within
It's simple self
The slip
of a soul that
was denied
It's Columbus.

Wisdom slayed

image from chevsy

Wisdom
Followers slay the dragon
of intellect
where wise men sit
there are foot stools
The iron clad
rinse the weakness from their
souls within
I swallow the stones
of my fears
bite down the bullet
these silences
swallow
you up
engulfed in the music
chemistry a chessboard
for the mind
my emotions
well they are
who carried you
with your gloved hands
the wounds
hidden away
behind them
 pulsing with blood
veins like ropes
bumps as volcanoes
jumping with sores
who carried you to
where the layman stood
worshiping
the pain
of Royal mistakes
as two fish eyes,
polish the floor
 It is glue
to never move from this pit.

Quick Sand

image by sitka

Cheque point
the narrative for when the soul
comes calling
we itch fro here
scratching the scabs of loose skin
and tracks made by yesterday's sin
Our eyes bleed forward
The memories
we hoist on our back
Turtle man
Torpedo emotions
The world spins
our seesaw selves
stumble to our feet
Fingers clotted with dirt
lips cornflake dry
water is a mirage from here
I am quick sand
in this chequepoint,
my knees absorb the dust
Flag hands
Siren eyes
Help me world i'm falling.

The water boy

image by destiny kiss


He was my room mate, he'd sit by the window for hours, we'd watch the boats dock on the Crystal ocean. He said they made him have imagination, he was jealous of the fish that claimed this vast ocean, and i was envious that the water captivated him so. My water boy. I smiled a wry smile, nervously twitching, with my ballet slippers clutched between my oil slick palms. He made me nervous, and excited, and anxious and scared. When he spoke in that deep baritone, it was like being dipped in a cup full of hot chocolate.
" You know i'll miss you when you leaver," I began cautiously, shyness is a poison for us secret social butterfly's.  I had many things i wanted to say, to spill, have my insides laid before him like a platter of desert dishes. " You have eyes like them," 
" Eyes like what?" He recycled back. The way the water changes, reminded me of his eyes, a continental, blue, grey. He was too tall for me, my mother said, he'd drown me in his size. I liked his scraggly brown hair and the beard that cushioned, angular, masculine, yet soft features, a mouth which begged to be kissed, and a tongue that offered the intensity of polite conversation. I hated the way his stretch jeans were quick sand in the floor, and i loved his caramel skin, it reminded me of toffee and werthers original.  Aidan Lloyd was half Asian, and the other part of him a concoction of Irish and West African decent. I found myself hypnotised,and caught in a web of romantic fantasies. " Eyes like the water you worship, changeable,"
" I'm a changeable person." He supplied, still there, my merman. I fixed the pudgy round glasses on their stand untop of my nose. " I wanted to give this to you," 
" A poem?" 
"A poem." I held it up, in my scared, teenage fingers. I had bushy brows, and teeth that had been claimed by braces. Yet i wanted him to see me, the way he worshiped the water. It was a a conversation that rotated in my mind, i studied my reflection nervously. Mother said i 'Bonnie Elena John' was too short for Aidan Lloyd. My frame should have been lengthier like the other girls in the ballet class. Mother had begged a space for me, so i could 'mix with money' and meet the Aidan Lloyds of the world. "  Do you want me to read it to you?" I quizzed nervously, my throat was stuffy with invisible foam. He nodded, i liked the way he nodded and all the little mannerisms that were his. In this room i felt as though somehow i belonged to him, and when his 6ft 6 frame walked through the front door, i felt full in his hugs. 
" a picture, you and me we could be a postcard
of words that speak,
a thousand syllable's 
and conversations that end with linked hands
I am your arm
you are my leg
we are fingers
on a piano
that begs to be played
So play the chords
and let our heart beat
with a rhythmic choir,"  i stood still waiting for his response. Watching as his eyes suddenly became engaged in the patterns on our Persian rug. A caramel hand stretched to the back of his neck, he rubbed at it, then licked a mouth which had gone dry.
" Is there a message in there somewhere?" 
I took a long swallow of breath. I should have just let him leave pack his stuff, my eyes darted to the Exit.  I could imagine clusters of girls gathering to Gossip about my near miss, the ballet class filled with the nonsense of 'another one bites the dust,' a song dedicated to each girl who had made a move on Aidan LLoyd.  " I guess i'll see you next semester," i said reaching for my friendship safety net, he looked up as if hit with an alarming recognition, 
" when it happens, no one will be singing another one bites the dust." At that he rose as the tide does, my water boy, i plunged forward eager for a kiss. 

Window sill to the observer

image by bigfootfantasies

we perch on
the dots of yesterday's tears
counter the fears
when courage appears
Esteem crumbles 
as arrows are thrown
an alias self
To the shelf self unknown
Picture perfect
Drapes to cover the
eyes
of yesterdays failure 
and yesterdays prize
 Heaven sent
Common sense
to a land where wisdom
has no power
Upon the hour
Pain leaves taste buds sour
We chomp at the bit, 
bored with
the lies
brain tells when we sit
for in the daylight
there are no shadows here
and we light the fuse 
to a wayward oblivion

Jellyfish

image by Quiccs


Vibe
with me
scatter
run
disengage
you are on the fringes
of life
teeth gritting
barely holding on
soul rising
dragons roar within
The mind seizes
Chalk lane
Piano street
Chalk lane
The mighty ones
arise
Catch my dreams
and i'll applaud you
my little jellyfish
those who prey
on anyone who takes
bold steps
in hot water.

The flowers we forget

image by renatadogmagalska (deviantart)

I chimed in
it was two o'clock
the stew sat on the boil
a century ago
women would toil
and now they beg us not 
to wear laces
i drank my juice
thought of our common spaces
all our in between times ten
the who know you know,
The why and when
The water colour scrapes
and the near death misses
Empty promises
and almost kisses
The eyes pinched on me
as honey
as glue
we are forever linked
as the clock hums a lazy tick
and my eyes 
betray the darkest secret
the coffee mug, an angry prince
say's did you wear this jacket just for him?
Paint your lips,
and wet your skin,
a piece of art
you've here become
Make sure you are his special one,
and the Coffee mug, an angry prince,
says did you wear those high heels just for him?
As the observers with postcards of my yesterday pain
share the memory of my heart once slain
Then the waitress climbs lazily towards me
as though clambering invisible stairs,
flashes a polaroid smile with a jigsaw face that would fit his perfection and 
says.
" I remember you lady, your meeting Tom right?" 
My head is anville, 
My hands are soft dough.
 " He called to cancel..." she pauses on the tip of emerging wisdom. "It's an uncomfortable seat to sit in, "
 I half rise, 
drown my Vodka throat in the Coffee that's now it's constitution. 
" You're a pretty girl," i respond politely,
"and one day you'll realize your one too, to the Toms of the World." She raises an invisible glass in a gesture of cheers, disappears to the oblivion of cakes behind the counter, i imagine her springing to life from the glossy pages of a beauty magazine, hair wild as an exclamation mark, Teeth mid preparation for a photographers easy finger. I feel her eyes like Wax on my back, counting each step i take with piercing sapphire eyes. I imagine her calculating my missing marbles, and mourning the loss for me of a wasted afternoon. In my head i recycle her judgement. I realize girls like us are tired of sitting on a throne of Tom's broken promises, and  empty suitcases. My lips are kissed with another blot of cherry lipstick, the air is suffocated with the nuissance of my perfumed stench.  " he could have loved me." i mutter to myself, as cars zig zag my already sobbing frame. Past, traffic lights that wink red, and green, my monopoly mind thinks of ways to rescue a heart on dead man's row. I'll begin with Ice cream, not Ben and Jerry's, the cheap brand, that's no frills, and in between my sob stories, and excuses, i'll figure out why i'm a tape on fast forward rewind.

Missing intuition (There already)

image by dzaet

My missing intuition
He bites and i bite back
clawing through the numb mess
and all the skittles in my head,
i count to ten
bite my frozen fingers
whistle at the wind
For there is vastness now,
the desert is who we become
Midnight or charcoal black
I am sleek,
with the longing
for old scents on my skin
Tobacco stained teeth that used
to bruise my lips
and a blast of Antarctica which filled my lungs
every time my womb was empty
I'd sing myself to sleep
The cricket croaked in my throat
suffocating me
with the pulse of my own inferiorities
i am dot next to you
you are Ocean i would say
then chew at my lips nervously
as i stood in corners, 
like bulked clotted cream just 
popped there,
The stain of my anxiety,
the pool of wet soaking my watermelon limbs
Wishing to God that i was there already