BBL LDN

Time slipped through my fingers. We took the train, I took off my sweater. The weather, unexpectedly warm. they knew I was stoned. 

We unpacked. the wrong flag, above our castle. We contemplated using magic markers. We ate Mexican in one of London's finest.  We sat on bins and took photos of Big Ben. I bought a beer in secret, I hid it in my bag.  

I woke up drunk, I slept sound. We ate stale toast and jam. The sun was high, on Saturday, at 8am. Time slipped through my fingers. 

I vomited chocolate milk. We humiliated ourselves for a cause, just cause. My elder threw herself, at a man, blew up a condom, insulted her husband. They gave us one free beer. One half-price pie.

We smoked in the cold for two hours. My lip bled. The cabby was from Sussex, the hot water broke.  The lights wouldn't work. We spoke about our homes.

Three of us wore heels. Two of us clicked. One of us was selfish. Time slipped through my fingers. 

I wished the hotel had a pool. I stole fruit, an apple and a pear.  We talked about the way men smell.  A man stole two sandwiches and I pretended not to notice, she made a racist comment.

I was honest, two sat backwards, two faced forward. We walked the lengths of the cabins looking for a Coke, a snack. She reapplied her makeup. It was colder than I thought, we walked. We took the bus. One headphone worked. I heard a song to remind me of last winter. A weekend over.

Time slipped through my fingers.  

EMPIRE.

'All human relations have shifted-those between masters and servants, husbands and wives, parents and children.  And when human relations change there is at the same time a change in religion, conduct, politics and literature'

V Wolfe. 1924

wear the wool

i'll wear the wool and pull the petals over my eyes.

i'll pretend we'd never listened to b-sides 

ate clementines

slept through mogwai

and hated each other for pretending not to

want

the other

when winter comes again,

i'll just pretend.

HOME IS WHERE IS HOME.

Without the summers heat, we've moved to a flat with a graveyard across the street. 

Home has situated itself in a place where reality speaks plainly and the sun stays tucked away.

Stays inside, bent on the hopes that the torrential rain will sort everything out, bring the plants back to life.

They come dressed  in black, with a somber hats that wilt to hide the mood and glasses that scowl reflections of the scene.

Just another afternoon in Dalkeith, 

Our city at a safe distance to keep the season's spirit.  It grows and breaths on thespians, on capitalism, on the dreams of seventeen's willing to work for three quid.

An exit from the depths of it,

My face gleams warpaint, my heart snipped from my sleeve.  I arrive too late, as everyone has introduced themselves to the festivities.  

How can I keep my composure?

Just another obstacle in the everyday retreat.

When one knows they should have stayed home to watch the mourners from the window and feel better about living.

Immobility as my middle name.

CHANGE IS NECESSARY.

I am adopting Helvetica over Courier as my new font.
Smooth.

pretend.

I have gained a portrait of a woman, I have gained the legs of a man.

Susan Sarandon purses her lips, perched high on my desk.  The blue visage of her celebrated face carves a barren chest to heave and whimper.  

David Bowie's limbs arch and twist to remind both Susan and I of thrilling times.  

When sex was plentiful, when nude was the only report of daily news.

Susan's eyes would scowl our starved bones, our bodies swaying to and fro.  David would perform the dance of the Dream Man, allowing us our animalistic nature.  

We'd come in the soft light of the afternoon, flooding in alongside the voices of school children, their Mother's cries. 

We'd devour with lust succulent suppers of rich proportions, the infamous duo close enough to set the mood.

Now, these likenesses mock this lone cub with reminders of the candy walls, the sweetest flavors,  the luxurious. 

All I must forget.

As if they were make-believe, as if it were just pretend.

thaw.

This seasons sensuality's, afresh with the grace of a hidden marksman, waiting to take the lives of those enthralled with the thaw.

He came, he saw.

The first blade slipped under his tongue; the green grass grew all around, all around. Encompassing the floral and fauna proliferated over night; his divine right was to exploit, to oblige.

I came, I saw.

He asked; how does my garden grow?  I showed him the bare bush.  He placed the first bud on my stark bones, the first blossom on the first sprouted seed.  He pricked his finger on the first thorn of my first rose.

We frolicked in the firsts of lavish spring; he'd revived what I'd believed to be the last of sentient life.

No heed paid to notoriously venal nature; his gentile facade hauling closer.

His fervor ignites, but in due time, he casts a wind just calm enough to ignore. 

Just sharp enough to put the cherry out.

Last drags on the last cigarette, last drink before last call.  The last drop from the last glass, a pick me up before we hit the sack.  

Quite contrary to the enlivened spell, no blue bells showed themselves.  

His arms sought frost in morning's dew; from richness to ragged,

my plot frigid, hungry, dull.

The first taste of warmth grapples a cold front to last the summer months.

We came, we saw.

division.

The antecedent and the consequent's relationship grew farther,

a ratio recognizable to the untrained eye, 

an equation for an animal to multiply

to divide.

Engrossed in her own precocious addition to love, she chewed over our lust.

Wits quick as a wolf's reflexes,

sharp as a fox, 

she saw our consumption of one another,

the re-creation of arithmetic between bodies,

the quantity of space lacking.

Blood on her paws, rum on our hands

Clasped together, in hiding.

Formulating an escape from the captivating beast, 

we fled, subtracting one from the animals game theory.

The competition came to a close, the numbers ceased to please.

She went home unsolved, with a mystery threatening.

With mathematical minds, we deciphered how to repent,

from a question we'd never expected.

and a calculated union.

EROTIC.

'Eroticism is one of the basic means of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry'

Anais Nin.

trustno1

Illustrious as Moses, divine in desire.

rare as the sage.

the leader, the wise.

One would argue, 

the fabulist, the illusionist,

the liar.

Cross continental appeal.

Shortcomings spanned over oceans serene blue,

stretched deep as her fathomless floor -

nonetheless, continuously convincing the masses.

Suspicion of the inception,

persevering regardless,

for the tree proves fruitful for the season.

Apprehension would be blasphemy,

unless the truth rears,

and with wild eyes, we cease to believe,

all we have.
For, to live in him is to exist,
and doubt would be death.

the time.

when we rise.

N O N E W Y E A R.

The temperature boasts tepid 

a most exciting adjunct to this new year, 

the weather in Scotland seems the only warm front.

Traditional thoughts could not promulgate a more bitter frost.

There is a mirror to capture my exterior,

to cast the length of my frame, 

anew and ripened for Springs arrival.

Though, my complexion argues, 

its likeness barren.

Worn from winds of a previous locale.

January's mistress emits ennui.

A sexual storm has calmed,  only a light snow lingers,

but the task at hand reflects a thin veneer,

a cerebral black ice. 

This proves to be yet another desire to just slip my mind.

until.

the noise made by people.

if you think nothing is yours,

if I think everything belongs to me,

how wrong I'll be,

none of us have anything.

there's a place I have never explored,

Another world we have yet to conquer

and until then, none of us have anything.

--broadcast.

solidarity.

Dark. The scene is dimmer then I once remember.

Carry Gold.  You'll require the glitz to entice them, to entertain and enlighten.

To liven.

My hair's natural curl has returned, and it's sheen alone has been the only light shed on home.

The air here, heavy with familiar scenario, hot with the sting of disaffected youth,

They assimilate their weight in goods, in jewels.

Their iron stomaches, their lead intestines fear nothing of the sort.

The masquerade of modern day,

Consumption seems the only way for my precious darlings,

their feeble minds and evaporating personalities,

those I hate to love, hence, love to hate.

king & queen.

the poorly timed delivery. 

the scottish snow, nervously gazing at the window 

a limpid picture, our television screen.

the bedrooms view, for a king & his queen.

for, what a vision it was,

powder drifting in time with the melody, 

cascading to coat the earth, 

purity.

wrought with contradiction

we're frozen.

possessing a heat to melt the ice, 

these divine minutes,

a moment 

to write home about.

in the thick of the sin,

foreign skin touching the born and bread,

breaths placed accordingly.

we breed the ruins. the death of a monarchy,

the end of an era.

at least the world appears pretty as we lie.

eyes to our sky, watching it,

all fall down.

a girl can DREAM.

a girl can dream.

she slept through all alarms, all signs of warning.

she awoke in 1940, when a woman's strife was glamorized.

when women were forced to fight.

she'll stay situated between the sheets,  she'll take this one laying down.

for her severed limbs can't hold her up,

the beast has harrowed her zeal,

her will to persevere.

the narrative of a tragedy, Oh who will save the heroin?

the whore, this bitter burden with breasts,

glowing and thin.

her body looks alive, though her pale heart claims otherwise. 

IT KILLS.

sinners.

his streets were murky, 

dense with gaunt men, 

from each of his pores, over-stimulus bled.

each woman, a harsh exaggeration of the figure eight.

each laugh, heightened to a pitch inaudible

to the Mothers and their daughters,

though, they saw all.

he swallowed them whole, saw them raw in flesh,

he beckoned, they obliged, without question.

he shuddered, and a dozen more alike fell from the sky.

a local screamed " THE CITY OF SIN", 

their full, fat bellies bounced, 

as they cheered at this statement.

He created the wrath of a beast,

sweet with sugar coating and a sticky center.

With empty pockets, empty hearts, 

from which he sought all,

they boarded the train to cleanse their souls.

Apologized to their wives and daughters, 

and cried like newborns, stripped bare.

RUN.

Grimace.  The child can't be older then five, but you feel his chilling glare.

Your bones buckle beneath you, one leg at a time.

The slow climb, how dare you.

The last of the month, the boy is masked, the girl is prepared for marriage.

Surreal, though you're in costume.  Clad in cotton.

Flush, you begin to tear.  Fight it. 

Fight it.

You're disguised, the little ones stare through your shroud of secrecy.

They see how your heavy heart beats irregularly.

Only, if you had a hand to hold. You're ashamed for trying to kid them.

Before you can tear your clothing off, time stops,

the children have gone.

You stand alone in the darkest depths of the park.

Feral in fur, drooling and snorting.

Intoxicated by the night air, the stranger with orange skin in underwear.

You cower in fear, the hollow hole of conversation, the repetition.

Hidden,

There is no rationalizing your current state of affairs.

You have made the body and the mind separate entities, 

a conflict of interest.

Scratching at intangible boundaries, trying to break free.

The innocent see this, 

though the others ignore.