Book
You, leaves of white and
Sometimes black between-
A brief hint, of my fantasy
Made suddenly tangible.
They say I’d prefer a computer
But they lied of course,
Why else would your
Golden embroidery gather
Dust upon my shelf?
I still look at you-
Every day, in fact.
Every time I walk in
I stare-
There are many of you
No wonder my mind
Can’t tell- one world
From another.
Dressing gown
I wake up every morning,
From my bed of alone.
Those clean sheets, who
Never sleep, never hug
At all-
The floor is always cold
One foot tells the other,
But that doesn’t stop
The trudging that much-
Even in the summer.
Once your arms entwine
In mine, and your front
Lies over my middle.
I feel your cord-
Always My warmth
That makes us inseparable.
I must confess to being a tad delicate today, but who can blame me after the summer I've had? I've passed a driving test, written a novel and of three hours ago gotten accepted into Bangor university to study English with French for four years; another step up on my career ladder. So here is today's poem, I hope you all enjoy it.Pale
Your Sculptured skin
All marble white-
With little bumps
Little nooks, sheen
Always so bright.
I remember-
Finger pressed touch
The shivering tingle-
Down my spine.
Beat that heart of
Stone- lips of limes.
Rough touch, slight taste
Little flakes of snow
I’ve loved them so.
How I thanked mum,
For bringing them home.
Spring draws near,
I feel an end,
That disappear
Spring will come.
Unfreeze water.
Another year of
Forlorn summer.
I've been inspired lately about everything seemingly insignificant in my everyday life, realising that nothing, is truly insignificant after all. This is possibly one of the most annoying events of the day for me, but when I reflect upon it afterwards I have to question why. So here it is, the poem of the day:
Burst pipe
No longer can I keep it in
That liquid in between
Pipes so coarse and cold
And thin, yet who tear at
Frown and grin.
Sitting on the bathroom
Wall, covered with paint
Why not dirt at all?
Is this why you weep?
As one roughly sweeps-
Your pipes shut once more?
Breathe
Here we sat, sticky fingered
Eating creamed buns and
Soggy sweets.
I smelled the sugar
On your tongue- whispered
Come on in, touch me-
Who knows where it may lead?
The park bench pinched
My rump, I think yours too,
Why else would you
Fidget so?
Your breast rose high,
And wouldn’t return to rest.
All I want is that gasp,
Your fresh sugar breath,
The rush will surely
Go- to my head.
Sonnet to thine Starri Knytes
Men have learned to read betwixt the night stars
All have gazed upon them, they never glare
The sun, how he shines, unholy centre
Of the heavenly host commands, ‘all seas,’
‘All see, Athena, Aphrodite, knights -
Of the realm, Starri Knytes will drape her hair
Over your gold ambrosia. This rare
Womanly host guides us, these are her stars.
Such golden deities are almost glass
Never asking for worship unlike gods.
Lazy tyrants- why could they not be Knytes?
So we could live under the bright night skies.
Without this host, just what would come to pass?
Nothing for gods are truly second class.
This post will be a little more informal than most mainly due to two weeks of sleep deprivation and a thirteen hour marathon of Dr Who just before writing this, they are not a good cocktail. I’m going to try and incorporate my comical ambitions with today’s post, yet stay topical with my usual themes of the writer and influences.
While we’re all young we question what profession we’ll go into when we’ve finished with education. I personally have always fancied myself as a writer; I know I’m an abomination, but your letter bombs haven’t found me yet!
Up until the age of about fifteen, I’d worked on poetry alone; with adding stories and articles to my repertoire, it shows obviously how I’ve diversified over the years. I sound like a business, I just lack a manager, but let’s face it, there’s no woman crazy enough to share a room with me let alone a shackle.
For the last few years I’ve been fascinated by comedians, or at least trying to break into the world of comedy. I have to avoid watching the Apollo otherwise I begin to think, very wrongly, I can be a gag writer after an hour of someone drivelling on about their genitals. In honesty if that makes me think I’m any good I should just try secondary sex ed, cucumber and a condom anyone?
You know how we all laugh at what children say no mater how idiotic it is we find it hilarious, only because we’re thinking the exact same thing? I feel it’s a shame that’s beaten out of kids at secondary school, it’s no wonder good comedians are a dying breed, still, you have to learn how to give a decent wedgies at some point, or your kids would miss out.
I feel that the most bonkers people in society today are comedians and English teachers, or in the case of Mr Frankie Boyle: both. It takes a man with a real set of balls, or a sense of humour that could crack up royalty to sit in front of a class of young hormonal girls and read how a man has been screwing them all over for years. Personally I’m more in favour of throwing the book at them, not being biased; I’d lob a dictionary or two at the lads and head for the hills. But mum said I’m not allowed to do that again, I have to set an example, and hand out the pitch forks, one each before legging it. Apparently it’s good practice for later in life.
On a more serious note, I’m still wishing I were one of those, maybe not handsome, or cool people on stage, but I’d love to do what they do. It may never happen, but as with the catch phrase this generation has opted for, ‘I do it for de lulz’.
Sexy Star Trek Girl
Sexy star trek girl I’ve waited so long
Temptress of five seasons, it’s wrong,
I’ve survived your skin tights and uniform
Surely you’ll be mine before it’s all gone?
Your nightdress was a jacket, not fine
Was there nothing other to wear that night?
Why do you all wrap up like Victorian Vines?
Yet without the need to shield your thighs.
Your eye’s phaser me, always on stun
You blame me for looking, though dumb?
At those hair styles, tightened buns,
Not to mention your rounded sums.
Sometimes as a telepath, or a Trill
You may be human, once in a while,
But the Borg certainly knows how to move
She would waltz that floor, swaying well.
The voice varies, from your cherry lips
The councillor, the fighter, my woman.
So where do I fit in, in this world?
At my console captain, where else?
Inspiration
Let me take you on a journey,
Please extend your little hand.
Together we will slip gently
Into the maybe wonderland.
Music of the mind, meld lovely
Scenes of films, dressed in dust suits.
All along they were hidden away
They freshen up with your memory soaps.
Here the land of inkwells, no computers,
Nor biros in this land. Here we fly
With pirates and boy catchers,
Locked in battles, we pass them by.
Through the window, without a broom
Here is your next adventure to tell,
You saw it, yes the little Jay
On the ledge of your old bedroom.
Rhythm of poetry
Poetry can be river, and of stone,
It is both of these things and still more.
Inside of the body, perhaps the soul-
Feel that beat? It’s poetry you fool!
Poor little musician, writing tool
You’re giving birth to puppets you know?
Songs of saints, and soldiers the same
You hear what we have gained?
A smile, a tear, a child’s bashed ear:
Shakespeare did it for life, you for profit.
A man in a suit to tell you what’s ‘fab’
He who disowned the little yellow cab-
Limos are of course the way to go.
Our words ride with him, on we go.
Haiku’s for the beat, sonnets for souls
Villanelles for women, and ballads for all,
Each one with their own tune, you know?
I leave you with this, Poetry is all!
Hello again, welcome back to my rather sporadic installments of the life of a young Author. The title of this entry speaks...
