Dinner

Penguin flight covers the night with deep groans
emanating from nobodies behind the head
reflecting dread of a raid, a break of the rhythm,
apnoea. Travelling.
Faster trees relax onto the breeze
from the bodies of shaken rats and cocoons
from which they emerged now broken,
growths on them, disgusting the senses entering
in order to experience.
My lack, breaks the spine of the everlasting motionless
idea that springs back with each tab and perforates my ear drums,
with the heady beat, perfumed defeats echo
in my small walls something that you'll never reach.
At least not lying down, not staring,
eyes dripping form rings of dew on coffee tables
seeing people in capsules watching televisions in bubbles
there are veins pumping out there, leaking,
shrieking with blockage and carrying foetal remains
out to the gutter,
kicking in the oil and wasting stems. Breaking them.
Empty then. To here knows when it will become a glum state
of affairs. Laughter glares.

Mittelschmerz/ Space Head

Pitter patter on the evening door seeks to wander
seeks to wonder what my time is for
and I'm watching in the window for the empty floor.
The static is creeping up my neck to break the sound
to find, search around for nerves that stopped
when they heard the clocks that make ripples
in the static
of the empty evening door.
Ticking turns to clicking of my body's mechanism
not alone but in a bubble and I know it isn't
real in the sense that it ought to be
and the dread seeping through and in my arms isn't free
but it's standing quite plainly right in front of me
I can see it, it's moving, but it's not to be,
it slinks away laughing when your eyes turn sideways
slinking and giggling in unison with you.

Slow Facts

Yesterday was terrifying and awful but at least now I can say I have done it! You can see my work amongst all of the other Quick Fictions here:

http://www.myriadeditions.com/Quick-fictions

I really enjoyed listening to the others. There was really a huge variety of exciting words and such. At least my own slot was fairly early on, although I truly think that the electricity twinging at my gut was an exaggeration. For god's sake, what if I ever have anything real to be afraid of? She says, having just screamed at someone for abandoning her in the middle of a dark woody path. Thank goodness for irrational toyland and pretend shadows and embodied invisible voices and rattles.

Photographilia (to accompany Blacklipsonamissioninthedark)

I made this over a year ago.. I think it almost fits.

Blacklipsonamissioninthedark (revised short story version)

Sigh. Excuse me, madam; excuse me, full stop and perhaps later on, a comma. I have been drowning cherries since 1911. I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce; point of our repertoire tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, spherical shining skins, bloated, not reacting at all, comma and full stop. To the surrounding pond.
Their single, eyes, on stalks, or amputated. Either way they, see.
And therefore your point would be, sigh, what, exactly?
Well, stunted, that’s what it is.
Exactly. You’re talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don’t, condemn me. You are not in the rabbit hole. You are, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, sigh, and this is my point.

Station Actions!

I am sorry, first of all, for filling this blog with more inane chatter than usual- more poems will come, I'm sure, but for now- BIG NEWS! The short story competition I entered actually came back to me- I got an email from Nick Royle the other day asking if I would read Blacklipsonamissioninthedark out this Tuesday (minus the last 11 lines, which I was happy to sever.. My art isn't sacred) so, eek! I'll post the shortened version so anybody who happens upon it will have a sneak preview.
I also have to send in a complimentary photograph.. I have been scouring my art folders and so far have a shortlist of about 20...

So please, if you can be at the Meeting House at Sussex University for 6pm this Tuesday, March 9th, please do!

Head Pains

Low sung sang low.
The see saw saw a sore jig
pattering out patterns
on the wet, stained floor.
Deep tones wafting
hit the rafters
and the place remains upright
although not for long.
See saw batters holes
in the carpet
stains it, strains teabags
in your child eyes.
In your child songs typed out.
Singing low.
The jig jiggles cells
which shake in your lip reflections
in your shining lip reflections
which leave us violated
on the floor.
Long black trails
of trailing matter follow.
My lines get shorter
in an ode to your sorrow.

March Hare Lip

Thank god February has gone, the bastard month.

I think I am going to post my last poem even though I really dislike it.. Perhaps it will grow on me. Why have I suddenly started writing poems with such short lines? Stray Signals night tomorrow, Floetics the day after.. You wait aeons to perform and then they all come at once.

I have started writing something autobiographical. It reflects my stumbly memory. I might post sections, at least, up here?

I am also considering entering another creative writing competition, but I'm not sure that I could ever be inspired by 'sport and sporting challenge' - I expect I could if I twisted it enough.. But then I doubt they'd like me very much. How dare you laugh at our games, child! Do you not know that this is an international event of the most dire importance? Back to the woods with you!