Shrapnel II

Forgot my book again...
I think I'm getting a tad retarded in my old old age...

see below for results :)

Scarlet Ribbon

Ribbon red,
Tied below the head,
Reclining back,
On crimson sheet,
Life’s strain removed,
From tired feet.

Grounded

Downward drifting,
Dappled down,
From whence you came,
I’ve never found,
Tickly tufts on fluffy quill,
In a box I keep you still.

Cool Walking

Broken glass glitter, sparkling,
Under car park floods,
Faint, frost crunching steps,
And smokers breath,
Clouding out and dissipating,
Just chilling on my way to work.

me2u

Me
Mind
Pen
Paper
‘Puter
You

Night Shift

Feel mental decay setting in,
Memory cells growing thin,
Old recollections going dim,
Leaving voids never filled in.

Turning Rocks

Probing and pushing, plumbing the depths,
Reaching down into hidden, forbidden filth,
Scraping at the bottom for rancid dregs,
Seeing what lurks in the darkest recesses,
Dragging it from below to self mortification,
Viewing the underside of my own psyche,
And hoping I never stoop so low.

Radiation

Where do I start?
When do I begin?
What makes me?
How far do I extend?
Do I have edges?
And you, who read this now,
Are you now not part of me?
And I part of your sum?
What potent propagation we are!
When do we finish?
Where do we end?

The Comprachico Visits

Aah, comprachico,
What joys do you bring?
Something you found?
To amuse and delight?
Or one of your own,
To fill us with fright?
Shall we pop to a village,
And arrange a trade?
Oh wonderful comprachico,
What will it be?
A purchase from you,
Or a sale to thee?

Interest to Obsession

He sits aquiver amongst his trove,
Awaiting a knock, a signal to rise,
And eagerly attend a nearby portal,
To collect his next addition.

It began at school,
A lesson of London 1666,
Boring facts of a bakery in Pudding lane,
And the damage done.

A saving grace, the records of Samuel,
Pepys’ peep into surrounding world,
This was of interest, and began an obsession,
A collecting of works.

So Pepys led to Frank led to Shirer,
Ma Yan, Nin, Tynan, Boswell, and Burney.
Also many others, including Evelyn, Gide, Swift and Wolf.
And of course The Oera Linda.

So now he sits with eager trembling,
Awaiting a delivery of Thomas Vincent's
God's Terrible Voice in the City, written in 1667
Sort of completing a circle for his chronicle illness.

Careful !

“You never change” she despairingly cried,
“Transform yourself dammit!” she wailed,
A fine mist of dust fled from ceiling cracks
As the door slammed behind her…

Change what? Transform how?
Surely I was still me?
The one she found and wanted
Above all others?

I look the same – a little older, but still…
I dress the same, all little things she wanted
And demanded, that I never alter.
I look at me in the mirror….

I guess that’s a start then.
So a suit is bought, never had one before,
And hair is cut, beard shaved,
I look at the familiar stranger in the mirror…

Next a job obtained, mortgage procured, pension arranged,
Personal transport acquired, work out at a gym,
Healthy food, quit smoking, rational rationed drinking,
Again, I look at the stranger in the mirror…

Tai chi practise, meditation and Pilates,
Courses for mental stimulation,
Goals set, sought and achieved…
I don’t notice the mirror anymore.

A year to the day, I pay a visit,
To her council flat, to find,
I’ve changed,
But she hasn’t.

Once was Worshipped

There it stands,
In seething jungle,
A temple.

Lonely edifice,
Tall and scarred,
Scoured by the winds of ages.

Sightless windows wreathed with vines,
Crumbling walls,
Moss infected,
And lichen flaked,
Assaulted on all sides with teeming life.

Ancient construction,
Brittle with time,
Created long ago,
Once had purpose,

There I stand.
Life is a jungle,
My body is this temple.

Shrapnel

So, what happens when you end up stuck on a night shift, with an hour to spare, desperately trying not to fall asleep...
Well, one option is to 'make' work...no, that sucks...
or give in and doze, hate doing that, can never get motivated when I come round.
or read, well, I would have, but dumb fool that I am, left it on the table at home...
So I guess the only option left was to scribble...


So I did, and below are the ramblings of a half asleep person...

Children Play

Eight-legged spider,
Six-legged bug,
Four-legged thing,
Two legs are useless,
Squishy black blob,
Yuk!

Fill in the Blanks

Not so long ago,
.
.
.
Not so long ago,
.
.
.
Not so long ago,
.
.
.
Now who’s dwelling in the past?

Curiosity

Curiosity,
Like many things,
Comes with practise.
It’s such a shame,
So many people,
Can’t be bothered,
As it would take
Some effort.

Cliche Exposed

For this one,
Read not between the lines,
For there is nothing there,
Just a void, a vacuum,
Devoid of rhyme or reason.
Instead, look to the words,
As they reveal all…

A Touch Short

Touch means,
Nothing without feeling.
Feeling means,
Nothing when untouched.

Escapologist

Sitting alone in a threadbare room,
Old spring speared mattress,
Covered with urine stains and faeces,
My resting place,
And used needles scattered,
Along skirting half buried,
Under peeling 70's wallpaper,

The reason for my loneliness.

Sociopathic Misogynist

I feel this one needs a little clarifier, I sometimes like to ask people for a random word or two, it's a thing I picked up from a wonderful writer called Molly Bloom. The idea being that you use the words as inspiration...so I asked and was given the two words above by a student who was doing some temp work with us, and the piece below emerged shortly after...

I'd like to say, emphatically, that it does not represent my views of women or my actions toward them.

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Some do,
Some don’t,
Some will,
Some won’t.
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Those that do,
Are whores to use,
Those that won’t,
Are for rape and abuse.
.
Those that struggle,
And fight,
Are best subdued,
With fists and bites.
.
Those that break free,
And run for their life,
Are taken down,
And peeled with a knife.

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of mine friend

A dog had once I
Of coat sleek russet and snow
Witch wood left eye
Right eye seas
Didst heel trudging follow he
Deadwood cast off chase for me
Hearth warm foot curl evenings be.

Veneer

Bright day, light day, good day,
A stroll, to a local market,
Nods and smiles, vegetables to purchase.
.
Pacing back and forth,
Pushing and pulling,
Seeking weak points in the cage.
.
Old friends greeted, news of doings,
Talk of holiday to come and done,
People seen, and absent associates.
.
Firm stance and grip,
Muscles tensing, straining,
Is that a slight bow? A weak bar…
.
Next stop a bookshop, for a …
Bright read, light read, good read,
Pleasant browsing amongst kindred spirits.
.
More pressure brought to bare,
A widening? Yes!
Strain and grunt, progress made.
.
Heading home through sunny town centre,
A little window shopping,
More faces familiar, more information exchanged.
.
A final rend, a mighty bend, a gap gained,
Out out OUT!
To run amok.
.
Bright day, warm day, sweaty day,
A moment taken, leaning forehead on
Cool glass shop window, under stripy awning,
Eyes drawn and focusing on contents within
Four foot crowbar calling,
Fist swinging, glass shattering,
Hand bleeding, but firmly grasping.

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Surprised annoyed ironmonger,
Spouting senseless noise.

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Bright swing, heavy swing, good swing!
Ironmonger, first to fall,
The first
Of many…

Fantasy you say?

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Senseless fingers,
Clawed up and out,
Of damp soil,
Split skin and sinew,
Momentarily groping open air,
Before heaving the rest,
Of the corpse,
From its long resting place.
.
Reaching, back down into its grave,
The unliving figure drew forth an ancient sword,
Grasping it firmly,
It stood upright,
And shook dirt from its head and body.
.
Mocking true vision,
Its head swung to and fro,
Examining its surrounds.
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Lord Crowshaw prepared himself for another fray,
Six violated graves needed vengeance,
The plunderers must receive justice,
.
Planning his attack came easy to one of the old warriors,
When alive nothing could stand before his might,
And dead he had certain advantages.
.
The priest would have to be first to die,
Or at least badly wounded to prevent his magics,
Then the mage for similar reasons,
Then the two warriors, and finally the thief.
Yes, five to one, poor odds for the five…
.
Practising a few kata,
He awaited the coming night,
And the thieves arrival...

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Short 7

A breeze wafted ‘cross garden lush,
Tickling dandelion into dizzy seeding,
Fanning embryonic young,
To distant new beginnings.

Language Barriers

The agelast man had not reached a state of accidia,
Though suffering a mild dose of clinomania,
Nevertheless arose and began to darraign,
Though against his nature,
Being called out is a matter of honour.

Minion

And as I step forward, on towards the distant light,
The darkness gathers behind me,
Further and further I go, ever on towards the light,
Finally I reach halfway, and sit, and rest, and think.

Darkness behind, light before,
Light before, darkness behind,
Both as blind as each other,
One too little, one too much.

And so, I turn, and face the darkness,
Turn my back on the light, and step forward,
Returning to my familiar grounds,
Where blindness awaits in recognizable surrounds.

Leaf

The leaf swirled and turned
Fluttering in the autumnal breeze,
Hither and thither,
Riding a brief wave of freedom,

Finally coming to rest,
Deposited unnoticed amongst
A myriad of detritus,
A place of decomposing.

Final page turned,
The book closed.

Sub-Part B - Scarred Girl (Fragment)

Scarred Girl,
Of miscellaneous age,
An art form of self damage.

Reasons upon reasons,
But understood by none,
Not even herself.

Most is due to the noise,
Repetitive white noise spike.
Vinyl crackle on the sound track of her mind.

Each cut an hours relief,
A years worth of reprieve etched on skin.
A six thousand line engraving.

An art form of self damage,
Of miscellaneous age,
Scarred Girl.

Frustration

With frustration mounting,
He shuffled and twisted and turned,
And came up with IKLM,
Twisting, shuffling, sliding, and gliding,
Merely brought him LIKM.
Frustration grows and cheeks redden,
Pick, push, pull, place proceeded,
And produced KIML then KLIM,
As his eyes started to well,
And brow furrows deepen,
Bottom lip atremble,
A sharp and frantic scrabbling,
Resulted in MILK!
Overwhelming relief and satisfaction.

After all,
No point,
In getting worked up,
Over,
Split Milk…

Mr G has an Idea

And the Lord said,
“Let there be Light”
So, as a dutiful wife,
Mrs God flicked on the Basement lights,
And God,
Arms full of nic-naks and bric-a-brak,
Descended from upon high,
To do a little creating…

Intolerance

Taught that big black bastard,
Taught him good and final,
No more flitting in and out,
No more to be in my face,
No more to be in my hair!

Took up arms against him,
A fine chase I had,
Round this room,
Until I smeared him,
Smeared him against the wall!

And still he gives me gyp,
Can’t leave this mess, it’ll irritate me,
And yet, wiping up those six hairy legs,
And mulched body and wings,
Annoys me too!

Fixation

Just thought i'd chuck up something contrasting to ES's comment

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I’ve noticed when I step out
Into cold, cold streets,
I need to wee…
When first submerging
Into that too hot bath,
I need to wee…
When I laugh too much,
I need to wee…
When I get scared,
I need to wee…
When I’m nervous,
I need to wee…
And though I suspect,
It’s a childhood conditioning,
Before I begin any journey,
Well, I go, before I go.
Just some observations,
It’s not like I’m obsessing.

Is it?

Eleuktra Starsoft said...

Hope you don't mind ES, but I enjoyed it so much I had to post it up :)

If you want it remove say so, and it's gone...

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I used to climb trees in the lanes and farmland,
I was bad –
I used to nick finch eggs from horse-hair-nests,
And bounce like a monkey man up there.
Mostly in ash trees,
But also hawthorn,
With all its scratchy blood letting,
Lines of scarlet on the arms and legs.

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The true simian destiny for tree fallers is,
Of course,
To be devoured by cave lions,
With characteristic puncture marks,
In the skull from the lion's fangs,
Dragged away for a meal.

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Fatalistically, perhaps to be discovered,
By Leakey some two million years later,
In a pit in Africa,
Cast in stone,
Fossil man.
More lastingly famous than any pop idol.
Concrete boned.

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Fossil footprints are the best.
Imprints of life rather than death,
And those roman roof tiles,
With the footprints of dog or cats,
I love those.
Soft red clay left out,
In the sun to harden.
The dog inadvertently
Steps out into them,
And receives,
A torrent of artisan abuse.

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Dog wonders, what the fuck it is doing wrong
And bolts right across all the tiles,
Simians shouting and stick waving behind it.
Dog mistake preserved for two millennia,
And ends up in a museum cabinet,
Where I chuckle, and wipe a tear at the pity,
The unfathomable gulf,
And the beauty
Of the shortness of time
That any of us have here.

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Clay tiles
Have so much more
Purchase on existence than us.
I love that it's beautiful.
It's why we are like angels.

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by Eleuktra Starsoft (2007)

Here I am

More messin' wif words...

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Here I am, an average Joe,
Average height and average build,
A 70-kilogram mass,
Mostly oxygen, 43 kilos of it
A 16 kg chunk of carbon
Hydrogen massing 7k’s
A hint of calcium, well comparatively,
A whole kilo of it,
And 1.8 kg of nitrogen.

The rest you ask, how astute to notice,
The missing; 780 grams of phosphorus,
And 140g of both sulphur and potassium,
Sodium at 100g with 95g of chlorine,
Snippet of 19g magnesium and sprinkling of iron 4.2g,
2.6g fluorine, 2.3g of zinc, silicon at a single gram,
Then dribbles of rubidium .68g, strontium .32g, bromine .26g,
Finally .12g of lead.
Here I am, a 70-kilogram mass.

What? You want the rest?
The copper and aluminium, cadmium and cerium
The barium and iodine, tin and titanium
Boron and nickel, selenium, chromium and manganese,
Arsenic, lithium, cesium, mercury, germanium, molybdenum,
Cobalt, antimony, silver, zirconium and niobium!

But wait I have more to offer,
I have yet to mention lanthanium, gallium, tellurium,
Yttrium, and bismuth.
I’m not making these up you know,
They’re all part and parcel,
Along with, deep breath now…
Gold-thallium-indium-scandium-tantalum-vanadium-thorium-uranium-samarium-beryllium-tungsten!
There! That’s all I am, just as you,
An average human.

Bugs and Rugs...

There is no meaning to this piece/s just me messing with words, though if you do manage to read something into it, let me know :)

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Proud as a peacock, cold as ice,
Fast as greased lightning, quick as a wink
Fine as a fox, free as a bird,

Fit as a fiddle, strong as an ox,
High as a kite, happy as a lamb,
Solid as a rock, tough as nails.

Cute as a button, quiet as a mouse,
Right as rain, dry as a bone,
Sharp as a tack, sly like a fox.

Smooth as silk, easy as pie,
In like Flynn, larger than life,
Clear as a bell, plain as day.

Mad as a hatter, working like a dog,
Deaf as a post, dumb as a doorknob,
Sick as a dog, dead as a doornail.

Reaction

Skin crawling, trying to leave its rightful place,
A phobic dread far deeper than thought,
A rictus grin on fear filled face,
Glimpsed horror making hair follicles taught.

Adrenaline causing pulse to rapidly race,
Black body infusing irrational hate,
Spindly legs, skittering pace,
My boot, my reaction, spider’s fate.

The Prize

I wander the rainforest, searching,
Carefully inspecting surroundings,
To find and capture my golden prize.

At last! With care I pluck it,
And in a box I store it,
To a safe retreat I return.

After careful contemplation,
I kiss my Phyllobates terribilis
And let darkness take me away.

Wordstream

Streams of thought,
Caught up,
In a whirlpool swirl,
Circling,
Cycling,
Coalescing,
Congealing,
Collating,
Coherently
Frothing forth,
Form, if not function,
From a turmoil of chaos.

Conception

Pitch black cavern,
Dripping its seeds and eggs,
Into placid waters below,
Each hatchling or sproutling,
Left to float, flutter, cling, climb and bind,
Aglow with possible permutations,
Awaiting a harvest and purge,
To plunge cavernous space into
Deepest sable once more.

Trapped

And after certain words were spoken,
They continued travelling in silence,
Only rubber on road making comment.

Hoss

They gathered,
Along an edge,
Of a vast paddock,
Necks straining against,
Wood and wire,
To nibble tops,
From lush grass,
Grass no different,
From where they stood,
Not greener,
But maybe,
It was a taste,
Of freedom.

Quick

Only a step away from a knife,
And while a first step is the hardest,
Maybe a last one isn’t too bad.

A Character

She had to get in first,
By hook or by crook.
She’d always done things her way,
Independent, wilful, stubborn, impulsive,
A right character!

So it was no surprise,
When she plummeted from a tree,
After swarming up with simian grace,
To untangle a kite from grasping greenery.
Headstrong, but alas, not strong headed.