Cactus Flower

I miss you already,

‘Tissues scattered as snow’,

I never gave it time,

You, I don’t know.

But cohesion had glued,

For me, a sense of sync,

Now I’m licking my wounds,

Drowning in drink.

The bubble was kiltered

And I had to brake hard,

This had to be halted;

Forecast a red card.

Call it intuition, 

And it’s doomed to be,

But I felt it was different,

And now the fool is me.

For I sever its bloom,

And it never makes scent,

How I can destroy,

A caution, intent.

I can’t play the games,

That they seem to master,

I let it flow natural,

Now, alone, I neck castor.

And petals they scatter,

Detached from their centre,

I pick up my heart;

As Charcoal as Pinter,

And repeat to fade,

This romantic ideal,

My bluffers stance folds.

To the wind, you deal!

And I miss you already.

But I never give it chance,

I unravel the blue prints.

And don't start the dance.

Air

At least there’s some silence

Trapped in this cell of sound

My loudness excited

Outside it’s more ground

When placed to the mic

And high on caffeine

I remove myself from her

Trying not to be mean

For the boom and the bigness

Is just for the show

But looking at her now

Overbearing must go

This sense of approval

Is evident to all

Proving so much

After gargantuan fall

One day I shall mellow

With the birds and I’ll say

Not everyone can like you

It doesn’t work that way

But first I must start

To find out where I am

To demonstrate some grace

More natural, the plan

So take her off air

And give us the space

I like the quiet sometimes

Get me out of this place

4 4 4 4

Jeremy Kyle

Syrupy Lyle

Smuggery phial

Resolute dial

Underdog trial

Fornicate file

Jeremy Heil

Premium smile

Judging with bile

Trusted and wile

Totally vile

Jeremy Kyle

Poor little fat girl

A while back I began communicating with a manboy; this was prior to my departure into the 'depression-within-a-depression' in the ultimate depressive destination of Estonia. Having put on a bit of weight whilst there, I informed him - via phone - of my additional stack that was returning with me, to which he responded "I don't normally date fatties, but you're funny so I'll make allowances".

Being mostly human, I have emotions. One of those is anger. You may be familiar with anger. I rarely get angry, but when I do, you'll know. You'll know, and you'll cry.

This week I've been annoyed with a shop window in my current neighborhood. The shop window in question is that of slutty emporium 'Anne Summers'. Whether it be nipple clamps or a packet of penis pasta - they've got it all, the dirty bastards. Before you start thinking I'm some sort of prude, I'm not, I'm as liberal as Paddy Ashdown, with his pants down, going down town. I'm well dirty, me.

So, returning to the offending item in the shop window...on Day 1 whilst idly passing I became aware of a mannequin. Come Day 2 I actually stopped and mouthed disapprovingly 'fuck off' in disbelief at what I was witnessing. In reality I said it quite loudly, so others could be party to my horror at the site before me (but I was likely perceived to be a mad woman shouting 'fuck off' at a pair of knickers in a window). Come Day 3, I thought I would make my complaint heard to the workers in the shop.

Following a power lunch of roll mop herrings, I decided to march towards the shop knowing full well my breath was going to be as offensive as their window display. They were going to take the stench of my metaphorical and literal bile.

Talking to the assistant, whilst the manager eyed my rattled assertion with suspicion, I demanded she take the tape measure from around her neck and come with me to the window where I then instructed her to measure the waist of the curvaceous mannequin on display. I was angry, she obeyed.

20 inches.

To put this in perspective, I am currently a size 14, within a healthy range for my BMI and my THIGH measures 25".

To put this further into perspective, here is a model who recently came under scrutiny for her 20" waist, and her (here we go again...) insistence that she eats junk food three times-a-day and scoffs herself senseless with chocolate. She just has that kind of metabolism. You know, that infamous vapourising metabolism.

She likely has a chronic case of worms, undetected except for her incessant bottom scratching. 

So back to my one woman protest. Having informed the shop assistant I would be speaking to their customer services department about this unrealistic window freak, she attempted to placate me with her reassurance that all the other models in the shop were of average size. Having eyes, I was aware of this, but what she chose to disregard is the developing sexuality of the already insecure young girls who pass by the window, and who - perhaps - fantastise about realising their dreamy fornications via a pair of satin turquoise panties atop a waist of miniscule proportions. She could be that girl, in those knickers, being desired because of that 'ultimate' feminine shape. If only she stopped eating, or made herself sick...

Eating disorders are responsible for more loss of life than any other psychological illness. The increase of these deaths certainly correlates with the increasing celebration of perfection of the rich and famous as we are continuously and increasingly distracted from what is really important.

So, stop it, Summers! Stop being aesthetically deceptive to shift your filthy slag pants, you immoral bunch of whores. I don't subscribe to the magazines that make me feel shit, so I certainly don't want this   load of falsified literal arse forced in my face.

If I don't get that mannequin removed by the end of the month, I'm going to eat more cake than is recommended to sedate the pain of feeling aesthetically worthless.

It's a Catch 22.

Red Yellow

Wet sang naive Yellow,
But when it comes to you,
I think of skin, sallow,
And the damage you do.
The Race has begun,
Now, where is the nurse?
At night he hydrates,
The rouge taking purse.

Your life is a mess,
But you have an idea.
I can't see this car crash;
And the premature pyre.
You say things are good;
Midnight guffaws,
But she doesn't care either,
Her judgement is poor.

Awash with faux glee,
As you egg lover on,
Cue denial-in-duality,
A duo lost; gone.
For one who loves you,
In her own special way,
You grab on tight, too,
It's acceptable this fray?

When those ravaged bags,
Betray the gifted scriber,
A liver transplant,
Best have a buyer.
For when I see this,
I shake my head in pity,
For one with your skills,
And nothing in kitty.

You steal and you lie,
All be it in good rib,
But I'm tired my friend,
Of this permanent glib.
What are you to do?
The future pretends,
It looks toxic for you.
We know how this ends.

If I had the strength,
To fight for your corner,
I'd drag it forcehenth,
Frogmarch the former.
So wake up young Bear,
What are you to do?
When tox is blackened,
Repairable too?

You're lazy and lost,
But aware of the pain,
My eyes they are bleeding,
Emotion no-feign.
So look in the mirror:
The eyes have no killer,
You're forgetting the future,
Now magenta's the filler.

Crab Apple

The de ja vu of one just like you,

Makes me feel like a dunce; Investment undo!

Repeat my fall, as you point to a future,

In stroking me gently, I let in your nurture.

The mistake I have made again and again,

Never hardens against this ardour of feign.

And then the calls stop; sharp cleavered sever,

Nudging you gently, but left on a tether.

You look for a muse and one to bleed dry,

But the poet is void; in a mortal high.

It trumps up it’s being; is pleased with itself,

Your chaos, eternal, teeters on shelf.

And now I am scorned, there’s nothing worse.

Get out of my head; extol with the verse.

Will I learn of the centric; the shells on the rock?

In opening too soon, I’m left on the dock.

So I’ll be as honest, as I always am,

And declare that these tricks are truly a sham.

I can’t be prey to this convenient affection,

You won’t find me playing pyrite persuasion.

Back from the USSR

Imagine knowing that your forthcoming year was going to be hellish. No surprises; it's there laid out for you to see. An over-hanging sense of dread that creeps into your mind when you're undistracted. Constant almost. Like a mayoral chain fastened from leaded shit; paraded around in a paranoid state.

I knew 2012 was going to be possibly my most difficult year yet since it's incarnation. For legal reasons, yes legal reasons, I am unable to talk about things that happened to me, and then subsequently things that were done to me out of my control. All this occurred during November, since then life has been a collection of uncertainties with my usual focus being completely blurred. It's horrid. I can't see.

...But in the meantime, we battle on, roll with the punches, try to survive, (move to Estonia, move back from Estonia)...take every day as it comes and try to ascertain some form of control when everything - in your reality - is chaos. You feel the world is conspiring against you, and your spine folds with the weight of the heaviest breath.

This year will be hell. So rack up the cheesecake and fuck me senseless.

TBC.

Stinker

The stench of your feet makes me gag as I enter.
The food in your beard, I think it's polenta.
I've never met a man as bogan as you.
You're wearing my socks, and inside, I spew.
And the whiff when I wake is burning my brain,
It flattens my Monday like the Chernobyl rain.
I know my board and beverage is free for the taking,
But this noxious contempt makes me question my faking.
For I'm not you mother, and I don't wipe your arse,
And I'm not your lover, the respect would be sparse.
So get in the shower and scrub yourself with brillo,
Or soon you will wake, your face pushed in pillow.
And please wash away the grime of discontent,
Because I'm giving up pity this Easter for lent.