Friday, 22 January 2010


I cannot hear her voice; with desperate fists it
forces its way through the jumble of too many people.
No. Cold fear is my glass cage before the bars shatter.
With a surprised smile you are already away and
I was not there to stop you.

I push past the confused perfume and gossip curls, Move!
Frozen incompetence in yellow light, with cold eyes
for my rudeness. I stumble from the doorstep,
bare feet graze and Oh. Just a laugh at my slowness.
There you are.

Stamping bells and a thudding heart for my guilt.
I suck in the leave mould shadows, follow
your colourful echoes - she is not far behind -
but I’m pushing against air Please The danger;
you are too too near,

And then I have your sleeve. At the corner the clocks stop
For one whole second. Innocent eyes Thank you
in the dappled sun but I cannot catch your gaze.
Your warmth against my palm is a reminder.
No, she does not blame me.


Thursday, 21 January 2010

That picture reminds me of what I'm missing. Sometimes I wonder why I keep it.

The Rain Children.

With blue fingers, one small hand plucks at the vessel passing below its bed and tears at its edge. The ragged fingernails close tight around the tattered scrap and three pairs of liquid eyes watch the drop of water as it trickles from between the thin fingers and rolls, flashing, through the air.
Delight flicks them awake and they tumble from their beds, scrambling over each other in their hurry. Small eyes alight with mischief, small bodies tight with anticipation, small mouths wide with excitement. They land with soft thuds on the swollen body and roll and stumble over the hills and dips and scream with elation as the heavy cotton yields beneath them and the water droplets collect and fall, one by one by one. Their laughter wakes others who jumble to join them in a disarray of skinny bodies and translucent limbs. Bare feet pound the heavy mass below them. Eager fingers squeeze at the hunched edges. Wide eyes follow the round transparent diamonds as they seep from the soaked fabric and drop to the ground far below.
The wind teases the crooked curls and fly away locks as the pointed faces peer over the sides and giggle with glee. With sparkling laughter of ocean spray, with climbing cries of seagull joy, with butterfly chuckles of morning springs they voice their ecstasy.
Down below, the world is drenched. Heavy droplets thud against the concrete and smack at the dripping leaves. Miniature waves ripple across broken surfaces. Cracks and crevices become cups for the thirsty to sip from, overspilling their crystal wine to the dark earth.
Dilated irises of morning dew blink and crease and smile as the world drinks it's fill. The sound of clapping hands is hidden in the rattle of the raindrops against tiles. The children dance in their sodden rapture as the bodies below scurry to hide and cower and cover from the wet.

One being's delight is another being's depression. At times.

Sunday, 17 January 2010

"But did you know,
That when it snows,
My eyes become large and
The light that you shine can be seen."

Friday, 15 January 2010

"It is unlawful to enter areas that do not exist without permission of illusory installation commanders."

Monday, 11 January 2010

The Snow Maidens.

With soft, cold fingers they shower the delicate flakes of lace through the nets at their feet and watch them float and spin their way down to rest on the harsh surfaces below. Rough grain planks are laid with white table cloth. Sharp slim blades are dusted with shredded tissue sugar. Burning dark tiles are padded with thick blanket bolsters. Their blue lips stretch into small smiles as they see the hurting colours laid over with the ivory scraps of cotton they have spent so long knitting together.
With eyelashes coated with sticky spun sugar, with hair twisted into cushioned curls, with nails slicked with candy clear, they laugh and dance as their works of art spin and slim through the air. When they tire of their work they sit, their heels tucked close to their satin-silk skin under their cobweb skirts, and breathe tantalizing fog kisses over the peach flames to the reaching arms of the winds. As the piles of beautiful slips of pure fabric diminish, sent in whirling handfuls to twist along the winds’ light bodies and tease their covetous fingers, the maidens stretch their long bodies and release their hair and laze in soft sprawls on the thick pillows. They coil their arms around the hills of their remaining possessions and with idle fingers sprinkle the residual flakes over the edges of their vessel to be snatched from the heavens by desiring hands and melted against yielding lips.
Far below, the world sinks under a duvet of purity. Sleepless eyes watch the beauty of the maiden’s display settle with light feet on every surface. As the show ends, the last slivers alighting on frozen corners, the citrus light throbs and fades. The maidens lounge in drowsy lengths, their vessel slowly bearing them west, their fires flickering and dying, as the winds wrap their strong arms around them and rest their heads on soft curves.


It’s eleven pm. And yet it’s as light outside as if it were morning. The sky is a light, cloud grey and the light cast on the heavy blanket of snow, wherever it’s coming from, is a peachy orange. I am meant to be asleep, and yet all I can think about is the snow and the light and the sound my feet would make crunching through the drifts. Where is this light coming from? Why is it bathing this winter wonderland with its citrus-tasting glow? I want to know the answer. But I know I won’t get one. In my head it is the snow maidens in the clouds, lighting their fires to keep themselves warm throughout their work. Plausible enough for me.

Sunday, 10 January 2010


A couple of words on a postcard-sized image, and my throat constricts and my eyes well with tears.
If this is one of those things, can't it be more specific? I keep thinking the world is giving me instructions and I keep wondering if I'm misreading them...
The pictures in my head don't connect well to real life. I think of what I would say and the responses, and I imagine the emotions on the faces and the feeling behind the gestures, and then I realize that in reality all would be awkwardness.

These little things that make me rethink are going to have to work harder to persuade me. It's one thing to pull at someone's heartstrings, but how do you know you're playing the right song?


Something in my room just sang at me. It wasn't my phone or my laptop, and it wasn't my mp3 or my camera.
I'm slightly worried...

Tuesday, 5 January 2010

How do you tell people they've got it wrong?

A letter?
The piece of paper is still sitting on my desk, the crease making it perch uncomfortably on it's side like a handicapped butterfly. It wavers slowly in the breeze and as I watch it I feel myself expect it suddenly to leap off the stained wood and lance it's way towards me through the cold air. I flinch and then turn away, shaking my head, berating myself for being such a cowardly fool. It sits in hungry silence and shouts it's spider-track words at my head.
I fear it. I abhor it. I crumple it in my hand an let it drop to the floor. The dog pats it with its paw. I watch as he takes it in his mouth and wanders out into the garden. That's where it belongs, with the dogs. I know who it was from. But it wasn't even signed, anyway.

A text?
My phone vibrates and I flick it open to stare in amazement at the number on the screen, then with growing shock at the words. Who do they think they are? The anger grows with the shock and I know there is more behind the simple message the text permits, but I cannot bear to think that this person, this person of all people, would dare do this to me. I slam the phone shut and throw it on the bed and clench my fists and my teeth.
Later my mother calls me for dinner and we argue, my anger taking itself out on her. Three hours later and I delete the text, do not privilege this person with an answer. But the rage has cut me deep. And for nights I do not sleep.

A mail?
The black letters shiver across the screen and I realize that it is my tears that are making them do so. My fingers dance across the keyboard and my throat tightens as I send the mail I know I will not get a reply to.

In person?
Gold glow contradicts words. My heart is in my throat and my nails are digging into my palms. Sitting opposite me, the words ripple from soft lips like poison water. I cannot understand the reasoning. Are not the painful cracks and broken pieces evident? What is it that entertains the opinion that I am wrong? Concentrating on the lecture is hard. Those hands push aside the heavy air to accentuate the words, and I think I see the slow-tracks they leave behind. Leave me alone. Go home. You confuse me.

Monday, 4 January 2010

"And like a ten minute dream in the passenger seat
While the world was flying by
I haven’t been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime."

Remembering last Christmas.

It’s the long dark nights out and the Christmas lights indoors. It’s my heavy black coat and the grey fingerless gloves tucked into the lining. It’s my mobile phone sitting silent at my bed side and the lack of connectivity on my laptop. It’s the words flicking up onto the screen and the rain at my window. It’s the image of New Years Eve and the lack of recipient for my odd thoughts.

Sea you.

I feel too weary fight it at times, and as the salt water rises and licks long grooves into the tired rock, I sit and watch the waves crash with relentless strength against the grey stones that do not yield, but, as time goes by, wear down and down to the crystal shards that litter the ground at my feet.
I stare with heavy eyes at the tiny pieces of former strength that whisper against my bare feet. They click and slick against each other, rubbing each other down even as they lie in broken flints against the remaining, rounded stones. I stare until my heavy eyes mist and fog and I watch the mass of separate pieces mould and sink into a swirling sheet of grey-brown. A collection of failure. Until the glowing green catches my eye.
Out of the brown rises a bright fragment of brilliant colour. And as I cradle it in my palm, while the waves continue to crash around me and the stones rush and snap against each other, I hear the wind falter and the air grow calm. I gaze wonder at this flawed beauty in my fingers. And this is what I walk away with. Time and time again.
My grey fingerless gloves are tucked into the lining of my heavy black winter coat. They slipped through the hole in the pocket all those months ago before I put my coat into the loft, and they hold in their knitted palms the memories of last winter...
“There’s a place I go when I’m alone, do anything I want, be anyone I want to be. But it’s us I see and I cannot believe I’m falling.”

Christmas morning.

At about 7 15ish this morn I got woken up by my two sisters jumping on my bed with their stockings and shouting, “It’s Christmas morning! Stockings, stockings! Wake up!” 7 30, with little presents and sweets littering my bedclothes, I sent a text round to each of my friends, and now, five hours later, the replies are still raining in. Each time I come upstairs another alert has popped up on my screen heralding a Christmas cheer text, or else a question mark. “Sorry, lost all the numbers on my phone.” “Who are you..?” I suppose Christmas is as good a time as any to remind people you’re still alive.
The smell of Christmas lunch is drifting up the stairs. What is it about Christmas that makes it impossible to be grumpy or depressed? I feel almost cheated. But there isn’t much room for that either. Music (not Christmas music, I hasten to add) is making my head bop and my fingers keep on typing out happy thoughts. Oh well. Roll with it. Go with the flow! It’s Christmas.

Car journey

Everything changes when you’re ill, you know? Curled in the back of the car, with a thick scarf and a blackberry lollipop, watching the cars cruise along around me, and I suddenly realize that what the man in the van behind sees is a twentyish year old female snuggled up against a fluffy cushion with a lollipop in her mouth. And suddenly I feel small. Small and stupid. But then, do I care? My head is sending abort signals to my stomach, my throat and nose are refusing to cooperate, and behind my eyes a group of industrious little men are building up a great thumping pile of weight-soaked sponges that just sit. And seep an ache into my jaw and along my teeth. No, I do not care. Rather, I relish the childish lack of consideration for other’s opinion.
Besides. I like blackberry lollipops.