The Outsider Inside.

An abandoned hostess trolley to one side of a shin high

Smoked glass occasional table

Reflects a jostle of trinkets

Somethings to dust when the telly bible bores

Cloying, intrusive, wonky

The filthy mirror makes her want to tell lies about herself

Not sad skinny, bare bibs behind long hair

A modern day lady Godiva; all posh phony pony and pig pink skin

But behind her brush stroked browns jazz with orange

And cobweb greys give her away

Memories of other peoples’ mother’s houses,

When they are not home but she is there,

With them, alone

Working them up like a spider, leaking blood to build bone

Don’t give her a lecture on the romantics, things smell wrong

If the room could talk, a caricatured voice would say

“Don’t interrupt the themes, however crazy it seems

Try to match the furniture and just subsume”

But she wouldn’t know,

To whom.

Roving

The feast is untouched, like a web in a copse,

But my fingers are greasy and aging.

The spiders of my mind

Are spilling homemade wine,

Stains drip heavy and red from the table.

The fixation on change is an old one I know,

Running determined yet blind toward tomorrow,

Dewdrops of jewellery, wink the sunrise, so

I can’t stop the ache to get roving.

Fruits fall, unpicked by tender hands,

Berries ferment in the dog days of summer.

Life is lush and darkest green with leisure,

Still a tugging on silk strings pull onward

To a lust for faraway buried treasure.

The future has seen, what I was supposed to have been,

As the buzz of a thousand flies start their swarming,

And so home is lost to me now, as I nomad my plan

To follow the river wherever she goes flowing.

A to Z of kisses

A is for an anonymous stranger coming close,

B is for the brief air breeze that wakes me from a doze.

C is for curtness, colder than a cut

D is for dangerous, the kiss that stops a ‘but’.

E is for empty, it’s in the kisses that you can tell

F is for frenzied ones that make soft lips swell.

G is for those guzzling with rude sucky noises,

H is for horrid

I is for insisting that I join in,

J is for the juvenile, sloppy learning mess.

K is for the killer kiss that leads your heart astray.

L lingers lazy on my sheets all day.

M is for the memorable kisses that never go away.

N is for the noses getting in the way,

O is for opening up to let a woman inside

P is for passionate roaring pleasure with lipstick applied.

Q is for those quizzical kisses searching for information.

U for something understood, silent and patient.

V is a vicious stinging, deep in a darkened bed,

W is wet and slippery desire being fed.

X for who like lips spiced with extra lust,

Y is for yes and finally consenting to feel

Z is for the zenith, climax of the zeal.

Bright and sharp is the call of the bell; hard and smart is its sting.

                                                                                The forest is death cold, damp and so choked that I am blind for more than a few footsteps ahead. The leaf mould floor is so thick with decomposition that I stumble dragging my legs through fungal soup.  Smells of earth stink up my nostrils; sweet decay follows every move I make.  I have been lost here all my life. Since I first crawled out of from between a trees split roots as a newborn fool. Since she left me here longer ago than I can now remember; my breasts stinging with our first contact. 

                                                            Birds shriek about sex and territory but I don’t listen, all I do is keep looking.  I see a shadow eclipse the moonlight and open my mouth to call her name but only butterflies come out. 

      She is hiding, behind a smooth trunk of an elephant shaped beech don’t ask me how I know.  I lock on, lethal fever joy flushing through my chest.  I surge toward her my heart pounding as angry pine branches tear at my clothes. Bright beads of blood jewel up my filthy skin but keep going. In my mind’s eye I can see her, grinning with childie delight at my approach, preparing to jump out and surprise me. Finally I am through the thicket, cut and ruined but there, hesitating behind the tree that harbours her. I throw my arms around it, long and loose, to feel the beat of her squeal, but only naked bark welcomes my embrace. All that is left of her is the scent of her skin to encourage me.

Bright and sharp is the call of the bell; hard and smart is its sting.

She keeps the game going, lures me on a trail in the undergrowth. Longing to fall against moss with her mouth inside mine, I keep moving.  A spider has used one of her hairs to weave a signpost into it’s home, her clever fingers are as deft and subtle, but I recognise every bright filament.  I take off what is left of the tatters of my shoes, to rummage deep into the sticky mud with my toes, where she stood to signal me.  The rude sounds of the sucking wet soil help me piece together the fragments of the fading memories.

                                           Ours was a precarious affair, full of bitter revenge and feminine fears, we slept in ditches, rolling among soily grass roots, opened our eyes to stare down bruised skies at dawn. She was huge, fertile as a boar, able to ferret out my concealed things with her curved and wicked tusks. We never had enough of skin sliding against skin, of fragrant sticky nests under arms and between legs.  She picked every flower she could find to press between my creases, fragrant petals crushed into a rich pungent paste.    

                                                               Suddenly I hear her carelessly snap a twig somewhere to my left and my naked feet plough the soft ground running to catch her. I pretend I will scold her now for playing so ruthless when both of us are tired. Tired of missing the honey whispers of hot breath into silky hair.  A badger eyes me balefully and I know why none of the woodland creatures are disturbed by my presence, I smell like I belong to them. Why does she not come? What am I, if I am not hers? Whose story am I in, if not a story of us? Where else is there beside the softened mossy rocks of our copse? 

Bright and sharp is the call of the bell; hard and smart is its sting.

                                                                                                   

                                                                          I lie down to beg the ground, beating the wet soil with fists and feet. “Why me?”  I call down into a rabbit hole to her “I’ll do anything.” I choke on lungfuls of dirty air and whisper bravely as I can, my pitch too desperate high. “I give up; you win. Come, I need you back.”

                                                                          As I crouch there in the bramble of scrub, a wet thorn branch tangles in my hair forcing my head backwards sharply. I moan out loudly hoping it is her come back to provoke my desire, but she is not there. She is not coming.

                                                                                              Finally tears fill the cavities of my face. I am ashamed of what I have become. I know she will crow when she sees me crying, after all the tears she shed for me, but I have nowhere left to look.  I pull away the last rag of what were once my clothes and enjoy the sharp acid sting of the cold night.                                            

She is gone; I must forget her.                                                

bully girl

I was bullied as a child.

Taunted with names as many are.

So I learned to bully back.

Learned the sweet thrill

Of pinching soft nipples too hard.

I grew with the power to wound.

Attractive to the weak and the teary.

I loved myself powerful and

It seemed I was loved in return,

But some people still spurned me.

Why those others interested me

More than those who liked me

I could not comprehend.

Perverse wanting what you’ve not got

Maybe, or perhaps in your heart you just know.

The self-assured did not like me

They could see how I always talked about me

How I never admitted to any flaw

How I could never let my hair down

And just naked be me.

The more these people walked away

The more I wanted only them.

The more I pursued them with my

Usual ploys of gifts and cajolery,

The more I saw them run.

Eventually I had to explore

That they knew more about me than I did.

Knew what I was up to, my tricks,

My techniques for making them my prisoner,

That they were too wise to be caught in my spider lies.

So I let it go and with it went

All the glorious swag my blag had bought me.

I had to learn to simply be nice

To be selective in my friends

To be only, easily hurt me.

Now when people try to bully me

I bare my teeth, but I understand

Why they choose this niche.

That the journey away is hard and long and often cold

But every fighting dog, one day gets old.

goggle box

goggle box

by majikle

My TV is a pit-bull dog

Locking on its jaws,

It is a stealthy burglar

Rifling through my drawers

My TV is a space alien borg

All futility of resistance,

It’s hydroponic dopey skunk with

No points for persistence

My TV is a car alarm

Drowning out other creatures,

It’s a coke-a-cola sugar rush

Disguised with social features

My TV is air conditioning

Taking over from a real sky,

It’s an earworm of a lyric

That has no one shouting “why?”

My TV is a stringy thong

With no sympathy for soft tissue,

It is an endless row of chain link fence

When pushing together is the issue

My TV was not born bad,

 It’s the best oracle I ever had

But so much is only tinsel dust,

And desire isn’t love; it’s just lust.