[INSERT TITLE HERE]

The Push

2011-01-28T15:49:00.000Z

Everybody knows.
They hear in your prayers
silent voices, that stop
you, right where you stand,
staring out to sea.

Everybody sees
the scars that bare your soul,
in the light of morning
and touch eyes, so full
of Sorrow’s darkness.

Everybody knows,
the words you softly speak,
eyes closed tightly against
black, that caresses
all atrocities.

Everybody sees
your broken body lie,
disassembled, by your
thoughts, scouring a pit
of mournful anguish.

Still unsure of the title what do you think?

JC

New Buttons

2010-08-07T22:26:00.003+01:00

Yo, I've made the additions of these little 'reaction' buttons on here, so we can just go through everything and if we haven't got loads of time to write lengthy comments straight away, then we can just indicate to each other if we think something is great or needs a little or more than a little reworking. Major criticism can be substantiated at a later date - but I think this is a good plan for the moment.

LENBEN

Possibly Iambic definitely Pentameter

2010-08-07T22:17:00.001+01:00

Pictures on the wall
Snap-Shots of our life,
A Smile or grimace
Stolen Forever.

Trace the dotted lines
Join the numbers up.
Where X marks the spot,
A sweet tale to tell?

You Already Know;
Prepared for the lies
Well listen herein
I have a surprise.

Luna

Look at me, I'm Wonderful

2010-06-29T14:27:00.000+01:00

Please don’t hurt me with your cut-backs,
You’re cut-up and I’m fed-up with your emotions
- feelings just don’t appeal.

You’re the one who stands aloof,
An effigy of everything you think I want,
Suggesting I faint at your beauty.

I fell in love with a mirror first,
No one has quite since met my standards.
I don’t need to be rescued.

Look at me. I'm wonderful

LENBEN

The Picture

2010-06-29T14:26:00.000+01:00

He stares at me all the time I’m there,
Never stops to blink,
But what is the expression on his face?
The answer to that plagues us both.

Perhaps the bitter beer he holds reflects his mood,
Or maybe the subtle way his lips are parted
Just about to say, to tell me something.

At times I see him change.
I remember the widening of his eyes
(Reminds me of popcorn)
Whilst I undress.

The smile that fades when I leave
And creeps to the corners of his face on return.
Still slightly brooding, but always content
A fraction of a second captured, mine forever.

LENBEN

2010-06-29T14:24:00.002+01:00

Placid, waxen skin, shrivelling and yellow.
Sunken eyes that do not see,
Pale and glazed as ice on a pond.
Or the icing on a burnt cake.
Lips that cannot smile;
Dry, cracking and wrinkled,
From distant days spent laughing.
Hollow bones holding out.
Those sleepless nights spent sleeping.
Gnarled fingers clenched in pain,
Like cracking open walnut with walnut.

The mast is raised.
Sails are flying.
A faint breeze grows
And it’s time to go

I will soar once more; my shackles broken.
I breathe easy; so young, so strong.
The sun warms me through, hair shining, eyes glinting.
A new bud blossoming, a seed shooting through.
I am spring.
In death so alive.

LENBEN

Life Goes On

2010-06-29T14:24:00.001+01:00

They couldn't see through the fog
above them neither could their star,
waiting by the phone sat the boy
next to him was the man
standing by the door
looking for a glimpse of light

with the dawn comes day light
which temporarily disperses fog
as the letters come through the door
the dark has gone, but not their star
silent tears blossom from the man
he finds comfort from his boy

who smiles, but the boy
can see a faint light
and helps the man
to blow away the acid fog
so together they can see their star
and stop waiting for the opening of the door

the world is locked out, they barred the door
plunged into darkness a helpless boy
slicing his heart, where is his star?
rotting away, out with the light
choking his smile was the smothering fog
The boy needed the man

for shoulder to cry on, but the man
continued to mourn by the door
He couldn't see for the fog
as it blocked out his boy
crushing out his light
The death of an old star

gleaming ahead is a new star
for a young man
who has found a light
His past a closed door
he is no longer a boy
his spirits lift, as does the fog

The star will always throb above their door
watching as the boy becomes a man
With the illuminating light from within, there is no more fog.

LENBEN

untitled

2010-06-29T13:56:00.002+01:00

It ebbs at the edge of my memory
on the tip of my tongue,
lurking just out of sight

It's my carrot

My wires coil ever tighter
because my screw is not loose
and I haven't lost lost my marbles

(just everything else)

LENBEN

Soul

2010-06-26T00:13:00.001+01:00

Cradling my soul in my hands I move forward with trepidation, petrified I might trip and send it skidding across the unrelenting floor. In my hands something precious. A part rarely seen out of body. Soul in hands, heart in mouth I move forward, wishing I could embrace the fear that shudders through my being.

My soul an underdeveloped child wrapped in the warm embrace of my shaky fingers’ steepled roof. A scant protection from the elements but all I can do in this panicked state.

JC

What am I going to do with you?

2010-06-23T12:09:00.001+01:00

What am I going to do with you?
Fill up the kettle and make us a brew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Sit down beside you and wait for your cue,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Listen to you carefully as I know you are few,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Stand up above you and wonder the view,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Touch your skin gently and wipe off the dew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Study your skin tone and worry the hue,
that’s what I am going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Listen to your day with Support Worker Sue,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Lift up your cow mask and laugh at your moo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Encourage you promptly to go to the loo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Pinch my nose tightly and say ‘smelly poo’,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Feel my frustration and call you a Jew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Feed you to lions for a good chew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you

What am I going to do with you?
Slice you in half so you become two,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Slice you up neatly and cook you,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Put your pieces in some beef and ale stew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Melt you down quickly and box up the goo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Mix it all up and start you anew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

M☻g

June 2010

Soul Numbers

2010-05-10T11:09:00.004+01:00

I like writing poetry with words
and numbers.
1,
10,
100,
1,000
10,000
100,000
1,000,000

A mountain of numbers each one symbolic in my mind
Ever increasing numbers of my dreams.
One
Ten
One hundred
One thousand
Ten thousand
One hundred thousand
One million.

The same mountain
parallel in words.
But different in my soul
and different in my dreams.

Words in numbers can’t fill my soul
Like digits of numbers fills my dreams.

M☻g

109

2010-02-21T12:17:00.003Z

109
One hundred and nine
That would have been lovely.

1009
One thousand and nine
Definitely do-able.

10,009
Ten thousand and nine
Scary but a climbable mountain.

109,000
One hundred thousand
With Nine thousand
Odd figures not included
(at this stage).

100k
Just meaningless figures
On a page of
An unknown life
By an unknown man
Who lives with me?

100k
One hundred thousand pounds
Struck heavily, pulverized
Into months and years
of debt that
I don’t know
I never knew
But should have.

100,000
One hundred thousand
Building daily by interest
Accrued by institutions
Who neither know nor care
About me.

23,400
Seconds sitting in crowded waiting
Rooms hopeful for advice
And praying for salvation.
Avoiding others eyes
Wondering.

100,000
times
Are they as bad as us?
Are they fucked too?
Are they as old,
As tired, as desperate,
And probably homeless
As me.

Mog

Blocked

2010-02-20T20:59:00.001Z

There’s a space in my head that’s aching to be heard
an echoing want that fills my nostrils
with the bitter flavour of ineptitude.

A freezing silence follows when my mind fears to tread,
in a space so personal that my throat constricts my body heaves
and waves of inertia brake off my bow.

I am an open sore oozing my stagnant creativity
over the world, a grotesque monument to my own cowardice.
I slink into the shadows of a mundane existence

hoping like hell the small part that feels like home
will not desert me because of its under-use
and my abhorrence of well earned attention.

This is just a little something right out of my head. Not great I know but it says something about how I feel right now. Any comments would be good.

JC

Poo in my Pants

2010-02-11T19:59:00.002Z

I have poo in my pants.
It's that brown persistent
skiddy that comes
from ineffective bottom
wiping.

Why does it always
happen when I wear
white underwear?
Or is it just not
noticeable on my black
ones.

Guess the only answer
is the sniff test.

Three Cherries

2010-02-09T14:58:00.001Z

The Morning After

2010-02-02T08:41:00.000Z

My craving lasted all of two minutes. As the warm liquid flowed down my throat I knew I had made a mistake. The toxic concoction hit my stomach and it convulsed instantly. My body heaved its contents back up to my throat feeling more sinister than it had on the way down. I made it to the sink just in time to revisit my bad flavour combination on the stainless steel surface, splashing minute droplets up the sides I would have to rinse away later. The sight of my own vomit set off another chain of heaving that retrieved leftover food I did not remember eating.

It was the last time I would let Dave pay his rent in weed.

The kitchen was a blur of light spots on my vision as the convulsions slowed to a stop and I sank to the floor. The cool tiles felt good against my bare legs and I wondered how much better they would feel on my face.

I lay my head to rest gently on the cold hard surface of the tile and momentarily shut my eyes. The smooth surface felt magical against my skin. The hard unyielding surface let my cheek meld to its form its resistance reassuring against my unsteady body. Its strength made me vulnerable, fragile somehow. It felt as though someone could come along and squash me like a bug against its surface and not leave a dent. They could pound my head repeatedly against its unyielding surface until my vision blurred into nothing. Or had that happened already?

JC

The Sphynx Who Fucked the World

2010-01-28T12:33:00.004Z

Frozen mid-pounce into recumbence
The failed twist of a tongue
Strangulates to cleanse the master race
Spawn of Chimaera told it true
An equinoctial marker of evil,
Not a goddess, but a demon
Paralysed by brilliant rays
of an omnipotent sun.
Waiting for the day the darkness comes,
Sphynx beast will stir awake,
To cross the bright beam threshold
to let shadows strangle fools; laughing.
Her plastic allegiance with man
Ripped forth from the womb of Mother Earth.

Luna

Dysmorphia

2010-01-28T12:28:00.000Z

">Dysmorphia

Scrutinising in despair

Her naked reflection:

The cellulite that might be

In two, ten or twenty years,

Hair that shines like gold,

That might turn silver... or grey.

The deep furrows that burn into her skin.

Lines that etch her frown and each anxiety;

Cold desert cunt, false teeth smile and prescription lenses,

Scrutinising in despair

Her naked reflection.

Tits too small, yet sinking slowly

To their rendezvous with the navel,

Perhaps those hidden rolls of fat

May concertina over stomach

And ripple down thighs -

A tsunami plague of pies and cake,

A self obsessed depression.

She scrutinises in despair,

Her fated reflection.

Luna

Postcard Fiction Take 2

2010-01-23T23:10:00.002Z

The Box Room

The clouds hung low and cloying just beyond the window creating a blanket to smother the light from the tiny box room. The lemon yellow walls fought to brighten the gloom highlighting the cavorting bears along the border. Their dance had turned into a sinister war dance provoking the bruised sky into tapping at the window with fresh splodges of rain.

The brown packing box stood in the centre of dismantled furniture and partly packed away toys and mobiles. Neatly folded and placed with care is a pair of dungarees, a small white cardigan with matching booties and tiny hat, lovingly knitted by Grandma. All are deliberately placed with baby grows and blankets smoothed flat with quiet purpose as the rain smeared windows slowly darkened.

The Dumped Duck

2010-01-23T20:18:00.003Z

This is the result of a 5 minutes exercise that JC and I did today at her local pub. The idea for this was base your postcard fiction in a pub. We both produced 2 pieces of work (see http://curiouslyspeaking.blogspot.com/ and http://moggie711.blogspot.com/ for the other results.

The Dumped Duck

Mike suggested we go out to our local pub, Wetherspoons 'The Dumped Duck' for tea. I was pleasantly surprised as normally Mike thought eating out was frivolous.

He frowned as I chose lasagna and chips as he sensibly selected Cesar salad and presented his twenty percent off discount voucher. Mike was quiet and distracted as I talked about my day at work and an unusual patient who had come in for treatment.

'Are you OK Mike?' I asked.

'Not really Kas, I have something to tell you'.......

Catalogue of Ignorance

2010-01-17T19:52:00.003Z

I've got a catalogue of ignorance at home.

It sits in the corner and murmurs obscenities

from my mind.

Sometimes I long to read them out loud

whatever the consequences of announcing

my catalogue of ignorance to the world.

At each interview with authority

their questions of diversity demand

that I close my catalogue of ignorance

and open the big book of political

correctness instead.

This page turning blandness

rumbles out of my mouth

to impress and astound.

Yet my catalogue of ignorance

constantly struggles to be heard.

Its pages flickering and turning

like an ever gossiping mouth.

Drawing me into the corners

of my opinions and the reality

of my catalogue of ignorance.

M☻g

2010-01-12T22:16:00.000Z

The sun hung its head behind the blanket of clouds unable to shake the hours of slumber. A dull grey light filtered through the weakening in the clouds. The trees, usually sun dappled, looked wearied and every bit their age. The ancient boughs had seen many days such as these pass and fade away. They silently watched as the world continued to turn and it inhabitants ambled on to their inevitable demise. They stood, stoic, on the brink of destruction unblinking in the face of suffering. Inside them lay the key to survival, the energy that pulsed through their very fibre from earth to sky an untapped resource wasted by mere burning.

The Final Window

2010-01-10T22:00:00.003Z

Michael wakes as the early morning light illuminates the room. The corners are very dark but the cogs and spindle that remains of the once working windmill sit silently in the middle of the circular room. The room is cold but relatively dry as this windmill still has a complete roof and apart from gaps in the bricks on the higher floors where the wind whips around upstairs, the building is almost complete.

Michael had walked miles along the marsh country road with out a thought for shelter. His local town was becoming too dangerous particularly with the modern fashion of drunken youngsters beating up street people and filming it on their mobile phones. Michael couldn’t understand their obvious lack of humanity or how amused they appeared by the attacks. It was the most terrible modern voyeurism to which he was just bate.

Michael had been seized by a group of young men and women around the back of his favourite takeaway. The women bating the men to hit harder and in the most painful places and laughing as he fell and moaned at their assault. This was his regular call on a Saturday night as some of the staff would bring out any left over food and a couple of large cups of coffee at the end of the night. These young people seemed to be a different breed from the drunken revellers. Maybe it was because they were working rather than socialising but at least they could see him as a person not just an object to be ignored or abused. The young manager came out to recycle some cardboard and shouted loudly dispersing the baying crowd and probably saving his life. He got the green and white company first aid box and cleaned Michael’s eye and lip before offering some food and a coffee. The hot drink stung as his gulped it down and the greasy food sat in the pit of his stomach churning with his nerves still shattered by the attack.

The young manager thought that perhaps Michael hadn’t better visit them anymore as he would lose his job if they started to get lots of trouble late at night. He voice both apologetic and fearful.

Michael stared at the earnest young man and decided to leave the streets that he knew, the warm corners and the kind benefactors and find a nice place in the country to end his days. He walked north out of the town and headed towards the coast. It was a long day’s walk, one he had done before many years ago and never expected to do again. In the town he was mostly invisible. In the country everyone saw you. In the country there is just not enough people to hide between, too many noisy neighbours and interested bystanders.

He walked all night the first night; it was cold but the sky was clear and the stars beautiful. Michael tried to remember the names of the stars and the constellations. But no details returned. Michael found less and less details returned from his youth. He could just about remember the name and face of his mother but all that remained of his father was an angry face and a thick brown leather belt. His sister left home when he was very young and his sickly younger brother died suddenly causing his mother to cry relentlessly and the family to move home for the final time. His mother was never available to him after that and his father stopped screaming and shouting before leaving he left.

Michael never saw him again. Maybe he was still alive. It would not be impossible. Michael was just 52 so his father would be only in his early 70’s. Michael always wondered if he was in some nice little warden controlled bungalow; with a bossy rounded lady who visited daily to toast his toast, cut his sandwiches and grill his sausages. Michael imagined a kindly lady wearing a bright nylon apron pulled tight across her ample breasts. He imagined his father staring unspeaking at her shape and grunting monosyllabic in reply to her questions. His father determined to show he didn’t care if she called every day or not but really counting the minutes until her arrival.

His mother tried at first to provide them with the basics; meals of fish fingers and chips, packet soups that made pints and pints of thin tasteless broth with unidentifiable hardened lumps that burnt the top of the mouth and soaked up the staling bread to fill his stomach. But in time she could no longer manage these basic tasks and never seemed to have money beyond forty fags and Gordon’s gin. Sometimes she cried in apology to him; cried that she was a bad mother; cried for her lost boy. Other times she'd scream obscenities, blaming him for her lost husband, her lost daughter, her lost son and mostly her lost life.

Michael moved his right leg slightly to try and ease the searing pain in his foot. It burnt inwardly and up towards his swollen knee. One of the girls has kicked this knee with her bright red pointed heels and tottered away laughing hysterically. It hadn’t hurt at the time but as he walked the pain grew. It was too cold to roll up his trousers and examine the injury so Michael just hoped it would subside. Instead his foot began to throb and this final pain forced his need to find shelter for the night.

The windmill had obviously had some restoration but was an uncompleted project. It felt like no one had been there for a while and the door took little force to open. The sails were long gone and the roof a perfect little dome shape that had drawn him towards it in the gloomy dusk.

On the floor in the middle of the room sat a large pile of animal feed sacks. It took Michael little energy to pile these neatly into a bed. There roughness caught on his dry skinned hands but once piled together they created a supportive mattress. Michael unrolled his dirty but familiar sleeping bag. This had been donated by a local charity and had become his most cherished possession. Before his beloved sleeping bag he managed with newspapers and cardboard. It meant constantly searching for bedding during the day and desperately trying to hide them for after dark use.

Michael blinked as the sun shone quickly into through the window. He brought his arm out from within the sleeping bags and wiped his face. This knocked his brown knitted hat from his head onto the rough wooden floor of the mill. With just a small movement of his head Michael stared at the hat on the floor before returning his hand inside the bag. The back of his head and his hair now felt the roughness of the sacks and for a while he wanted to itch. But he concentrated hard to make the impulse go away.

Michael shivered for a moment before closing his eyes and drifting into a dreamless sleep only woken again by the light from the midday sun glaring onto his face. He thought that perhaps by now he should want to pee but he had no such desire. He tried to remember his last drink and realised it was probably the scorching hot coffee he had gulped just after his attack. The sick feeling in his gut returned with the memory.

Michael felt his eye sting against the brightness and blinked to alleviate their dryness. It did not work and instead he forced them shut tightly, scrunching up his face in the process. It felt good. The eye closed darkness giving him comfort.

The pain in his right leg and foot nagged relentlessly and his fingers and toes throbbed in accompaniment. Michael wanted to return to his dreams and memories but they were resistant to him now. He no longer felt the need to open his eyes or move his body, preferring instead the dark and stillness of his current position.

For just a moment he wished he laid on his side, legs curled up and foetal like, yet was unable to move from the stretched out straight, laid on back position that now froze him. He just wanted to make one last move, one last gesture to the world. The thought was strong but the message to move his arms was weak. He shouted in his head to move; he urged his limbs to move; he ordered them.

And inch by inch his right and left arms crept up his inert body. His finger tips felt the roughness of the sacks; the parallel lines of his chunky cords and the dampness of his heavy overcoat. Each move was in slow motion; his fingertips dragging along the alien materials to touch momentarily before crossing over on his chest. And for a moment he felt the beating of his heart. Michael felt the gentle pulse that seemed disconnected to him.

With his arms folded neatly across his chest and gently cupping his bony shoulders Michael listening to the beating. Thump, thump, thump. The regular but slowing rhythm giving him comfort.

Michael thought about sleep; he craved to drift away; to sleep in this safe haven, away from people; in a place built by workers; by people from another time who earned an honest living, supporting each other within family and community to feed themselves from the land. He thought about them grinding wheat inside this building, creating a constant cloud around them, breathed in and swept up and together. He tasted the dust and floor on his lips, licking away the dryness with the tip of his tongue.

Michael heard the sounds of the wheels as they turned the grinding cogs. He heard the wheat crushed into submission. He felt the floor shudder with each rotation of the mechanism and the screaming of the machinery as it forced into work. Each turn pains his bones; each turn warming his soul; each turns slows his heart; each turn raising his spirits.

M☻g

Traitor Cake

2009-11-27T17:36:00.002Z

Ingredients:

4 oz of pride

4 oz Resentment

4 oz of jealousy

1 tsp of Treachery

2 misunderstandings

A sprinkle of malice

Pre-heat you oven to 180C/350F/Gas 4.

Place the pride, resentment and treachery in a bowl and mix until creamed and pale.

Slowly add the misunderstandings, stirring vigorously to make sure the mixture does not coddle.

Fold in the jealousy.

Pour into a lightly greased baking dish and place in the oven for 20-25 minutes or until the cake is sufficiently browned off.

Remove from oven and leave to cool. Lastly sprinkle the malice to decorate and then it is ready to serve.

By Firelight

2009-11-16T13:15:00.004Z

By Firelight

I feel the leaves crackle beneath my feet.

I look up and find you

haloed in fire light.

Your effervescent glow in the raging bonfire

fills me with a heat not known

by mere flickering flame.

The sun has set behind me,

the last vestiges of day have finally given up

their steely grasp on the expectant revellers.

They mill about the firelight

like moths drawn to its warm embrace.

I stand clear in the newly formed shadow

watching, the light catch your hair

as the soft tendrils dance

in the breeze of the chilled evening.

You move around the crowd

capturing all those you look upon.

I wonder when it was that you first seized

my heart and clamped it in your fist.

A tight embrace I would never relinquish.

Darkness takes the party,

the smell of burning permeates the air.

You and the firelight are the only barriers

to the cold night that seeps in

around our small gathering.

Hushed watchers huddle protectively,

both anxious and enthralled

by evening’s soft kiss on their cheek,

a tender stroke of its cold fingers down their necks

trails along their slender arms nestled against chests.

A shiver passes through your body

though you do not flinch,

just smile into the encroaching darkness

in anticipation of further delights

offered only in dark hours.

The sky explodes into life

illuminating the grounds once more,

touching all the faces with hues of green and red.

You see my face illuminated in man-made stars

destined to burn out in a heartbeat.

Your eyes penetrate my being

sending the cacophony of many fireworks

skittering to the back of my mind.

Our breath holds us, sentinels

watching the world catch light

and burn around us.

Reflected in your eyes I see myself

rooted, as the light of the world

rains down on me

and for a moment it is beautiful.

SHC

2009-10-04T11:37:00.005+01:00

What ever happened to the man in the untouched chair
with burnt out legs, his top half staring outwards
completely and silently sad?

What ever happened to the big blonde haired lady
dying quietly on her unfashionable quilt.
Her left arm a pile of burnt out ashes leaving
just an imprint shadow?

Whatever happened to Spontaneous Human Combustion?

Mog

Swimming with the Fishes

2009-09-18T14:04:00.002+01:00

This is it; this is the end.

From the shining glass to the porcelain.

Glup, glup, glup, Goldie doesn't need feeding

and the cat gets no satisfaction

Spinning round and round

to the thunderous applause of the cistern

Flushed away to an unmarked grave,

Forgotten in the two-second memory span.

*Luna*

Breaking News - Mog has been published

2009-09-12T09:09:00.000+01:00

I am so excited that I have had a poem excepted and published in
First Edition Magazine.

My poem Beginning, Middle, End has been published in First Edition Issue 08, October 2009 and is available in Border, WH Smith and other good newsagents from September 10th.

The magazine website is http://www.firsteditionpublishing.co.uk

I must admit that I have waited until I actually saw it in print before letting everyone know as I was convinced it was going to be a big mistake and my work wouldn't really be in the magazine. But it is and I am so pleased, proud, excited etc. It is great to say I have been published and I feel that this will really help me write more, be brave enough to submit work (and be more confident in my poetry which I now love after struggling initially).

For all of you that regularly read my blog (especially you glnroz) and for those of you that pass a comment, I just want to say a big thankyou - those comments help me as a writer so much and give me the confidence to continue.

Hope you get to read my work and thanks again.

Mog

The Clock has Stopped - please could this be criticised!

2009-08-31T15:32:00.001+01:00

The Clock has Stopped

I was left injured; missing a limb,
and searching for something,
To fill my oblivion

We will walk around
With lead in our shoes
Our minds a hazy shell-shock
To cope with the news

You'll want to scream at the people
Asking if you're ok,
(it's a pretty stupid question),
But they don't know what else to say,

The stinging slap of mortality,
With the redness in your eyes,
The knotting of your stomach,
as a real friend dies,

I was left injured; missing a limb,
and searching for something,
To fill my oblivion

The clock has stopped,
And you battle a multitude of emotion
As you grope for a reason,
Whilst you're living in slow-motion

The lump in your throat
Restricting your breath,
The anger, the guilt,
The unfairness

You'll sit, half-expecting a punchline
and listen to silence instead,
you'll think of your jokes shared,
and things left unsaid,

I was left injured; missing a limb,
and searching for something,
To fill my oblivion

And when walking down a busy street,
you'll see her disappear into the crowd.

Dickensian Boy

2009-08-29T10:01:00.002+01:00

Lit by the harsh florescent light
A smile thins his lips
momentarily disturbing the route
of a glinting spoon piled
with cereal.

A bowl balances the scene
jauntily held
in statement more than purpose.

He glides into the classroom
to an open desk
in simulated nonchalance,
discarding the bowl noiselessly
on the Formica surface.

An exhibit in a freak show
created to obscure
a mundane life.

Out of our time he floats among us
long enough
to assert his oddball brilliance
without a hint of irony
in his sunken eyes and glib persona.

He scries oratory delights on
crinkled scraps of paper tied together
with a blue shoelace.

Where does he go when he leaves us?
Delving the depths of obscurity,
hands buried in patched pockets
of a gentleman’s blazer.
Hunched against the tide of modernity.

An over intellectualized ghost
of a personality hiding behind
his clever words and witty rhetoric.

This poem is based on a purely fictional character. Any resemblance to a person living or dead is coincidental and unintended!!

JC

Lessons

2009-08-19T21:09:00.002+01:00

Rain fell on a leaf on the boughs of a tree in Craylum Village. It had been too long since Ignacia had gone back to the village where she was born. The beautiful hills stretched out like slumbering dragons with their scaled backs standing proud against the dying light. The grass smelt of that sweet metallic scent only achieved through hot sunshine and summer rain. The ground at her feet hummed with the electricity of the coming storm. She lightly squeezed the hand in hers and Sera opened her eyes.
A gasp escaped her lips as she took in the breathtaking views of the Craylum Hills.
“It’s amazing!” Sera shivered as a light gust swirled around them and disappeared in a moment. “Is it real?”
“Oh yes,” Ignatia’s voice came out in barely a whisper as she smiled into the darkening sky. “This is where I grew up.”
“Is this a memory then? “
“No,” Ignatia smiled and regarded Sera closely. How quick she was to accept the magical world around her, absorbing like a sponge disciplines that usually took years master. Her hand slowly caressed a leaf of the large oak they stood beneath, her eyes full of wonder.
“So are we really here?” Her eyes tore away from the wonder of her surroundings and level a look at Ignatia.
“Yes, and no.” Ignatia hedged. “This place is real. The trees, the hills, the sky, they are all real and solid. We are in a real place but we are not entirely here.”
“How do you mean?” Puzzlement lifted Sera’s features.
“I have projected our minds here, our bodies are still in the shop. You can touch things but we are not entirely here.”
“How is it done?”
A rumble of thunder and a flash in the distant hills interrupted their latest lessen as Ignatia felt the increased power of the lightening strike rumbled through the ground beneath them.
“Sera, do you remember what I told you about feeling energy?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to concentrate on the ground around our feet.”
“Why? I thought we were learning this projection thing.”
“Lightening has broken ground a few miles to the east and it’s radiating energy across the earth to the western sea. I want you to feel it.”
Sera closed her eyes and focused on the ground as she had been taught. Her mind wound through her body and down her legs, exiting into the ground. She could feel the different elements in the soil and knew the ground was prosperous. The summer had brought bountiful crop nourished by the rich soil surrounding the hills. She saw golden fields stretching down through the unseen valley below. Sera gasped in delight.
“Concentrate,” Ignacia interjected the vision. “Now focus on the energy and it’s origin.
“Do you see it?”
“Yes.”
Pure power washed over her in waves heading out to the sea. It was weak at first and then got brighter as she homed in on the source. A mile away a proud old tree stood ablaze from the overwhelming power that had consumed it. It’s once regal form shone out like a grotesque beacon, both beautiful and wretched. It left Sera feeling both invigorated and sad.
Another flash lit against the lids of her eyes illuminating the intricate patterns of the veins of their underside. Lightening had hit again less than a mile away. She felt it, rolling like a tidal wave fast approaching them. Ignatia grabbed Sera’s arm but there was no time. The wave of power broke over her bringing her to her knees.
Ignatia was talking frantically above her but sera could not speak. Mesmerized by the strength of pure power that nature had conjured she could only shake her head slowly trying to clear her mind.
“Wow”
“Are you okay?”
Sera rose uncertainly to her feet and opened her eyes. The world looked the same but everything had changed. The energy of everything was different and Sera could feel it. No need to concentrate. All living things, including the air around her sung with energy she had not noticed before. So much power lay dormant all around her. The fact was terrifying.
“I’m fine. Really.” Ignatia looked worried. Sera tried to filter out the melody of energy that hummed all about her.
“Maybe we should go back.” Ignatia was not convinced. She inwardly cursed herself for her own stupidity. It was her fault Sera had been hit with the full force of the lightening strike. She should have been concentrating rather than marvelling at the speed at which Sera’s mind moved and located energies. Even at this distance the energy force from the strike should have knocked her unconscious. A weaker witch could have been killed, becoming a human torch, as the energy touched her mind and consumed it. Sera had barely felt it. It had passed through her and she was, from what Ignatia could feel, unharmed.
“No,” Sera met Ignatia’s worried stare. “Please, I want to finish our lesson. Honestly, I’m fine.”
Ignatia remained sceptical. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall on them from the bruised sky. It was only a matter of time before the lightening struck closer. Shielding against it was risky and after what had just happened, Ignatia did not trust herself to protect them.
“I think it’s time we leave. We can discuss the theory at the shop. Perhaps pick a less volatile spot to practice?”
“It is beautiful here, are you sure we can’t stay. A little rain never harmed anyone.”
“No, but lightening has. Besides it’s too distracting.” Ignatia regained her grasp on Sera’s hand and she did not protest. She caught a faint tinkle and was reminded of a far off bell. “And if I’m not mistaken we have a customer. Come on, let’s get out of this weather.”
In that moment the storm filled clouds and rolling hills of green faded and were replaced with the familiar stacks of dusty books. Sera stood between the shelves and steadied her senses. The humming energy of the open space had been replaced by the lulling sound of old magic, slowly leaking from within the tomes at her fingertips.

A little something from my Lifes Big Project. One day it may be finished, in the mean time feel free to pick apart this morsel.

JC

Broken

2009-08-09T22:06:00.003+01:00

James walks through the door into his dreams. He immediately notices the purple rainbow that circles the clouds and the sharp blue sun rays scattering out like iceberg shards, broken.

The grass under his feet is long and sumptuous. James slips off his brown moccasins and thick blue striped sports socks to wiggle his toes in the blades. His mind fills with thoughts of birds soaring in the sky; thoughts of running on the beach without feeling breathless or having side stitch; thoughts of endless blue sky days and nothing to do but be. Everything beautiful with nothing broken.

In the distance James spots a flash of red. He slowly walks towards it, savouring each step. He walks in a zig zag pattern that flattens the grass in a z shaped pattern. At his feet is a long stemmed red daisy, lying prostrate and broken.

James sheds tears of sparkling stones that slide down his cheeks before bouncing down into the roots of the long grass. Lost forever. He quickly bends down and rubs his hands over the shoots, desperately searching for one gem, one sparkling tear stone to hold in his hand. Yet all he does is flatten more grass, causing stems to cross stems, in a chaotic weave. Broken.

James looks up from his fruitless task and notices a building in the distance. It looks like a castle made of sweetbreads and chocolates. As he walks closer he sees the castle is surrounded by hedges of black roses. Each flower appears larger and larger as he gets closer. A hedge of vast black bells of flower, each leaf pealing away from the middle like mouldy cow tongues and falling backwards into a gaping blossom. A black flower ribbon hedge that surrounds the castle. The castle is broken.

Each spire is pointless, the ends broken and hanging like brass candle snuffers. The windows were smashed, everyone, cracked or gaping, with circular wounds on shattered pains. The big green double doors hang perilously on single hinges waiting for that second when they finally break and fall into the muddy remains of a moat that sits at the front of the castle. Every tile chipped, every sill smashed, every part, broken.

Only a single ivy clings on, winding its way around the horrified ruins like a covering smog, each leaf and stem trying to cover the devastation, and smother the remains. In this castle only the ivy is un-broken.

James suddenly wants to leave this place, to wake to his magnolia room and brown spotted duvet. He turns and runs back, trying to follow the crushed marks of his footsteps in the grass. The quicker he runs the slower it feels. Each step becomes entwined by the long grass stems, grabbing and clawing at his feet and trying to wrap itself around his feet. He has to pull hard to continue to move forward, move forward away from the broken castle; away from the tear stealing grass stems; away from the zig zag path until he bends to grab his discarded shoes and socks and his eyes search the horizon for an exit. James searches from an exit from this land that is broken.

The purple rainbow have evaporated leaving only a darkening cloud that is falling slowly earthwards. James notices the cloud appears to be made of bowling ball size lumps, each shimmering like extra large midnight blue marbles, perfectly circular. As he tries to run quicker, it begins to shed these balls, spitting them out in irregular intervals at irregular angles. James tries to avoid them but his inability to move quickly makes this impossible. One smashes his right foot, crushing hard against his big toe, smashing it instantly. The pain shudders up his leg making him gasp. He tries to ignore the pain and use his instincts to get him out.

As he reaches an exit, a large midnight blue ball breaks from the clouds and smashes straight down onto his head. It crushes his skull like a walnut and leaves him broken.

M☻g

Quite Intelligent

2009-07-30T07:56:00.001+01:00

I am staying up late watching re-runs of
re-runs of QI that make me feel
quite intelligent.

I like watching Alan Davies’s curly
hair flop around his pretty face as he smiles
unwittingly or acts innocently
in his Essex boy persona;
getting the answers wrong and constantly
setting off the buzzer and flashing backdrops
as Stephen metaphorically pats his head
saying ‘Alan you darling boy.’

I like answering the questions correctly
before Stephen has finished reading them out,
smiling, sometimes, at the quips and jokes
that I didn’t get the first time around.

Now and then I remember how I hated their smug
intelligence and weapons of knowledge
that emanated from their smiling mouths
and tied eyes as they calculate their points
and press their funny buzzers.

Mog

Rabbit Holes

2009-07-20T20:32:00.000+01:00

I walked alone down a dark passageway. There was no light at all other than a thin sliver far in my vision. I walked blindly towards it, feeling the wet slimy wall to my left for balance. The ground was hard and I was not wearing shoes. A thin film of water passed between my toes and swelled upward as each footstep slapped onto the floor. I stepped across a small grove, which I thought could be an edge to the floor tiles that were still not in my vision. The wall became furrier the further I continued until what I assumed to be moss was like soft matted fur entwined into my fingers. I walked for what seemed like hours following the sliver of light. Small creatures occasionally brushed past my feet, their wet noses sniffing at my ankles.

Finally I reached the sliver of light and found it to be a crack in a door. The door felt old and gnarled. I skated my fingers across the bumpy surface searching for the handle, but found none. I slumped to the floor exhausted. I could feel the moisture seeping through my trousers and reaching for my underwear. It felt as though I had wet myself and the sensation only added to my frustration.

A noise creaked through the corridor. The door beside me began to shift and open for the first time since I had arrived. Out of the creaking came a soft squeaky voice.

“…Well as I said to the Great Sceptre, it’s not about remuneration. It’s the principle of thing.”

“Yes,” boomed a deep resonant voice in reply.

“I mean it’s not every day you get accosted by a hamster,” the light dimmed as the shadowy figures moved into the doorway. “And to think that he only received six weeks community service.”

“But you must understand,” replied the booming voice, “six weeks is longer in hamster years than it is in yours. It’s the equivalent of ten years, less if his owner is a small human.”

As they made their first steps into the corridor the passage was filled with light from an unknown source above. I could now see the intricate pattern of the tiles through the lightly rippling clear liquid surface of the floor. They were vibrant colours that felt lit from within. Figures danced across them in strange costumes and animals walked amongst them. The walls were covered in moss but it looked beautiful bathed in light. The two figures in the doorway took my breath away. An elephant and cheetah were walking towards me, having a conversation. The elephant had wide shoulders and a brutish form. Around his neck was tied a red scarf. The cheetah was slender and graceful in his movements each paw soundlessly padding the floor.

“True but still, I think something should…” The Elephant paused and I realised too late that if I could see them, then they could also see me. The elephant had turned and spotted me crouching on the wet floor. “Who the hell are you?”

“Erm,” I said trying to gain my composure.

“Well this is just typical.” The elephant turned and regarded Julius the cheetah with an exasperated expression. “See what the bureaucracy has come to, they’re even letting humans down here now!”

He pushed past me without a care, treading on my toes with one of his hind legs. He swivelled his head back and gave me a disgusted look, shaking his leg as though he had something nasty stuck to it.

“Really Augustus, you are behaving terribly rude today.” The cheetah helped me to my feet. “Do forgive him, he’s had a spot of bad news.”

“I heard, was it a serious attack?”

“Well, it was not entirely the hamster’s fault if I’m honest.” Julius tried to whisper but his voice carried easily through the passage. Augustus reared around, banging his rear and pinching one of his ears against the wall in the confined space. I let out an involuntary giggle and then stifled it.

“Are you insinuating that it was my own fault that that lowlife brigand attacked me in the street?” His eyes were screwed into little black balls that glinted with malice in the light. I decided it was wise for me to leave.

I pushed open the door and darted past the cheetah. As the door hushed closed I could here the placating sounds of Julius:

“Now sweetheart, you know I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You always do this, you never stand by me. Like when I was ill, you went off with Colin for the weekend. I knew I should have left you then. I should have listened to my mother, she told me you’d never change your spots.” His voice was even higher now and bordering on the ridiculous.

“I’m a cheetah.”

“Exactly!”

I turned away from the door and looked out into the light. The door bumped me in the bum and woke me up.

Man & Boy ?

2009-07-19T16:42:00.000+01:00

This is an image I created during my second year at Uni. I have always liked the image although it is a trifle too manipulated. My problem has always been that I have never been able to find a appropriate title for the image. Man and boy is only for this blog. I handed it in as untitled. The image still has an impact on me although I am not sure why.

Any ideas for a title.

M☻g

The Pale faced Daughter

2009-07-10T20:59:00.000+01:00

The pale faced girl stands front stage, middle. She cries to the camera. Her aunty pushes the microphone close to echo every sob. Centre show, the mirrored finished gold plated 250K coffin reflects his family. Billions standby watching, revelling in their hysterical grief, weeping for lost talent, weeping for pop songs and musical horror videos.

Who will they read about in their daily news?

Who will provide paparazzi scandals of changing colour and sexual misdemeanours?

The pale faced girl sobs for her moon walking dad, her childhood star, surrounded. And damaged. Her Michael buys children and proudly states he sleeps with boys. Naïve. Rich. Extravagant. The crowd has memories of Bubbles and Ben ; a balcony child; white gloves and skinny black legs. Remembering the busting talent and betrayal.

This lost child died alone, just like his ex-father-in-law, Elvis.

M☻g

LOADED IMAGES

2009-07-09T15:05:00.001+01:00

Loaded = Power!

Missing photography!

Luna

1 Day

2009-06-28T17:10:00.001+01:00

Sainsbury

Tesco

Morrison's

Waitrose

Asda

Spar

Happy Shopper

and other independent retailers.

M☻g

Half-Baked, just to get started

2009-06-27T12:15:00.001+01:00

Clearly new beginnings take a while to start burning properly, so with this meagre offering I add a couple of firelighters (as opposed to petrol) to the fire. These are all 'half-baked' and with all honesty, that's the way a lot of things end up round here, and I think it's useful for everyone to know that it doesn't necessarily mean 'I've given up.' more 'I've changed my mind', or, 'I have a better idea.' I always have a lot of enthusiasm when starting things, but find distractions come all too easily, and isn't it easy to just let your mind...... drift?

Luna

Work Old and New

2009-06-27T10:24:00.001+01:00

I introduce you here to a collection of works, old and new, but nevertheless, the majority of which has been kept well hidden.
This first is a not so closeted piece, possibly a bit too feminine (hahahaha, don't you just hate work done by a woman which might even depict female form?)

Luna

2009-06-22T12:18:00.000+01:00

David Keith, 2006, Mixed Media,

Thought I would start with an older piece. I was exploring the way our lives are reduced down to a scattering of memories as the reality of death takes over.

Welcome

2009-06-20T23:24:00.000+01:00

Welcome to the new outlet for the Cherrypicker Collective, a group of artists and writers. We will be posting a selection of writing and artwork old and new.

So watch this space...

[INSERT TITLE HERE]

The Push

New Buttons

Possibly Iambic definitely Pentameter

Look at me, I'm Wonderful

The Picture

Next

Life Goes On

untitled

Soul

What am I going to do with you?

Soul Numbers

109

Blocked

Poo in my Pants

Three Cherries

The Morning After

The Sphynx Who Fucked the World

Dysmorphia

Postcard Fiction Take 2

The Dumped Duck

Catalogue of Ignorance

The Final Window

Traitor Cake

By Firelight

SHC

Swimming with the Fishes

Breaking News - Mog has been published

The Clock has Stopped - please could this be criticised!

Dickensian Boy

Lessons

Broken

Quite Intelligent

Rabbit Holes

Man & Boy ?

The Pale faced Daughter

LOADED IMAGES

1 Day

Half-Baked, just to get started

Work Old and New

Welcome