Flipping through my Vanity Fair
I was taken by the flaming red lips,
The blazing shock of hair,
The frosty, white skin,
Hard as bone.
Just give me time.
More time to check myself
In my vanity case,
Touch up my lippy,
Blush up my cheeks.
Just give me space.
To make my movie,
To make a date,
To make a fire...
To burn my vanity project.
The CircleI - The Group
Every Sunday a circle becomes whole -
A henge of souls, locked in Lotus positions,
Hands in hands, deep in trance, maintaining control
To contact their inner apparitions.
Their spirit animals emerge to guide visions
Of destiny and choice, both equal in standing.
They scry their inner astral premonitions
That may guide selfish understanding
Of recoiling emotive contortions
And devine inevitable portions.
Waves of SpaceI
To us, the ocean-born, each drop of life
Retains a taste unique to the current
That gave it flow and form.
They're our markers.
The familiar scents of soulful home.
And we use them to navigate the deep,
To find our kin, communicate our needs,
Our clicking voice pushed through the dark blue void
That wraps the world, now lost to all humans.
Where have you gone,
Oh, masters of the land?
The days are gone when their metallic ships
Steadfastly carved the foaming waves asunder.
The poison of their waste no longer stings,
Like clinging weed of death, to kill our kind.
Yet, we miss our fleeting interactions,
Those moments when together we did learn.
We know there were among them evil ones,
Enslaving us for their entertainment,
Forcing us to jump through the drying air,
Through hoops and play mindless games no good.
But silence now is found in old harbours
And ports the once tumbled with commotion.
That warlike peace has haunted us for years.
Where are you now,
Oh, navigators true?
I'll meet you at the end of the line
Where the light is bright.
I'll wait for you in my favourite seat
And sit patiently for you arrive.
Then we can count the rays of the setting sun
And list the ways of the hunter's moon.
We'll recount our bracing of the Detroit wall
In facing the fall with raised hands
To lift the remains once again into strength
And accept the staining ink
Upon the papers I wrote from memory
When our brothers raised hands
To break another barrier to freedom
And we crossed the rainbow bridge to white
Space ahead and find that the brightest light
Is at the end of the line.
Cutting the onions induced more tears
And I slung the paring knife into the sink,
The crash ringing out like a cymbal.
Moving through the wreckage
I spotted a symbol - another sign -
I rubbed my finger over it robotically.
Reaching out, blindly, for anything clean,
Another colourful teacup clattered to the floor,
Three splintered shards spinning out in the impact.
Three gold-bound petals pluming proudly
Outlined clearly under my inquiring index
Identified by each elevated aspect.
I finally gathered myself into the bathroom
For the reviving cold of the tap to wash
Stinging sensations and recollected disasters.
Three petals and three flowers:
Each emblem in pieces,
Each icon in flames.
The standard things, really:
A card and a kiss, an "I love you..."
The routine accompaniment.
I stand for twenty minutes
In the supermarket
Staring at the flowers.
I reason with myself
(Because I'm the only one that can)
That it's always a better investment in
Flowers that are growing in a pot.
They will last longer.
We can tend them together.
All the rest will die.
And I don't want it to die.
Even the putrid stink of peace
Couldn't put us off.
As we reached the borderlands
I heard the cotton heads of waves
Rolling into the black sandy beach -
A monochrome mess.
It was the sign we had all been mindful of.
The sign we were close to home a
And nothing could stop us.
The flesh clung close to our colour-clashing, pixelated bones
Until we looked like 8-bit loading-screen villains
Slowly appearing line by jittering line
Amid the irregular dancing of blitting
And the ear-grating harpy wails.
I felt more and more complete with each step
As if the treading coloured me
With more defined resolution.
Facing the towers wrapped in glorious thunder,
The licking lashes of lightning empowering them,
I knew my journey was over
And I could finally enjoy
The trophy of my vanity.
Mary Shelley, English novelist and poet, died on this day in 1851.
Boris Yeltsin, Russian politician and first president of the Russian Federation, was born today in 1931.
There is a pattern for all the punks stapled to fat they chew.
And a pattern for the bears, obliterating any beehive.
A pattern for honey-lovers, fingers dripping with amber.
A pattern for yuppies, calling greasy take-aways in their Porsches.
The pattern I have is simple peacock feathers.
They layer one another,
Producing a distinct mazey track
That leads back along each shaft, waving
Across the wall to the window
Like a rolling field of wheat.
Each purple eye stares back,
Intent on piercing my body
To read my inner thoughts.
These patterns all amount to nothing.
When you've stacked everything against
The wall only see a callous blast of wind
Scatter and shatter it all across the yard,
You know that it wasn't worth the effort
And it'll not be worth any more effort
To re-stack them, only to watch them tumble once more.
I think it must be time to close the pages of this book -
Let the author finish the last chapter before tearfully
Wishing all the characters of this grand, sublime pantomime
Farewell, Au Revoir, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye.
John Lydon, English singer, songwriter and musician, was born today in 1956.
They definitely made some special pies - 47 varieties.
I saw them piled up on the stalls as I shuffled past
With the mob to watch the action.
I stood aloof in the throng,
The air a heady mix of
Body odour, lavender and decay.
We stood waiting in the muddy trench for
Almost two hours before the sledge appeared,
But a man cried out that it felt more like twelve years.
The body swayed for four lilting hours
Before they slashed him down
For decapitation with eight stuttering strokes.
The crowd bayed as his crown was parted from
The gruesome shrunken shoulders.
I was close enough to feel the draft of the axe splitting his neck.
Before I could vomit the cracking of
The pointed pole piercing his pate ushered from
The gallows like a door gently opening.
And it was over, before I could enjoy it.
Another 47 types of pie would be eaten
Before his body went missing in the pit.
The Poem Engine
Load it up with the sack of letter
Fresh from recycled dictionaries.
It chews 'em up into their parts,
Like a child devouring candy.
The fuel is human nature
Firing the grimy engine of creation,
Which can usually be found
Seeping from the pores of the poor.
Flip the switch and power her up,
Her rumble is more than I can bear,
As she combines the harvest of definition
Into treacle and vinegar on bitter parchment.
The product is rolled and hung out to dry
For the quality inspector to scrutinise.
Each simile and metaphor is polished to shine
Like a glimmer of hope for a prize.
Edward Lear, English artist, illustrator, musician, author and poet, died on this day in 1888.