four eyes
lowering yourself
carefully
unprepared
the sensory overload
inevitably
memories returning
friction turning less
lines of no tan
blending
scratch marks
invisible
silence of four eyes
screaming
Untitled (11408)
CAN YOU EVEN CALL YOURSELF A MEMBER OF THE TWC IF THIS IS NOT ON YOUR BLOG? SERIOUS.
Well Mr H. in your time there was no submit button so you had time to wake up, put the kettle on before you realised your creations from the night before needed some tweaking. These days I only realise my time spent the night before as the Tumblr hearts start to arrive. The submit button is just too tempting a device to ignore in the heat if the moment. So write drunk I say, write drunk, sober moments only leads to regret.
midday vibrations (A – part 1)
I found myself a man being
muchly in love with jeopardy
SHE was a mother of four
though twenty years amarried
no bothering for me
my senses extraordinary
pure lust pulsating steadily
as the bell chimed noon
sugar glider possum
this country is not
my country
nor should it be
your country
the made up borders
white picket fences only
divide and segregate
the stress of
waking up to
a sugar glider possum
barking solely
reconfirming the truth of
stress growing
no borders
no worries
no questions
no lies
Open Heart Surgery (part 1)
One rainy Friday night of evenings
recent as one measure time
bored out of my whits completely
dulled by drinking cheapish wine
I thought I’d try asomething new
to spice up an existence poor
I gathered my sharpened tools
Japanese shining knives of old
headed down the basement dark
to mend the broken piece
No smoke without fire
In the heat of the moment
our moment
my napalm nausea
and rage overflowing
our innocense lost to
fires burning stronger
the pulp and the
harbinger of death
combined
the pyre smouldering
yet
S.C.U.M
I would happily give you
the knife
the enabler
to go forth and prosper
slicing parts of me
into oblivion
My birth coinciding with
Your manifesto calling
for the cutting of the MEs
I understand your grief
though not how man’s
demise would ever
fulfill your dreams
.
.
.
Prompted by a @maxmundan prompt: my feminine manifesto