Am I the only one who sees my characters as real and tangible beings, stuck within the confines of my mind and almost writing the words themselves? Personalities that started with a keen mannerism, evolving into something with arms and legs and beautiful looking nether regions?
At this point I should assure thee that I have no psychological disorders .. that I'm aware of. I'm feeling rather disconnected to my characters at present. They have, quite literally, abandoned me. In a moment of lust induced euphoria, I changed the direction of the storyline – not quite another country, more like a different route to the same destination .. or perhaps the next street. The characters didn't settle with this change. The male one was already arsy due to the fact he doesn't yet have a name, and is currently referred to as 'Bloke 1'. I have this horrid feeling that they aren't coming back; that they have run away together into the English sunset (complete with drizzle), holding hands and most likely fucking skipping. They'll probably get married and have sex inside and outside and in all the rooms and all the local libraries, before they settle down with a crippling mortgage and a couple of snotty kids, COMPLETELY ruining the fact that the book was about NOT being with the one you love, with no happy endings and no god damn holding hands whilst the sun sets. If I was a script-writer right now, one of them would be falling down an elevator shaft.
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Sometimes
my consciousness wanders skips off to the side like a scratched record gingerly treads along footpaths that lead to i n s a n i t y but yet I do nothing. Because the feeling makes me smirk Nondescript doodles
amusing wrist flick mouths talk attentions sink desperate yawns whist the lights flick I'm walled in coffee breath feeling pretty fucking sick For Mr. Wilson who wished to see my doodles.. and a small ode to the insanely dull meeting this morning. I wasn’t born to write.
I learned to write; overwhelming dreams scripted as everlasting film. The 6 year old me was bewitched by the twirl of an ‘e’ and the playful sway of an ‘m’, the wide smile of a ‘d’ delighted me. Words were compelling and captivating, now they lie neglected and rejected in broken stanzas of self proclaimed irrelevance. I watch the black uncomely marks that taint immeasurable sheets of paper, surrounding me in an expanse of ink that once flowed carefully and slowly, now a thousand thoughts with every single word drained from my mind, my breath not a whisper but a plea. My heart pumps blood not ink. You’re not a poet, it says. Incoherent scribblings mock me with their existence. Restricted space unnerves me and now, my confined mind petrifies me with just a glance. As the pen stays gripped in my hand I wonder what it fears more; my inability to let the ink flow coherently or my pretentious ramblings, regardless and fearless of consequence whilst I stumble upon disjointed verse. A paper aeroplane is my sole triumph in my two hour search for reflection and thought. But fuck it. Who cares for pretty words and mystifying couplets when the idea of making a paper boat seems much more exciting. My experience with spectacles has only ever been limited to sunglasses; oversized ones that take over the majority of my face like some sort of wannabe It Girl. Exceptionally handy for hiding hangover-face, walks of shame, ignoring the world, and .. most importantly, leering over beautiful arses and swoonworthy smiles whilst pretending to read a book.
So, when I recently had to start wearing actual spectacles because, let's face it, I needed more geek points .. imagine my horror when I placed them upon my face, sat back in the book shop cafe with my copy of Moby Dick (very challenging; I'm at the stage when the book appears to be dedicated to whaling - you're not really reading Moby Dick until you know how spermaceti is gathered), and I digress from my reading to do a little people watching. There is something thrilling about looking at what other people are reading, how they take their coffee, whether they like to sit in the corner of the room like me, whether they take a sneaky peek at the last page before they commence reading... So there I sit (pretending to read about whales, black decaf coffee, sitting in the corner, no sneaky peeks but tempted to skip several chapters) and I spot a gent that looks so very similar to someone I rather like (in a stalkerly fashion) and I, quite literally, just start to swoon over the fantasy scenario of bumping into said gent right here in my favourite book shop cafe, and I notice he is engrossed in whatever he is reading (don't dare tell me that you don't find reading sexy) .. he looks up at me a few times, and I'm most definitely smirking by now, knowing full well he has no idea that I'm leering at him, and .. oh, hang on, why am I wearing sunglasses indoors, I must look like an idiot .. OH! HANG ON! I'M WEARING NORMAL GLASSES! HE CAN SEE ME THROUGH THEM! HE KNOWS I'M STARING! FUCK! So I do what all classy girls do; stand up, spill the coffee, drop the book, cause a scene, mutter apologies, and leave.
I fall asleep
to moving pictures of you riding home enveloped in darkness and weaving dodging carelessly gliding through the machines Soundless words and muted silence Quiet, noiseless hush The feathered lights sway to and fro to and fro whispering to me like a bedtime story the one that keeps the curtains closed Gently lingering on the cusp until it comes all at once Inspired by one of my favourite songs The Night - Morphine No matter how many times I
punch the mirror it still reflects still projects still renders that horrid reality all too clearly I don't look at myself and think 'pretty' I think barbaric German fat girls named Olga and their chunky braids in place of ears as they salute Hitler and parade around him with flowers and ill fitting dresses and in that moment I don't much like my face. She pins me down with lascivious intent
A smile before she savours my thighs Delights in my sighs My sexed up scent gets her high Mounds of flesh Soft breasts Tender tongue Lashing like whips until I’m writhing from the hip until I’m grasping her hair and I become unequipped The last vestiges of trembling ecstasy wiped from her lustful smile My garden is carpeted with apples;
an autumnal blanket across my lawn. Bruised and broken fruit, gently decay. And I can no longer tell when I fell for you, or when I saw the autumnal sun echoed in your eyes. If 'this' was in the movies we would kick our way through leaves in the park on a first date, my hand gripping your hand as trees turn gold, the leaves littering the floor as we kiss. You'd be here. But now I'm on another date, with an empty bottle of cheap whiskey and his hands on my skin in the back seat of his car. Guilt plagues me but determination aides me. The first step is done. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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