Monsters exists.
They don’t live under your bed or inside your closet, they don’t just come out in the dark like a nocturnal animal afraid of the sunrise They look like you and me, and use their smiles to disarm you even at your strongest hour and yes you disarmed me with your succession of seductive admiration but as you stubbed cigarettes out on my arms you made me forget all that was beautiful in this world; like daisies and cheesecake and the smell of mangoes You created jade and violent storms on my skin with your bare hands and I would watch them curiously as the colours flowed to and fro And is my love of violent sex because you taught me that I deserve to be punished? Used Violated with hands around my neck and fear in my eyes as you sang to me sweetly ‘hush little lady, don’t you cry’ But every time I gave you an inch, you would drag me for miles like a raggedy doll that you threw against the wall uncared for, reviled All friendships had long since withered as we played out this broken dance not the nice kind with ballgowns and happy ever afters but the dance of avoidance and suspicion and fear where I would stand very still every time you were near The number of sorrys defied mathematics almost as many as the strikes across my face that hurt so fucking much that I couldn’t even cry before you smothered me in the sweetest embrace Fading Failing Flinching Perhaps it was the bitterness of my own blood, pooling at the tip of my tongue that made me realise that this was not the flavour of love.
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Tipsy poetry challenge I’m blowing the lid off this ladylike charade
It appears I’m unqualified in the art of getting laid My voice may be soft but my words are too bold downscale my profanity and I might pass for female I like an ale over a cocktail ‘Half a pint for the lady’ is just an old wives tale I want a full pint please with the froth on top too holding it with two hands isn’t such a taboo At least my nails are painted on those pint encasing fingers detracting from the fact my eyebrows look like caterpillars No plucking here, gents Have you tried to use tweezers? They aren’t exactly one of life’s palatable pleasers I haven’t worn a thong since 2005 and my lingerie doesn’t match in colour or style In fact, Elmo features on my favourite knickers his happy blue face covers my private quiver And what exactly is contouring? Obscuring my face to become more alluring then wiping it all off and leaving the house fresh faced I don’t like lace I don’t much like silk either I live half in my shell and half out like in indecisive turtle stuck on this roundabout of trying to be comfortable so I ditch the heels and the feels and all the girlie emotions that make me fucking squeal I like intelligence not abs I run 5000 metres almost every day not to look good for you but so I can eat cheesecake whenever I darn well want to My creamy white skin brims with soft edges my bosom too large befitting the wenches of time gone by in a fluttering of senses I’m delicate and fucked up and needy and horny I display my aggression loudly forlornly Did you know that female sloths scream when they want to have sex? Yep, me too. I won’t cross my legs and I won’t sit up straight. I permanently wear this messy bed head and this unattractive face But I’m me, from my head to my child sized feet a veritable little storm, so far so uncomplete. There is something painfully pleasurable about liking someone that doesn’t like you; the fantasy offering so much more than reality could ever indulge. The beautiful imagery of you wanting me, all of me, in all the ways one can possibly want another, without the fear and the rejection and the all consuming anxiety.
Being able to close my eyes and imagine the pressure of your hand on the small of my back, the rush of warm air on my neck as you lean in close to whisper naughtiness in my ear, the grip of our intertwined fingers as you pull me somewhere dark and private before our lips meet in hungry need, the salty tears as you pull my hair back and push further into me, the slippery softness of our skin as we bathe together in blissful silence. And I can dictate exactly how this titillating little scene plays out, as my fingers trail my body. Or are they yours? Strange self flattery consumes my touch and my need increases in perfect harmony with the imaginary need I have placed upon you. Because when I close my eyes, I can picture you looking at me, a smile on your handsome face, and a glimmer of mischief in your eyes, as you ask me to touch myself. And so I do. Just for you. So loudly that the people in the bus stop across the street know your name. But I can no longer keep you prisoner within my mind, no longer steal you away for a beautiful foray into my imagination. I am a perpetual rain throughout your day and all I wish is for you to part with your endless winter and feel the warmth of Spring lust upon your face. I'm blowing you a kiss
that will travel through the wind like a songbird that has fallen only to regain the sky swirling over smoking chimneys soaring through the sunsets spinning down, down, down like leaves caught in a storm Watch it float through your open window and land upon your shoe clambering up your leg scrambling across your spine and hiding behind your ear with a shy nervousness And just when you're about to go to sleep feel it gently bite your neck and whisper I like you You held me in the palm of your hand
with such protective bliss as though you were the river which effortlessly carried the leaf hypnotising my every action with a love so pure that it bloomed like a thousand tulips a rainbow of colours capturing the beauty of your guiding smile. And I utterly love you. Not just today, but every day. I remember being little
when running made me free never staying in a straight line all momentum evading me And it felt like I had wings so I ran pretending to fly as the clouds above me parted and I became a butterfly As I tripped and fell I realised that my wings weren’t dependable but my legs, my feet, my heart security, more preferable So I ran Every day Through the months and years and tears as life became less bonhomie hypothetical monstrosity with aching breasts and aching knees a deeply imbalanced psychology With tight lungs and tighter shorts an unstoppable little tremble as I reach towards that butterfly so beautiful. I stumble. I don’t like the fact that you try and chat me up every morning whilst my labrador delicately shits at the base of the prickly bush,
the third one as you leave the meadow and turn into the lane, right next to the bench where you sit and wait And no, I don’t look beautiful; I’m wearing yesterday’s makeup and I’m fairly sure that a flock of wood pigeons have taken residence within the confines of my messy bun Babe Urgh, really? Formalities aside Let’s get down to business, huh? My distance isn’t coy My distance is in fact in perfect correlation with my hatred for mankind pre-7am And, apart from that one time you brought me coffee, I’ve never truly looked forward to seeing your plump belly squeezed inside your Barbour jacket But as I roll around on the floor giving fusses to your beagle, I know that I won’t ask you to leave me alone. The first time I met you, you pulled at my long hair and called me adorably small as you winked and flashed me the cheekiest grin, and it felt as though a thousand bees had stung my chest leaving behind an ache that was as pleasurable as a rainbow on a rainy day.
And my mum warned me that I’d never fall in love as deeply as I would the first time. But as you made my cheeks blush and my heart beat faster, as I blossomed right before your beautiful eyes, you became the first boy to teach me that I wasn’t good enough to be anyone’s first choice. And as the clouds cry and my emotions spill all over my barstool, the ropes tangling themselves inside my stomach, I remember you. I plunge the words into the flames
the flesh on my fingers aching from the closeness of the heat as I watch the typed script coil and brighten like a thousand starry nights and I feel a sudden sense of sublime sadness a depressing euphoria as my efforts disintegrate and a tiny little ember threatens to burn my house down. His head is down
as he studiously scribbles with his chewed pen with determined alacrity. I want to gently brush away his floppy, unwashed hair cloaking his face so that I can see the words leave his flesh and bone but no. Boundaries. Can not touch, can not hug, can not provide physical comfort in any way as though it would scorch our skin and leave us forever scarred. Boundaries. So I imagine the words that he has chosen.. rejected alone high stupid worthless and I try to capture them before they hit the page so that I can absorb them like a thick, damp cloth collecting tears from the sea but it’s 9.30pm and he looks up at me with his teenage grin before fist bumping my knuckles and uttering ‘see you next week, Miss’ as his lolloping skeleton leaves the building and I stand at the window and squint into the darkness as I watch his feet move towards the dimly lit car park, his fingers reaching towards a car window as a faceless shape hands him a small package. A lone tear glides down my cheek as I turn away to retrieve his poem.. “Miss says I’m special Miss says I’m kind the drugs ain’t helping tho The drugs is makin me blind” And as the lone tear multiplies and a sound escapes my throat like a distressed child, I stop reading. But there is hope. Always, hope. The only spooning I've done lately is with icecream
until the bitter cold drowns out my thought stream Watching Lord Of The Onion Rings with bated breath from the deep dark depths of my impending death Casserole for my wounded soul. My heart melting like a strong cheddar cheese bubbling with emotional need Toast and tea to nourish me with three heaped teaspoons of positivity A little helping of blueberry pie why? to exude my social butterfly to disqualify the lack of beautify- ing possibility The tranquility of chopping and boiling and flutter as I sauté my esteem in a little hot butter Carbs may well be my soulmate but what does it matter when I'll throw it back in the lavatory later. It's a simple curiosity
a questioning monstrosity snooping defectuosity whilst hoping you don't notice my loquacious laudability and principally the promiscuity of my heightened sexuality and obsessional impracticality It's the prohibitive unclarity that mystifyingly dazzles me not knowing if you're finished with your artfully delicate Foxy and your breakfast, was it tasty? Does your dinner make you fidgety with hunger injected jollity? What exactly do you think of me? and do you doodle absentmindedly? Do you feel so utterly perfectly when faced with art so bourgeoisie? Which music makes you thrillingly and lyrically so joyously free And do you read religiously? Have you ever knelt down on one knee and declared a love so passionately? Which stories fill you with such glee? Where do you actually want to be? Your masculinity intriguing me Your likeability so specifically fittingly My familiarity becoming a difficulty Disparity Electricity A ridiculous sanguinity Ignore me I'm absolutely, fucking rusty at this curious emotional nudity. My emotionary
tells me that you're playing with my feelings that you have no intention of reeling my heart strings round your ceiling fan keeping your feelings unreaching and concealing ignorant of my heart so unyielding and pleading Bleeding Dreaming But all you want is my squealing writhing body underneath you as I break into pieces exquisitely increasing my fascination with you before you tell me that your care for me is different to all the rest so totally A blissfully bewitchingly preciseness, so beautifully executed before you pull my nipple and kiss me goodbye and take someone else out for dinner. In a moment of tequila fuelled tipsiness, I thought it would be intriguing to use Google autocomplete to fill in a dating profile.
Why, you ask? Well because tequila, obviously. Name: My name is Jeff and my mother calls me ugly Age: My age is in Française Location: I live inside my shell Nationality: I was born under a wandering star Body type: My body aches I am looking for: I am looking for a girlfriend who enjoys kissing boys. I enjoy: I enjoy being a girl. I like you just the way I am. I also like to move it, move it. My ideal partner would be: A person who is travelling and only eats fish. Turn ons: Hugging and kissing Turn offs: Being told what to do I'm 99.9% sure that Google can find us all a little bit of love ❤️ From his perspective.
She has a kooky habit of waking up in the middle of the night, some time after I've fucked every inch of her, and getting into her unsexy knickers. So unsexy, that it's downright adorable. Not that I can call her adorable, of course, as I'm fortunate enough to witness right this minute. She is standing mostly naked, apart from those adorable little cotton knickers peppered with pink and blue polka dots, and her full lips are forming the most perfect little "O" while her big wide eyes frantically blink in the morning glare. I want to put my cock in that mouth. Badly. She's got one hand on her hip, the other in her mussed up hair, her foot tapping so angrily that her tits sway. I called her adorable. Correction. I called the fact that she wakes up to put on comfortable cotton knickers adorable. Apparently calling her adorable means that I get to watch those lips and those eyes and those breasts and that cute little arse hidden in those adorable little knickers as she tries to articulate how angry she is right now. Fucking adorable. It feels like a demon is under my skin
scraping away at my self esteem whilst whispering words of worthlessness towards my forlorn soul thwarting my thoughts and abandoning my surety. I'll be fine. I suffer not all the time not every second of every day not always But for the last 1 million seconds I've let this demon shriek at me from the other side of the mirror as it sings and dances and throws rocks at my face. And I know I'll be fine despite the white noise scratching like a skipped record. I'm a writer who can't find her pen. But I know I'll be fine. It just takes time to relieve such mysterious pain. I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I miss you
Like a puzzle dissipated Incomprehensible fading into meaningless alliteration My inadequate concentration perplexing my frustrations We used to use words that mystified You clarified my love of life Do you remember the times you made me cry as you released me into this butterfly whose dreams shan’t die Because loving me made me love me too and loving you, my inspirational muse gave me visions of worlds and skies up so high Violescent atmospheres above dusty minds eye as our mutual care flickers behind our lips as we dream of the time that we wanted to kiss with contented elation and poetry penned I do hope you know you’re my very best friend. Jx I’m a lady. What? You can’t be surprised
despite all my utterings so sexualised on my knees looking up with my big blowjob eyes romanticised calling me slutty whilst I’m down on all fours just because my number is higher than yours Sure let’s just ignore my intellect and complexity my power, my desperately collectively nonsensically empathically bonhomie as you joke how my vagina must be a Facebook check in location folks Because I like sex with girls and I like sex with boys and you can’t fathom out how to use all my toys so you utter vile words and call me harsh names aims my shame so high in the sky that the clouds know your game but tomorrow you’ll beg me to do it again Why can’t I be both; dichotomous alignment of pleasure and passion and moral refinement. I have the flu
and I know not what to do with my head so fuzzy, so blue needing to cozy up and eat chicken noo- dle soup, wrapped in blankets and tissues ACHOO "Bless you" Bless me? Fuck you! You gave this to me, didn't you? Bring me tea and crumpets and accrue brownie points. Oh, brownies ... those too. And let me sit and stew thinking of the countersue I'll put you through for this awful state you got me into. I’m gathering rain drops for my rain collection
to counteract the puddles of disaffection Inescapable wetness of reflection, filling up this jar whilst gusting winds push my soul further afar An outlook so bizarre, miniscule little mar A need to push the clouds above the plethora of stars And when I have enough to fill my stormy little sea you may row row row, the fuck away from me. He nods towards my clothes and murmurs, “take them off”.
His voice affects me with such complete avidity that I realise I can no longer hide my fascination with this man. He has me utterly and entirely captivated and the need to please him, desire him, is immeasurable. I pull off my tattered, old, Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, my soft nipples hardening in the cold air, and slip out of my jeans and trainers before instinctively holding my hands over my breasts, the heat between my legs. He gently shakes his head, that wry smile of his flirting with my bare skin, and I slowly lower my hands, exposing myself in a way that creates a boundless fervour. The way he looks at me. Fuck, I feel like a queen. A sexy motherfucking queen. He watches as I slowly walk toward him, no longer afraid of my own nakedness, no longer afraid of how deeply I want him within me, and his eyes lazily roam from the tuft of hair between my legs, to my breasts, to my lips. I have to stand on my tiptoes to graze my teeth against his jawline, and fuck he tastes good. I can smell the beer on his breath and taste the man on his skin and when he finally pushes his lips against mine, rough and unyielding, I start to get off on the semi-drunk sensation. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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