Trains.

I told myself yesterday. But I mimed it coherently today.
I heard the plug fill up with water, gargling and choking if only for a few seconds.
I'm sure the eye down there had squinted.
Maybe i shouldn't have called him
A lovely little thing.
Because he got the bus before last.
The centre of town had so many lights,
And I'm sure that water in the dock was deeper than it gave away.
The steel bench was grated and cold. But i was rather content,
in my tit and tat, with my tailored coat.
Waiting then, for just about any one.
I could see some stars, speckled in the gap through the clouds.
Still, they looked rather silver, and i decided they were standing in for the moon.
Who's place they had clearly stole.
My fingers were sort of, stained red.
I'd made a decision three hours before.
At home my bed was covered in cat hair.
And most likely dust. For a home from home was a then a permanent lust.



Some one ran in from the streets, they bashed through the door,
They were yelling to get there,
Screaming obscenities and love.
I must of been addicted to him by now,
For i was in the carriage behind.
Distracted by words on the door, I missed my stop by an inch
And had to leave with my hair behind my ear.
My ear not particularly present, what when stuffed with sounds and wires.
Shining like chocolate on a photograph,
I decided a greeting card wouldn't have done.
And thus my presence regained in your odd little town, 5 over from mine.
Demanding less subtle answers,
I called once more. But only through mobiles and automatic doors.
Constantly reflecting and smiling now and then.
Sinched in at the waist, hair really in for a trim.
You'd of mistook her for a local,
had a suitcase not entailed.

I almost forgot to write, and so to end before a story begins.

.

I made an effort yesterday, not to see the whites of this screen, off grey and alluring to fill.
Unfortunately.
Little amounts of whatever it was that wanted strong imagery just as i always did when younger. But shocking. Just the rule i would live by.
They did it well. But all to show was 3 or 4 low-self esteemed photos and scrawlings of people that barely knew me in a year book half empty.

Little grey worlds i wrote by. Little supernatural lifestyles in modern-day city dwellings.
I realised the reclusive, darkened characters i seemed only able to write of were what i grew up as from the age of 9 and upwards.
Some how, subconsciously, my adolescent self knew to make a mysterious approach to the new life i was thrown into. Unaware.
They didn't need to know me. But they needed to know about me.
I recall strongly, once being talked into joining a new school, wandering the small sqaure playground alone. Clutching a toy from Essex.
The other kids offered me crisps, and were amazing by my sudden materialisation. I looked at them all through unpractised eyes.
Two weeks later. They all knew i was Wiccan.
Which, virginial readers, i most certainly was not.
This, again subconsciously, helped me pinpoint and gather the small amount of other wierd children. Outcasted ones that seeked reassurance also. A boy and a girl.
The boy's name was Tom.
They too, were 'Wiccan'.
It was an unspoken cult.
The three of us would spend the break times casting spells, and pretending we could fly (down that foul yellow slide).
It wasn't long before the other 10 year olds dismissed us as 'really really wierd'.

I didn't feel at home. But i felt comfortable in what i had created.
Constantly i needed something of reassurance. When Tom and the girl (who's name i prefer not to disclose) were not enough, the small orange dinosaur toy i gripped so constantly became my agony aunt. My listening ear. My unjudging, plain faced friend.
In the one school photo of that year, i sit at the very end of the front row, the only one wearing sandles. And if you look just a tad too closely. You will see the small orange head poking out between my cupped hands. I recall his ridged plastic feel.
I don't know where Tom and the girl sat.

For some one who analyzes every little thing she does every day, these days, it is a surreal quality to be able to look back upon those years and see just how blindly and aimlessly being a child led me to act.
And how i relied on others, but never asked. Merely spoke to unseen creatures and plastic beings.

I shouldn't mention being whipped away, nor changing names, nor running for so long.
Only because i was only ever taught to shut my mouth.
If we were to be found,
My mouth was surely to be blamed.
Those childhood eyes leaking upward to the foul pattern of whatever room i may have been in at the time. Drawing bad pictures of apologies and rifling through my collectable cards, taking in whoever was around me as a distraction from the fears building up inside of me. Fears caused by home, darkness and what i saw on the television. Or in my brothers bedroom.
It was lonely to watch my mum take her boyfriend to work in our only car at 5am.
I'd hear them get up, it would disturb the sleep i'd tried so hard to force myself into after praying to some unknown force to look after my pets and family, in case i couldn't.
Scents return to me. Dark nights of moving.
I'd see the lights outside so easily, through the bed sheet pinned to the walls that acted as my curtains.

Don't forget yourself.
It's so hard to believe that was ever me.
Nor the rest. Such a fearful child. How did i ever grow into one that seeked it, or challenged herself with it?



I can't write any more.

Blue Bell Woods

The real me.
The entwined one.
The fur around bone.
I told myself i couldn't quite write about saturday.
The distraction of being in that wood was how i'd word it.

Smile, by David Gilmour.
Motionless, the small group of strangers and like beside me. And i stood in front of the white cross on the floor. The pile of dust in the shape of something holy. At it's meeting point, a yellow rose lay.
You were so small.
And your brother led here just a few years before, in a similar fashion, and i wondered if he had been a similar size.
My eyes were dry, and my throat large for other reasons.
As your radio played on the bench behind you,
A wind threw itself in a curve, around these frail trees.
Thin, yet standing tall, they leapt and curved suddenly, so violently from the still that was, as we entered the woods by the sheep.

I looked back down to you,
I felt my hair curl round with this tune.
It was there i decided that the reason you were so small, was because the swelling of your body was only ever the illness you were induced with..
And that had left you at death.

I tried to stop thinking. But it didn't scare me that day.
Liquids and cancers and laying in the sun.
Funnily enough, as the sun led across the path, you were all but covered in it,
as you always were.
And as you always did,
A glow shon up, and you were so aparent, that as i left the wood, down the path, i turned back once, with my numb neck, to see you sitting so proudly and clearly.

The trees sat in lines, that rolled down the hill this small wood sat upon. Halfway up.
Though the ground was mostly brown, yellow, green and hoof-shaped...
The darts of blue and purple were shooting.
As were four guns upward to the sky.
Just as you had dreamed, the photo by your second to last bed...

Oh and, guess what!
This time, i saw a deer. A tender, shy little deer, she darted between the trees before us, so quick it may have only been I who had seen her.
Your words echoed in my head then, from months ago,
If we're ever so quiet, we may see one...

As we stood beside you, when the holy things were done.
I looked back up the path to return, and a smoke of white shon past.

How could it have been raining every where else, but so warm in this patch of wood.

I looked further down the path, as the music played, as we stood.
Or
as they stood,
and I swayed.
I glanced as far down to where the path dipped down with the hill, out of sight nor feet.
And i saw you smiling. Tittering off and waving back, blowing kisses off weakened hands, your brother and dogs already out of sight, but you in tow..

I don't feel like any thing has finished, though the entirety of what was your physicality has left now. And again, my doll, i don't know how to write.

So the scent of garlic at the gate and the reflection of spine-like trees on the bonnet of your old car and i left.

Bits.

Did she run away again.
Making so much 'little effort' that the walls ached from all that approached,
intense in waiting.
Could've carried out three different notes,
but she stuck on the latter of things.
Perhaps raised voices of aged women scared her.
Perhaps tea wasn't just 'sweet enough'
And dreams of emotions she'd felt before, but visually
did thrive through the nights the heating was left on.
Moments like bitter felt, wordless greeting cards
and Momentums such as clean, round pots of moisturizer
and lactoste milk.
I recalled the smell of the wood by the fridge,
as a child sneaking chocolate from it's noisily accessible depths,
But kinder faces shon over.

She wondered where to go,
but only once already on the train.
The leaves driving past on the trees at her booth's window,
swished into one such as a paint pallette tilting,
And with it her head lulled,
and a passing stranger called for 'any one who was a doctor'
And her eyes felt so dry, cracking open, so raw.
Her throat was a blister of a direct route to the depths of her insides.
But pale warmth, the fridge as the child left out in the sun.
Losing will, the dull white of the room around her gave a metal clunk of a sigh from it's walls.
She only looked as far as the post at the end of this metal framed bed,
and he writhed one de-frosted hand beneath the scratch of tight cotton spread.
The door blended in with the walls in this room,
and she settled upon calling it Ivory,
not cream.

Oh look at that, said the creak in the wall.
And a birds shadow skipped over the room,
The bones in her neck, attaching her head
scathed percutaneously.
The sun was grey today, and the trees were a canvas just done,
but the houses outside, shon different oranges, brick-a-brack sweet
and council fresh.

Homely, she lifted the blanket from tuck. Swayed her dress along with legs around and down from the bed.
Such pretty shoes, her broken toes fit wonderfully.
Did she already know?
Hearing the wireless in the other room.

A glance, a shudder, a complete freeze within her stomach,
did bring empathy to disco rooms.
'You've inspired me'
And not long later, half the bottle was full.
Optimistic girls in tights and waistband-dresses
Such ways did the boys pop their collars that the combe did protude from the sleeve.

But what do i think ?!
What do i think?
I kept recalling the fridge until some one gasped
a claim of not knowing what i think,
but questioning me once more with my own output.


Conversation. Small talk appears to be creeping up, and luring beside us. I hate it when it reaches that point due to physcical contact.

subtle.

No it isn't a week since any thing,
and i can't tie the wrist today,
and the cat on the back of my hand look just like misplaced veins.
And breath.
Second time round never happened for darlin',
he said 'Sugar, I should've came over'.
No one's ever good enough.
If you are still bones, then your hands are currently around my neck.

I tried to cut loose strands of hair, that hung out of line
but they wept sourly,
and the metal of the scissors began to ache in my hand.
Worse still,
the sun began to shoot rays through the bathroom window,
i felt my skin wretch as it thirstily drank down all that i had deprived it of,
since becoming one for the moon.
The hands on my neck loosened, but held
And my eyes suddenly shot a clearer view.
I delved the scissors into the mirror, and the strands leaped in fright,
I scraped my palm and fist across it's shattered surface,
and held my face to it's mirror's chest.
Somehow my eye's stayed open
And the mirror looked at my shattered self,
and judged upon words i had only yet thought.

God why did he come here,
i knew he was downstairs,
I heard his mug hit the table, i heard his keys scrape the counter.
Any more minutes, and he'd be at the door.
Any more hours, I'm sure he'd be demanding less.
At the kitchen table, my mug was too hot, but i clasped it with wide, subtle eyes.
At the door, the straps on my shoes just too tight
But he smiled at dull pain so much more than my fright.
So i turned to the window of the front door,
my reflection intact.
Marks on my skin, showed that of the bathroom,
before he could see what a mess I'd left on his tiles,
I whispered a few words, and left him a note.
Revealing to him,
That i should burn before choke.

Little one sent me away
little one. So i can't sleep
Said she knew the time in rome
and i couldn't try, and stop her from seeing past the bathroom door
and
oh no, she didn't try
to pry with eyes so bitterly dry from all the ache of
adolelesence
and all that i knew
was how to turn clocks to present time.
She wrote a few things on my wall,
covered up by papered paint
and all the sweet calenders.
Her eyes were softer after that, wider yet still full of
substance.
Some one took her away, after that.
He told me, he told me that i was wrong
To try, and keep a bird inside.
Inside me.
So i let her fly i let her be
Didn't she know that roundabouts always come back to me.
Motorway child and
Dual carriageway birds
I left car running on the drive to detatch the frost
I yearned for some sort of release, from captive wings and skeletal beasts
But his etches in my skin formed the outline of dictation.
I saw beaches at night, and i heard people's voices against the night time sky
Sided with the crackling of wood becoming prey to fire.
I tried to turn my head to face him those miles away,
but i felt a clutch around my face that kept it straight.
Did i become worse to bare the mornings?
Holding six glasses in two hands, i hummed a tune familiar of him.
And the scabs on my back ached in the dull way that his voice still led in my mind.
How could i think of any one else this week?
I found more productivity in writing all night than to have sex.
Did any one else feel the wind change?
he could never miss it, as i led upon my drive at Two.
My back arched over a corsa,
the stars lied to me with their presence dotting the sky above.
Subtle chords bought me lyrics from a voice i thought i'd heard before.
I knew he'd forgotten me again, because they stopped coming in from the shore.
Lying awake
on the beach late at night. My eyes begged forgiveness for day time's pathetic frights
and he hung over me
like a towel draped in water.
I couldn't say no to such a, dealt sort of character.
Kiss me, I'd sigh, and pray to make up his mind,
but all around me the soft sounds of morning approaching made it awfully awkward
and sullenly dull.
And my eyes lulled back again, glazed over with daylight's presence.

I'm forgetting what days lead into which.
A blur of a memory reveals to me, that once i used days.
I used them to divide
and to remember how long had passed since when.
Now a week since special don't really cut it.
And now my eyes are closed for most of what they call 'days'
And my skin got so pale since no one came home.
I slumped against a curved seat on a bus, and the time passed me.
God i don't know how i got away with one thirty,
and such charming smiles of drinks i never tasted.

Darling won't spend the night outside
Bitter-larity made sense when stood as high as round the corner took us.
He said, 'tell you what, we'll get past three'.
I said we'll go as far as the sun coming up.
So warmth beneath a duvet and a matress without a sheet,
just that light from through the blinds,
and half drunk cups.
My eyelids never felt heavy, and i thought i could lie there all night
The last matress was covered and i cried to stop myself from sleeping beside him.

Can't they wait, til i get gone?
Leaving became such an easy thing when I subjected my bones to accepting the light of day.

Shadows turnt my eyes to such sweet things.
I couldnt' see.
And i needn't look at any imperfection here.
Oh great, another one full of words.
So i stopped in the cold, and watched the breath throw itself from me
And all i could see were stars and orange lights.
They lined the horizon and were divided by trees, and the irony had it that i preferred these divides to that of the days and so i stayed where i sat, and let him go on.
For his words would run dry soon,
i to be left alone again.
And wait upon the next sorry soul to sit himself beside me
and claim beneficial
A pathetic substances to the meat on my bones.
Only whispering in the dark could make me pursue
And perhaps a push from a good claw.
I sighed in the dew
and i dragged my face through night time's grass.
And he was just like all the others, his footprints in the mud.
So dampened down the grass, i couldn't spot the moon.
I think the other one stole it,
when he left before even words odd.
My sky was barely litten, so it glowed an orange pollute.
And my sincere eyes were tainted in thoughts of what i could do
Had i stronger arms and firmer fists.

By now of course, he was in some next girl's bathroom.
And i was on a train.
But never some where new these days.
My night times were such waste.

Just because his lips were full, and his bowtie wasn't scew.
I had to stop before i got old.
Before i told him my name.

Beauty ran into a diner, and drank halves of tall glasses.
Secondly it made it's stand, and thirdly shocked the nation
I wished, and pondered, upon particular key attributes to this
And noticed in my haste,
that beauty got on it's way again, before the day returned.
And so i said from there, or mimed
Let me be as such, in time and
wait for no one, judge less so. For he'd already bolted the door
Before the end of the garden path met my feet.

Bar me.

I don’t know what she said
I tried to find you
She said you were on the phone
But what would
I only
I don’t know what I see in him any more.
There was some other
Some sort’a sweet thing
Didn’t make a lot of mine
But twittled all the same
I’m not sure where he went
But darling found the words for me
I always had the trouble see and
Sofa sit and try to turn
And honey just bubbled up
So when I asked him
For the time
And the key
He didn’t answer me
But paused he said
Tried to define
Such soft words
Whispered through mine.
What does the other one do for me
But look all but german and taste just so
University
I wait upon it
It never was the life for me
Did you tell him?
I’m not sure how too.
The walls so plain
Invisible where they met at the corner
And the plant gave indication of shadow
Your so crude
To the sound of wood
Such a delicate tapping
And a lady with lashes
But she’d turn the tone and she’d bring around and about
Such groans that didn’t measure half as gentle
As the pleasure
So could it be such words had changed
From whispered nothings
To inexplicit pains
And no one else could see, so passed
Her walk down the street like she’d done it before
And she needn’t write lyrics
Cos they remained
Within raw
Chuck her to the road
And make her back heels scratch the curb
Everyone says she’ll deserve the best
That a room bows down to her presence
And tests
Her every move
That does shudder before bar tend
And every drill in the back of the road
She’ll hastily shakily order up
And she’ll sip completely still
Til the punters think she’s won.
She makes a beeline for the retro box
And hangs enough to choose
Three songs for free
And the punters one down
She wonders what mistakes she made in the day.

Returning.

Shapes of things and horrible scribblings.
I assure you my return is a horrific injection.
But it'll sweeten upon my mood and time of night.

Leaving made it so memorable every time i did and was made to so far.
And i may not leave again, so less as i start a return.


Forgive me in advance, and look forward to it all the same.