I get asked alot actually, but i suppose this time, it being so late and it being so on my mind, the question brought me to a stand still. And i genuinely had to think.
So personal was it, I was at first, as a lady should be, slightly offended. And then I really had to think. Did that count? Was that correct? So young was I, my ideas were generously collapsing all around me, and laying by whoever they will.
Only I never stayed.

And here is a fear I may share.
Should I ever have the privelage of falling in love with one of loves me also, what if say, just one day, I wake up. And I no longer love him/her any more?
I guess I should've spoken to you about these things in the dark of that coffee shop we once sat, drawn back from daylight to the deepest sofa in the darkest corner, thick wooden beams assuring our hiding.

I'm actually writing a real life list now. I am appalled, even at myself!

For me, temptation arrived too easily.
The frost fell,
and with it, anticipation for nothing in particular.
A constant willing in my chest for the ideal,
The perfect, the falling in lust,
The taste of marzipan and an excuse to do so.

There's a light, warming the back of a house.
A kitchen that watches over the square garden.
It's strange to see so many birds here in December,
Snow falls but does not last,
But our grounds are ice, they are white,
They are fresh.
Darling, I hear that it's for you?

"He'll come back to you doll, but you can't wait here"
I imagine she will be gentle.

Oh when did he leave?
He once mentioned he would write.
After the third or eleventh whiskey, I find myself;
Hand on a lamp post.
The same view of the city, as the past twice.
Each building growing from mist.
Morning leaks a dull light onto nothing in particular,
My lips feel warm but usually this goes to waste.
You must've left some time ago,
I forget how your hands felt on my back,
Or possibly yesterday?
Had you seen my play? Had you asscociated me with a book you once read?

Or was I just the girl that walked in at the right time,
The one who ordered the same drink,
The one that spoke the right volume.
'Good god she'll do for now'.

A moment sculpted for me.

I, more often than never, enjoy travelling, but the cold today, i have to admit, was a deterrent. It was the kind of cold that bites, a cold that threatens your wellbeing. The sort that you feel uncomfortable being outside with.
Mostly due to lack of sleep. It nips at you in such a vulnerable state, or so I find.
And so after a quick whiskey, I braved out into the bitter sunshine once more to stand at the coach stop, only to be informed quarter of an hour later that the bus was running half an hour late (My own mind assuming the bus did not feel comfortable in the current weathers presence either).
My eyes ached from the light, my knees and fingers slowly turning blue beneath material (not so much difference there then) and Columbo briskly walked past amongst other every day people, clutching a cigarette casually between two fingers, shoulders as high as ever, coat square as usual.
I became impatient. Very unlike myself.
And when said coach did arrive 40 mintues later, I was greeted by a filthy one. A coach that had been through a rough day already, and was certainly in no mood to haul my lounging, half frozen self to London. It was coated in what can only be described as muddy dust. From my view, I guessed you could barely see through the windows, so dirty was he.
Sure enough, as I boarded, the first seat I chose had chewing gum stuck to it, the second, the very seat itself had appeared to have made a jump for the next seat, not wanting that place even for itself.
Actually, I almost sat there, in fact I did for a moment, thinking it may deter any other passenger from wishing to sit beside me, thus making the journey more bareable. But more gum had me move once again.
Ah, my seat for the next two and a half hours, still quite disturbingly warm from the person who got an extra 40 minutes upon it, and perfectly covered in a veiled sunlight (that veil, of course, being 'muddy dust').

~


Leaving the city was a golden haze. My eyes adjusting to viewing the passing scenery through the thick coat of dirt combined with the harsh but fresh winter sunlight gave the impression of antique. I needn't have worn my sunglasses, the dirt was enough to shield my sensitive eyes, and I tried to scan people as we passed the bearpit, but the haze gave them all a blank, lifeless and featureless face each, as they moved around like large insects in strange directions.
That familiar warmth of three hours to look forward to on the coach slowly cooled, as the coach and it's bitter ways had gone about switching off the heaters. The cold sun fell through the dust and was sliding down sky, even he not wanting to be on this journey.

For a good half an hour I slipped in and out of a strange sleep, one that only lasted around a minute at a time, but my sleep being mine, I still recieved images and odd, misheard parts of broken sentences in my unconscious. When I came to properly, I read for a time, a shimmering gold silouette of a man correctly wearing his seatbelt lining my page from the window.
I must have been reading for a while, addicted though I am to a book I have read before, for when I looked up for a moments absent thought the tinge to my world was now purple. And the dust like glitter, the sky still light as the evening would allow, the air a falling white into blue. Hills we passed still had the hints of snow, some shadowed areas where the sun had failed to reach all day still white.
I read for a while longer, but the thoughts of previous days proved too much, and I simply felt I must indulge at such a good and quiet oppurtunity in pure and simple thought. The art of the mind and the images I have stored there.
Not a person was speaking on the bus, and the man across from me, so tidy and polite, moved around quite alot, but did not disturb me in the slightest with his perfect middle aged, salt and pepper hair and casually shaped eyebrows.

The book balanced in my hand, my coat draped upon me, i leant my head back and gazed at the grey clouds through the dust, dipped violently in pink and sinking into orange, the clumps looked wonderfully edible against the blue-fading-into-white sky. Oh I can't say I have ever seen the evening sky fade to white?
Streaks of the clouds thinned in places, and these were more purple than the pink, the sky darker the way we were headed, stretch marks to the premature night sky.
My mind fell into what it wished, and images suddenly flooded through my mind, a flash-show of the few previous days leading to my being on a coach to London. Voices audible, an image of myself engaged and wrapped in the memories I had just made. Eyes in the dark of a winter bedroom. I barely had time to survey my glittering view and finish my delicious thoughts when what may have been one of the most beautiful sights I shall see took place.
A flurry of swallows suddenly leapt at the window. I saw nothing of their approach, and made out no detail, each severly shaped swift of motion came out of no where, harshly silhouetted black to the pinks of the sky, such as the effect of a group of bats leaving a cave at twilight.
Myself a silhouette to another onlooker now, the coach must have lost all light as this small herd swept over the coach, the entire group (of what must of been around 40 birds) literally curved around the coach directly at my point of window.
Suddenly, as though the birds had thrown realisation, beauty delved into me. The refreshing and fading pink and purple of Twilight's sky returning to my eyes so suddenly I questioned the birds even existing in the fist place. And as though taunting me for it's obvious presence the entire time, a thin silver slit that was the moon sat amongst the stretch marks, clearly, like speech marks ending the perfect sentence.

I wondered if that moment alone was sculpted for me, the birds, the colour, the sky, the moon. Oh how I wanted to fall in love then and there.

After that the sky had darkened, as if in seconds. My eyes adjusting naturally, the moon slipping out of view as if just a brief reminder that night will indeed come, we entered London.

I don't believe I need to write any more, for the fire in the sky surrounded London once more, and I believe I fell in. Words will never have beauty upon the images staining my mind from today.
Suddenly the coach being late, each stop in the traffic, each time I fell asleep and each time I looked at to the window made sense. Because unlike any thing else today, my timing was made to be perfect.
A glance, a swoop, a dim and it was done.
So full my eyes felt, so bloated for what they had relished in this evening.

Luck, some times is allowed. And these strange little things only seem to happen when I am alone.

Have you seen the city in Winter?
And I always ride the bus in gloves.
Feeling so cold, inside and out, should certainly not feel so right?
Is it true that by dousing myself in furs and boots,
I am most at home when I may see the air I breathe?

A hill slips down into a city below,
A church sitting boldly amongst a fading background,
Slowly swallowed by the sky in fog.
Houses sit straight upon it's slant,
Each with character, charm, seperate colour and strange windows.
Some divided by a gap only a cat could happily walk through,
and see a slit of city.
I stood here for a while in the cool of winter,
I waited, allowing the icey air in my stomach to formulate.
Numbly, and finally, i felt excitement.

There's an inkling pain.
A small, throbbing sensation,
Denying me entire calm or happiness,
For I should always be prepared,
And yet I'd like to fall away with you,
Down a hill I have never seen the end of.

Drinks are warmer inside,
Wine so sweet and mince pies so fresh,
A scent filling a house like I have dreamt of in nostalgic moments.
All the floors are wooden, most things painted in white,
And yet character fills a room in scribbled, draped ways.

Will I be allowed to progress in the warmth between mattress and quilt?
Somewhere in the garden a bird lands,
I turn over and morning sinks in.
The click of a camera, and womens laughter linger in the room,
Quiet though we are.
That ochestra still plays some where in the past,
confined in this room with us as we are.
I'll never know another glance like that.

Oh sweetheart, I simply and secretly enjoy the choice.
And I always seem to be packing when I fall in,
And there's always fire in the sky.

Once Upon A December...

I can't sleep for thinking about you.
I can almost feel the air running through my chest.
When you held me I could barely breathe through arms,
But I heard all I had to in a safe embrace through bone.
I don't think I need to say any more,
That I do not speak of this,
Nor soften at a touch so strange.

I can think of nothing more worth doing,
Than writing you a letter you will never read.
I can lie quite peacefully, and sleep better, alone,
But I'd prefer to feel that warmth of morning skin.

All these memories I have, but they have come from no where.
I'm smiling some where, and figures are dancing,
There is music, bass rolling and yet I cannot hear it.
Please don't shatter this, darling,
For once I was allowed to dream,
And simply dream
Until I reached the age where this was not enough,
And crushed myself into reality.
Oh somewhere still, i dance, I'm held.
And somewhere soon, you'll leave me alone on the tiled floor.

Oh and, there you have gone and lifted me somewhat,
I feel my bones cracking within your grip,
And my heart, it swells sweetly with excess air,
I hold my breath and you say it all again.

I was listening dear, I was.
I suppose lying here is out of the question.

And so the twelfth, they say.

Delicate really, i suppose. And today is the 3rd. The 3rd of 91.

Oh it makes so little sense for such a large number

But being 91 this day, would have had you born in 1919?

I hope that is correct, for he has seen all I wish to have seen,

And much worse, much less.

Labels were correct, simplistic and for all,

What were bananas?

And the local shop was one.

The music when he was born, was rythmatic, so beautiful,

As he progressed it became swing, became Rock 'n Roll,

Oh to see it all?

I've a light feeling in my stomach,

aware that I spent just the other night,

Watching as he would've, in the old picture house.

Oh and how lucky you were, to have been born the year

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles published.

Happy Birthday.

Oh, I always seem to stay too long,
But only on the night.
I guess it's the lure of alcohol,
Or the dimming of the lights.
Perhaps she pulled me in again,
Possibly just a proposal to dance?
I am sure I was to leave an hour ago,
But got caught in the wrong stance.


I'd see lights through the winter windows,
Hear laughter and the sound of glasses touching elsewhere,
My lips would be parted, my eyes downward, I'm sure I've overdressed,
Oh will he see brown dress, gold brocade?
'I thought you made dinner earlier?'
I lacked enthusiasm, drive.
Tonight will be a sombre occassion, I hear you arrive.

I suppose I am distracted by the palms of your hands,
The cupping of arms and a distant orchestra.
Light is flickering some where, and yet we remain in the dark,
Steam from the train guards our goodbye.

'You're much like the quiet of early Christmas morning', she said,
And laid her head upon his chest.
He didn't reply, but he opened his eyes,
The scent of red wine lingered near the bed.

Mullered and two days late for advent.

The walk to town was a long, rather cold one. About an hour and a half, though not as cold as previous days. All rather blank efforts for a cancelled appointment with a moronic support worker. And with little to do, and such cold weather to brave, I supposed my empty pockets wouldn't get me far.
The Pub was as bland as ever, same people, same music, same drinks. A generally mediocre sit at the bar. I bought Marzipan from the Market Sweet Shop, but it failed to lighten a dull mood in a silk dress and velvet suit jacket. Topped off with a leopard choker/bowtie, I was a little too overdressed for such a simple occasion.
I let this thought swim for a while, sipping a beer and watching Westhams highlights. And the occasion I had dressed for returned to my head, blatantly taunting me with a gut feeling. How could I dress like this, feel bitter and have completely forgotten my reason for doing so?
An evening in the bar, is how I'd imagined it. With a new old friend. And a reason for being here.

Colder still, now that what was the white light of a diluted sun had now completely evaporated, and winter's clear night breathed on us, I paced the next leg of my journey. Not quite as lengthy, but nonetheless testing on aching, numb thighs. For three reasons.
I stood in the doorway of a chocolate like pub, partly shielded from the cold by material, and he paced down in a hat. Im sure my phonecall would have to have been more brief.

Two more roads and three frozen broken and discarded coffee mugs later, we arrived at a garden to challenge the Young Ones. A quant door, one number too much, and I was greeted by two of them.
The instant scent of home, I inhaled as I walked in. Bloody lovely, I felt like saying immediately. The slim, and yet tall, ornate hallway it seems only Bristol is truely capable of greeted me with an organic vibe. And the kitchen was a picture of family friends, who of course were not related.
Billowing wooden work surfaces, planked cupboard doors, a fresh tray of warm mince pies and an old oak door for a table wedged perfectly against the wall. The two women, I was introduced to, and they were pale, English roses with a slightly jagged or curly edge. Clothes that didn't stand out and yet didn't need to, one side hugged me, a brief cheek kiss, the other leant over an oven in a space fit for Snow White's cottage in the wall, over a pot of Mulled Wine, and another with a lid.
I took a few deep breaths as i attempted to fit myself unnoticed into the scenery by making dull jokes of my friend. He watched as I shed my layers, the atmosphere overly welcoming. Though of course, I be I, never feel welcome, perhaps never comfortable.

When there were many in the room, it seemed a party I was not invited too, and yet clicked in rather warmly. I was most certainly younger, it seemed, and I knew only one face of whom I had seen five times, he says.
The Mulled Wine aroma was now collaberating softly with the freshly added spices circling within Mulled Cider, and a completely new batch of oddly decorated Mince Pies leaked their own from the oven.
I am pleased to say my Mince Pie was a Vagina, and that my cream was silkier than most others.
Christmas Music now replaced the odd from before, and conversation effortlessly paraded the room, between many and different. I couldn't help but simply breathe it all in.
"Oh I merely thought, Mulled Wine to celebrate December, drinking and merryness!" The doll hostess beamed, larger than life (but in a bareably modern way) - the accidental gathering had ensued and was seen as ordinary.

Do you ever end your night with warm Mulled Wine, in a picture house?
A flickering screen, warping slightly from the projector, a black and white film so dark, portraying the bearded lady, the midget husband and wife, the torso man, the pigmi women and the cackling main lady.
Oh frozen morning, and finally, Metropolis.