About Me

My photo
Turrets and Spires, Near the sea., United Kingdom
An imperfect mother. An unfaithful wife. A career professional. Waiting to feel the stone thrown at her by the one without sin.

Monday, 14 June 2010

Silent in Wonderland

Silence is golden...
ah yes...
but not for those with golden hair
and golden smiles
and eighteen years of golden naivity.

He is silent in the train,
the moment,the phone,
the words,
the message...

Yet, for the girl with golden hair...
he is...somewhat, louder.

I smile
at my own naivity,

misplaced loyalty.
How I wish

grew out of her dress,
vomited her cake
and drowned

May the pages strangle him
in ink.


So disturbing.

This is artistic yet based on true stuff and I shudder to think the American army has not evolved since the Vietnam experience.

Clever filming.

It needs to be in the training manual.

Wednesday, 2 June 2010

So How Much Can you Rely on Your Top Soldiers?

Top team...let's face it, the equivalent of the SAS or US SEALS...drop onto a vessel...with night vision...to be met by metal bars and chairs and sticks and anger....from non-soldiers....civilians. Angry civilians, but civilians...

And they shoot ten dead.

And they reckon the rest of the world is mistaken and we don't understand them...and we should realise that sending aid and food to people they hate is wrong...so it's okay to shoot dead at least ten volunteer aid workers...(no doubt transformed into Arab terrorists by Benjy's friends as we speak).

Is there something we are not getting? (Apart from using forged British passports...ooohhh...all of a couple of months ago...to shoot some more dead...?)

If the UK and Northern Ireland can do it and move forward...then you bloody well can.
If the IRA and the British Government can halt the bloodshed, you bloody well can.
If Sinn Fein can be tolerated and accepted (even though many find this hard and difficult) in UK Government, then you bloody well can.

Chip...shoulder....speak volumes here.
When is Israel going to realise it just can't rule the world?
No matter what happened in Roman times...
no matter what happened in The Merchant of Venice...
and no matter what happened in the dreadful, despicable Holocaust...pre and post...

You can't build on the land of the world in the same way you build on the land you call yours...but actually isn't right now.

Wake up,sit up, smarten up,
How can we respect you when you behave like this?

You are behaving as badly now as your oppressors of Nazi Germany.

Be as dignified as your forefathers; that is why they are respected, famous and admired.

Tuesday, 1 June 2010

The Train Journey

There is a man, who sometimes talks to me on the train,as he travels home. He has been silent for a while and I suspect the following...(please feel free to choose),

1. He is abroad, work related.

2. He is abroad, personal satisfaction and personal time in remote deserts and remote jungles.

3. He has decided to date the very pretty girl on the train.

4. He is drowning in work and the need to save people.

5. He has decided not to be in touch.

No matter what...I miss him and I can remember every moment and every fragment of our time.

The Concrete Wall

Towering over the consumed land,
Its shadow falls.

Hard and tall.
No face.
No skin.
All seeing

Hard and brittle
Crumbling retina.

Hope upon the water.
Walking upon the water...

The Promised Land

Where is David?
To take the Israeli Goliath

Friday, 14 May 2010


Let us meander.
Let us meander with words.
Let us merge the pictures
and thoughts.
Let us meander slowly
through the chapters
of the previous time.

Let us do

A weaving of words.
A slender blend of slumber.

Mood and time...

tick and tock...
spaces on the white face as the sharp pointers


Jones: In underground

Me: Underground. Below and dark.
Cocooned, enclosed, tunnelled.....
tunnel vision,
wetness seeping down the walls
and the racing of the noise.

Have you reached daylight yet? Have you?

He shielded his eyes in the brightness.

Childhood Terrors

At night.
Terrors of childhood..in words
Fear and the futility.

He walked in.
Pulled the duvet off the 7 year old girl.
Dragged her out of the bed.
Dragged her out of the room.

Made her sit.
In the darkness
on a high stool
the dark hall.

No words at all.
she was frightened.
she was confused.

'You are not asleep,'

Her mother said nothing at all.

Her parents,
(her parents who should have protected her),
loved her?

close the door on their room
leaving their little girl behind,
in the dark.
In the cold.

Some time later,
the little girl crept back into her bed.

She cried alone in the dark.

She held her duvet tight
making her fingers and thumbs ache
for weeks after...

A futile attempt to protect herself.

She never slept well.
Especially after that.

Monday, 3 May 2010

An Avatar Overview

Last of the Mohicans is blended slowly with a drop of The Magic Faraway Tree....
Sprinkle a spoonful of Alien....
Then add a teaspoon of Tarzan...
Mixed with the beauty of an earthly Abyss.
Without the ocean.

It's not at all bad Mr Cameron.

Sunday, 2 May 2010

Prepositional Mind.

My mind is with him.

Next to him.
And above


Friday, 30 April 2010


Falling, smooth and warm,
Indelible inky thoughts
Ribbon and swathe
Her blank page.

An alphabet
Leaking oily secrets
Slipping and spilling
Into black sticky glass.


Ghost Writer

There is a ghost who writes
for her...when she lets the words fall
Onto the fluttering page.

There is a ghost who plays
for her... when she swoops over the letters
Across the glimmering screen.

There is a ghost who opens her eyes,
Who makes her wonder,
Who makes her try -
to remember
those words
were born.

Late and Later


warm actually,
- the water on your face when you cry.

Letting go.

Slow stream.

Warms the skin.

The skin I am in.

The skin I use as sin
as I brim -


Please -

Bears and Beauty

'He does not feel the same,' she thought.
'He has beautiful women attached to him...an attachment.'

Really beautiful.

'I feel a little silly,' she thought.
'I wonder what he thinks,' she wondered.

Wondered some more.
A silly girl.
Over rated.
Over emotional.


She wonders over the moments and then sees his attachments.
Just there.
Beneath him.
She even sees the dates...

Beautiful eyes in beautiful poses....

'Empty women never did it for me,' he said.

'So curvy women do?' she mused.

They are so blindingly beautiful... she chokes.

She is looking out of her window.
Heavy drapes are drawn.
Hiding. She hides behind the curtain.

Spirals and swirls of confusion smoke into her air

of her

of her.

Naive and still her.

Monday, 26 April 2010


No words at all.
The space is empty.
The mind is empty.

I feel empty.


I need to feel the moment.
The touch.
The silence.

Touch me,


Here, There , Nowhere

'I am here,'she said.

'Are you there?'he said.

'I am here,'she said,'but I don't know if you are there.'

'Are you there ?'she said.

Saturday, 24 April 2010

Once Upon A Time...

There was a young man...who had flitted around the world. He had been hurt, by women...so he flitted and floated by.He discovered sexual diseases and sexual vices as his money rolled in...until the dotcom crash.
He married a young girl; 17. He picked her up in Beijing...she was learning how to be a prostitute and he pitied her, took her in.She fell pregnant..and his Muslim family were rocked and shocked. Yet he had so much money, he was okay...he could lead his life, giving his parents everything they needed.
Unfortunately, she was Mongolian...

beautiful, slim....young...Mongolian.

He married her.

Four children later.
14 Years later.

She has...had a relationship in Hong Kong....had a two year affair in her home town. Aborted her lover's child. Confided in her husband...her love for her lover; her plans for a family with her lover; her feelings about her lover. Run off with her lover and returned...flaunted it...but her herpes has also refused to diminish. Her husband gave her that.

Her husband is going mad.
It is madness.

He is serving her divorce papers soon. She has no idea. He is collecting the evidence and is taking the children to the land of Maple Syrup....without her...

Hopefully he will live happily ever after.
My life seems so much calmer...

His Words

Finally, I had words tonight from Jones.

It makes me feel so good.

And calm.

He has been away...

Tuesday, 20 April 2010

The Question Of Life....

'Is it better to live as a monster or to die as a good man?'

Is it?

Monday, 19 April 2010

Naughty Porn Girl

Last night I watched porn and became naughty.

It was delicious actually and I love it.

Wetness between my thighs as I slink into the marital bed is a little sad, I know...but wonderfully restful.

Easter Eggs Breaking News....

It's been a difficult few days.

Firstly Mr Home Office keeps sendimg messages. I am not interested in the fervour of his attentions. We met. We fucked. We parted and all is done. Yet he still persists.

Secondly, I am au-pairless until at least Friday...this volcano in Iceland is becoming a pain. No flights and she has a ticket for Thursday, but I am not holding my breath! I am supposed to be seeing Peter Kay on Friday too at Liverpool!!!!Need the childcare...

My thoughts have been a little diverted to Mr First Love...currently in the UK...due to aforementioned volcano eruption, his flight to 'M' not available until at least Friday with BA...and his life is utterly bizarre, it will need a new post.

We have talked and chatted but not met and will not meet. That is not the way of things...

Jones is still here...still in my phone, my head, my thoughts. His company has now been acquired by '1984' and Orwellian practices are prevalent. Therefore we cannot send texts about bananas, sandwiches, thighs or orgasms. We cannot verbalise our sexy lust. Big Brother will freeze his Blackberry I think!

Yet I love to receive his words...they are feathers around my head.

And back to the Building tomorrow...and 'The Bitch' has only 14 more weeks...I feel silently delirious, yet pity those who will be under her charge from September.

Saturday, 17 April 2010

Clear Skies

They are beautiful, the clear skies above.
An empty space.
A blank canvas....
Not a plane trail in sight.
Not a sound.
Not a gleaming metal bird...

All is still silent.

We must travel the planet keeping our feet on the ground.

Thursday, 15 April 2010

Silent Satellites

They are silent
Those satellites we use -
Jones and I.
No words must tumble out
across the water
or behind the glass.

...and silent.

And empty.

Where are
Our words

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

When ...

When he listens
When she's there
When he knows she shares

Her body.
When he wonders
When he feels
When the moment rocks slowly
When he reels
Her in.

When he looks at the stone
He has too much sin
To throw what his hand holds within.

Sunday, 11 April 2010

Absolutely Beautiful

She sent Jones a photo last night.

Just a head and shoulders shot,

...in black and white.

No make up.

Just pyjamas and a fresh shower.

He looked at it.

'Absolutely beautiful,' he replied.

She still does not know what to say.

Saturday, 10 April 2010

Sinning and Winning

She is a sinner
not winning

sinning and feeling and wanting.

The darkness falls from the sky
as she sees
some light.
Just some.

She will gather up the shadows in her arms
letting it fall,
slowly through her fingers...

Thursday, 8 April 2010

I Have Time For You

'At this moment, I have all the time in the world for you,' he said.

She smiled.

She reflected upon the sordid deeds of her day.

She melted away into the linguistic purity of that moment.

'No one has ever said that to me...it's beautiful,' she said.

'I want to talk to the mind behind the words,' he said.

She saw him. Just then. She saw him smiling.

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

To feel something..

I would give so much...
I would.
I would.
I would give.
I would.

Please feel.
Just feel
a little.

I need to feel.
and more


Mmmm...yes I wish.
I would 'revirginise,' for him.
To feel him pushing inside my tightness and hearing my murmurs would meet the need.
Of him.
And me.
The need I feel.

I need to feel...

What part is 'that' ?

That is the the look.
That is the touch.
That is the moment I feel your skin.
That is the feeling of warmth.
That is the gentle falling of white cotton sheets
upon my body.
That is the moment I feel your kiss.
That is the pushing deep inside my body.
That is the sharp and slow moment of pleasure.
That is the moment I know I trust.
That is the time you fill me.
That is the time you reach deep within.
That is the moment we touch...and I feel.
That is the moment I have with me always.

Sunday, 4 April 2010

Words On A Page

It's the words you see.
There they were in black and white.
Small print.
Long sentences.

My name and his.
A long boulevard where we sat.
That particular experience
Had been written

His boys watched through the glass.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Flames and Beacons

Darkness and travel.
Buildings set in the blackness.
Blacker than the sky.

Turning, she saw the flames.
A beacon burning.
High upon a hill
Along the coast

A rushing sea

Another, burning hilltop.

Fires along the
Craggy coastline.
Along the craggy crevices.

Warning and danger.

Thursday, 25 March 2010

When I Wake...

...tomorrow...I will let my body relax into the pleasure I give her.
I will let her writhe
and moan,
and murmur,
in the wide space of marital sleep.

in my head,
I will think of him...
holding my thighs apart.

His Answer

Her phone glimmered and then settled silently.

'Yes,' it said on the bright screen.

He said.
Over the huge darkness of space and the seven hours or so of invisible time.

She breathed deeply and turned off the light.

Boston In Spring

If I was to tell you of parties and tea
Would you still want to linger within
the shadows of me?

If I was to tell you how I felt numb,
Would you still want to call me and
Listen to me cum?

If I was to tell you of mountains and sea
Would you still see the valleys
and yearn to be free?

Tuesday, 23 March 2010


A young girl
easily led.

Not to her bed,
yet she dances upon
the thoughts of paternal lead.

It's a mother who leads
tells her what she needs...

as the daughter dances and dances
worlds of veils and mystical trances.

'His head,'
'His head,'
she never said.
She never said.

her words lost
by the motherly dread.

She wakes
lies in her bed.

She faces the space.
His head.
His head.

Tuesday, 16 March 2010

Trains and Erotica

'I am on the train,' he said.

'Did you sleep well?' she said.

'Sleep?' he said,'not on the train...but when I rest my head on the pillow I have wild and vivid dreams.'

'You do?' she said.

'I do,' he said.

'Oh and just before you go,'...

'Yes,' she said, slowly turning her head, 'Yes?'

'Do you know of a special place for words...for erotic words?'

Silently she smiled as she looked at him.

Growing Back

My hymen is growing back.

I feel bewildered and in need.

I gravitate towards the couple.

They give me what I need...for a few hours.

I have no desire to seek out unknown men in unknown hotels right now. I need the security of someone I know.

Monday, 15 March 2010

I Sit and Watch Sergio Leoni

Sergio, love him, hate him he paved the way for obtuse film.
Obtuse music.

Close up is a summing up.

The weird, the lovely, the ugly...delicious to feast upon in two hours and some minutes.

Lee Van Cleef is sharp and hooded.
Clint..well...a hollywood icon. Tall and with stature, gravel voice and beautiful character.

Sound effects and ringing shots, the bullets ping and we feel the blasting shots...
I would never kick Blondie out of my bed!
Go and visit Almeria...the dusky mountains of Spanish Hollywood.

Missing Your words

'I love reading yours'
he said.
'Do you have a lover?'
She looked at his words and swallowed her sadness.
'No, no lover at all.'
'Someone in mind,' he said.
'Yes,' she said.
'Although the small matter of a huge ocean prevents him from lying in my bed.'
'Small matter, indeed,' he said.

The matter is hard, of rock and historical impact.
Yet, she sees a way through.
She strikes at the stone and sees the sparks fly.

Thursday, 11 March 2010

Holding Hands

If I held your hand in mine
what would I feel?
If I held your hand in mine-
skin on skin,
would it heal

or seal
your pain,
fill your empty space?

If I held your hand in mine-
would I stop you
from falling-

Don't let go.
Don't arc beneath
the languid, listless
life thief.

Hold on tight.
Inhale the warmth;
breathe in the light;
let it glisten and glimmer;
your umbilical kite.

Wednesday, 10 March 2010

Boy Buried

He is young
the boy buried.
On the moors,

On the moors,
poor boy.

A young boy
In a shallow grave
A young knave,
Where murder is paved...

Myra the murderer

She induces the vomit
the hatred
the torid.

She fucked them
hurt them
made them so horrid.
The gentle beat of the drummer boy
the gentle beat.

Cries of home.
Cries of mummy
fell onto the cold scales of her skin
As they writhed and melted into their child graves

their childlike

Monday, 8 March 2010

Last Orders

'Time,' she said, the Archangel said.
'Give me your last orders...tell me, tell me.'

She did.

She murmured her memories of long distant journeys;
of noble trains and beautiful countries.
Of absent Godot and derelict ruins
that grew again
from beautiful

Of white hotels
and horseriding daughters...
to walks on the fells with Knighted employers.

She whispered slowly of her son...
what he may have said,
what he may have done...
Her love for him so patiently won...

and still...so still...

... she held her composure
but breaking within
refusing to let the Archangel in.

She smiled and
She could see -
the silly wobbly hats -
Hear distant Christmas laughs...

drinking last orders
with him.

Ravens and Writing Desks.

It's mad.


Madness is as mad as a hatter; as delicious as a Depp.

Deppish madness...
a chaotic chasm of skilled syntax and languid linguistics.
A soaking of splendour in cathartic colour.
Let's just hallucinate a while...shall we?
Down the rabbit hole she fell, all topsy and turvy, crashing her head...shrinking inside the blue satin of her dress.

A Kingsley daughter. A Darwin supporter. Beautifully read.

Needles and narcotic threads, reflecting inside a deep mirror...

a glass

of liquid.
Drink me...it said.

Disorder and red
Broken hearts..
beautifully red.
Distorted and ugly she yells,
'Off with their heads...'

Inventions and distortions
blend in the mix.
Burton delivers the fix

Ravens and writing desks my dear,
the blackness of ink...

you really need to think
of a heartfelt time of
Victorian rhyme...

It's my dream
it's my dream
it's my dream.

Sunday, 7 March 2010

It's Not Sex When...

...you have dinner and the movies.
It's not sex when you have lunch.
It's not sex when you buy him a novel...(his favourite novel at that...)
It's not sex when you visit the Academy.
It's not sex when you smile and laugh over yellow label champagne.
It's not sex when you talk in Green Park.
It's not sex when you confess you snore.
It's not sex when he leaves you to soak in the bubbles.
It's not sex when you still hear his words.
It's not sex when he calls after midnight...a continent away.

I know what you're going to ask.
Don't ask it.
I just know...it's not just sex...
It's far more beautiful than that...

It's a smooth warmth that tickles my toes and prickles my skin...
That lets me rest

Inside my skin.

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Muse...their best and it helps me on the drive to work.


Now why is the rest of the album NOT THIS GOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!
I listen to this at the moment on the way to work...
The rest of the album sounds...well...not as good.Thought I was listening to Queen at one point...(Make no misteke, I like Queen!)...but Muse doing Queen sound...no. Don't like.

But love Uprising, especially 'fat cats having heart attacks!'

Drowning Words

They have drowned.
His words.
Into the huge water.
Liquid darkness
Seeps over the ink

Severs the link
I have
With him.

They have flotsamed
Distant and faltering as

A satellite shakes his words.
A distant star
That knows where you are..

A call comes through.

Dreams colliding.
Voices smiling.
Words now floating.
Thoughts are gliding
Upon the smooth dark water.

He makes me thirsty
For words.
He make me drink


Monday, 1 March 2010

Mourning Mothers

Dignified, they are
the mourning mothers.
Scarfed and subservient.
They wait.
Silently they wait.

Grainy pictures.
Fresh graves.

Crass he is
the crazy crook.
Moppish and misplaced.
He rants.
Raucously he rants.

His face fills the screen
He's everything he's always been.
A Holy War.
That's what it's all for.

And still,
amidst the chaos.
Dignified and aloof,
They still sit.


Monday, 22 February 2010

My Skin

My skin is not good right now. Unusual for me...very...
I was so concerned about the weird rash near my forehead that I rang the doctors this evening, explaining I had been ill this morning...horrible vomiting from a tummy bug...still struggling with my burning throat.
'It's a choking rash,'the doctor said, rather triumphantly I thought.
'Oh,' I replied.
He sensed my confusion and explained that if someone had tried to strangle me I would get a similar rash! (Well, that makes it alright then.)
Unfortunately, I seem to have burst lots of blood vessels under my skin with the sheer force of me being so ill, vomiting down the loo...
'It will get worse before it gets better,' he added, so reassuringly.
I feel fantastic.

Saturday, 20 February 2010

Words Over The Water

Cold evenings
cold nights...

Still at the office.

Wishing you were here.

Restless and awake.
No sleep, not for the right reasons.
Ah, no. Not for the right reasons.
(She smiles and ebbs with tiredness.)

She fidgets and turns.
Words all jangling
Memories pivoting...the pieces falling

Amongst the jigsaw.
Webs and words weaving and meshing.
Webs and words.

Silky lines...
Invisibly floating and gliding
Over the water.


Thursday, 18 February 2010

Porn Girl

I have been a naughty girl, a porn girl.
Watching the guys give it...the girls who take it, the guys who take it.

Now that turns me on.

Nothing better than a raunchy strap-on scene to get the juices flowing.

I Refused Him

I did.
I have refused.Turned him down.

I don't feel bad, insecure or guilty.

I feel relief.
I am glad I found the strength and can ignore the need....

But..I have drowned in self pleasure every evening and every morning alone...for weeks on end now.

I reach a beautiful orgasm, but it feels the same...I need to feel someone else, within, next to, beneath...a different and wonderful climax without the subversive guilt.

Waxed and exfoliated, my smooth body has no admirer, except the deep eyes of the lonely brunette that shimmer in the mirror.


If he holds you, do you hold him back?
If he kisses you, how long do you feel his lips.
If he carresses and moves
his arms...
do you melt and fold into him?

If he sends fluttering words
If he dispatches graceful images

If you want
If you feel
If you can...

If the human touch is there,
do you open your arms?

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Feeling Unsure.

To have an opportunity to be utterly naughty, rude, immoral...
To have the childcare taken care of...
To actually have the time...
Is an amazing thing actually.
Usually, I grab it with both hands and open thighs.

I hoped so much he'd cancelled this Friday.

Nails done today. I relaxed.
Wax...a hot one on those girly areas...done. No pressure.

Looks good.
Feels good.

Then he texts.
Mr Home Office is pushy.
I don't like pushy...but I don't like feeling so lonely either.

Moments In Time

He is so much better than I ever could be.
So much more successful.

I cannot give you the words to describe him.
Yet, I have, when uninhibited.
When frank and open and mostly unaware of who he is; what he does.

Feeling deeply satisfied to know I remember every moment.
Feeling quietly contemplative that he should spend time with me.

That he did spend time.
With me.

A Day Out

At the Museum of Science and Industry, Manchester...UK.
Great day.

Cobbles and tunnels and steam.
Paintings and motion and Mona.

Monday, 15 February 2010

It's Just Not

It's just not the red feathering of the beautiful sky,
It's not the deepness of the clouds.
It's just not the promise of love or lust.
It's just not the hiding of one who cries

...with dark tumultuous greyness.

It's just not
the moment we want.
It's just not the moment we dream.

It is only a moment we catch and hold,
A fragile and china glimpse.
...It's just not the sound we want to hear as it smashes,
tinkles away,
and finally rests in shards and shrieks.

It's just not the whole;
it's just not what we may

It is..
but a moment.
It is not the whole.
It is not the full.
It is not the drowning sensation of too much...
It is just not that.

It is just not



Alcohol has blurred the brain,
The body is blurred too.

Feeling him on my lips
Feeling him tentatively between my thighs,
His hands smoothly over my hips,
Atop of me,


Not even a flicker,
A shiver
Not even a gorgeous, juicy, secret quiver
Escapes from me now.

For now, I am numb.
I am the only one

The only one astride.


Too Much

I feel too much.
Deep breaths and stillness walking in.
Empty and yet filled with abrasion and political silence.
She lies.
Lies some more.
Sitting within my shell I dignify my quietness.
Quietness against the barrage.
I feel inadequate.
I feel weak.
I feel I've let the side down.
I feel.
I feel too much.

Brittling composure and fabricated ruin.
Fabricated failure.

No waterproofing today.
Leaving a dark, black mascara trail.
The hands are clasped.
The heart absorbs another jolt of hurt.

When will it end.
Glimmering, lightning flash of self harm, self death.
Images of the knife that won't cut through.
Mind standing up for the raised blue vein.

Hauntings are back.


Glass Tears

It is warm
downward in rivulets
down her skin

Not stopping
but weeping

she is bewildered and tastes the salt
of her tears.

Still a fragile girl
Under the skin
of her...

© prettyintelligentprincess

Crucible Melting

I wince.
Her words pierce
my mind.
Strained smile, fleeting distance as
the cool and distant response
I give
lands -
on an empty moment.

Empty she is
...a bitchy shell
of brittle threat and stinking yolk.

And more -
and more -
- and more -

...as I walk away,
She tips the tipping point
Flooding the blood
Pushing down the lid

over my words.
My voice.



Swooning Sleepless

Hate the concept
dread the thought
of sleep
she said.



Train Journey

He ate his sandwiches,
the old man,
then reached for a soft banana;

'I'm watching him,' he said.
'I wish I was watching him too,' she said.

It is dark as the train burrows through the blackness...
...it is dark here too.

Mixed and rapid response.
She giggles, then chuckles
deeply, into her glass of red.
many women,

'No,just one,' he said.

'I would love you to have me,' he said.

A precious time capsule, still.
Precious and secure.

Across the ocean
across the spinning of time,
she wraps herself around
and around...

inside the silky web of
adulterous cushions and drapes...

Inside the secretness
Of her other life.

A Coldness Comes

The air bites
and is cold.
She wants the warmth of him.
The entwining
The colours
The moments
The words.

Still and brittle now.

A few words jangle over the invisible ocean.
Falling softly inside the smooth screen

of her phone...

glimmering and warming into her hands.
Her fingers dancing on the keys
as she sends her words back

floating over the cold sea...

the watery link

that is deep

deep and constant.

There is someone out there
wishing they were here.

Rolling Crystal

'It's not me at all,'she murmurs
Twining the thoughts inside her tumult;
Twizzling them around her pondering finger
Falling amongst the tangles in her hair.
'It's not me.'
'It's not.'

Her feet sink inside the dirty golden carpet,
Deeply wrapped in the sifting, shifting rolling ground.
Whining and whooshing, the whiteness of gulls sweep the invisible ceiling above
her head,
Silver cobwebs of thought
falling over her face.

'Murmur murmer...' mutters the sea.
'But, it's not me,' she whispers.
'Not me.'

Foamy whiteness hisses around the ground
upon which she walks
Reflecting her confusion and confiding in her feet.
'It is...'
Shushing and shooing her thoughts into silence.

Stepping into the sharp rolling crystal
of the sea,
She shimmers, drowning in her reflection.
Drowning in her mirror.
Slashing ice upon her skin
Wanting to fall deeply within her
dark depths.

the 'o' fills
with water.
Water from the crystal sea.

'Not me.'


Yellow rectangle of light behind her..door open..open and rectangular.
Above a plane a huge noisy plane lifts almost vertical...
She misses it..yet again....
Streets and houses and roofs and intensity...closing in.
She needs to leave.
She needs to get back.
There is a garden, a pond....and strange creatures; moving and turning and swimming and disappearing.

Forests in the distance and a steep descent into the comfort of the valley and then the steepness of the escape...that never happens..

Again the plane.
Again she needs to leave.
She cannot get through...she is stopped and blocked and silenced and halted.
Her feet cannot move.

Invisibilty closes in....powerless and suffocating.

Dreams of Spaces and Water and Fire

Climbing those steps,
over and over...vast pools of emerald water,
delicate ripples and spaces in the walls.

Coolness penetrating the humid heat;
I searched some more.
Stretching runways and disappearing planes,
consumed by flames...again.

Searching for peace and space and green trees...
no money, empty purse.
I could not remember the number, the code.

I saw her face and smiled.
She asked me and I wondered.
The car...infront of the old house.
Parents, fear, loathing, fear.
Watching from the window, I could not move...
still fearful of those who loved me.

No escape.

Now, no escape.

Giant birds
in the blue skies with orange flames.
More cars outside the house.

Men and loud voices frighten me.
Silently screaming for love.


Naked Dreams

Tickets to London.
Trains and escalators down long glass corridors,
Looking over her shoulder, smiling.
Slowly filling with raindrops - the phone,
Pressing the buttons that won't press - the phone.
Nothing works and then she's alone.

Escalators melting into stairs.
Trains melting into horses and carriages.
She's evolving and is seated in the back of the black cab.
London views melting into grimey seaside cheapness.

An unwelcome friend has influenced her, the one who was smiling.
Unsmilingly, they leave the black cab and leave her alone.
Naked and alone.
Perched high on the elevated back seat for all to see.

Solitude is shattered as the large, rough men climb in.
All they want is to know that the fight will happen.
'Will the fight happen?'
'Will it?'

Murmuring her assent,
They dissolve away.

She looks down upon the greenery of lawns and gardens and fenced domesticity from her soaring view.
She swoops as she flies.
She floats, fluttering butterflies

Inside her.
Searching and wanting
And not seeing the sky.
The earth is all below
Upon which she never lands.

The Temptress

She didn't know what to wear on that day.
That day of madness and solace and sin.
She should wear those red shoes
High, gleaming, pointed;
Wickedly smiling from her wanton wardrobe.

He'd called her yesterday.
She'd squirmed in warm delight
And opened her legs some more,
Red heels glinting in the bedroom sun,
Shimmering reflections dancing on the mirror.

Desires tangled in her web
Taut and tantalising.
Temptation; she never could resist
Loving the serpent,
Its slimy trail
'What a naughty girl you are...'

Passion and warmth.
Fire and danger.
A beating heart of blood and love.
She broke out of her garden long ago
When the blossom fell
When the fruit shrivelled.
When the vermillion sunset melted her skin
Into glowing wax.


Deep Red

Tonight she painted her nails deep red.
Long and beautiful.
She called him,
He told her she would rule and fuel
More desire

Dirty desire.
Delicious desire.

Sighing, she thought back to
Darcy desire,
Dangerous desire,
Fuelling adulterous desire

He left his house
And her.
Because of his desire.

Red heels snuggled in her wardrobe
Beneath her red and black lingerie,
Beneath her

Like so many are.

Looking into the mirror and beneath the glass
The frost,
The icy wonder
Of her

Painting her lips
Deep red

Needing the blood of the moment
The desire inside her head.
She yearns for sweet vermillion.
She yearns for what he said.


Bubbles and Dreams

Dreams of 'on-tap' sex.
Delicious and fulfilling.

But...I want more...

Dripping slowly, the tap may soon stop;
the flow may become dry.

Stepping into the warmth of sensual bubbles,
Angling between the shiney arcs;
Slipping under the ovals and circles of warm scent;
Yelling and screaming rebels.
Screams of water;
A soapy topping;
A popping cocoon.

Enveloping and drinking me;
Drinking me in.

Completely until parched
And drowning.

Sunday, 14 February 2010

Dangerous Anticipation

It's a dangerous game,
hiding the shame,
loving it,
loving it,
loving the game.

He has the dice.
he rolls to entice.
Loving it,
loving it,
loving the dice.

It's a double life.
A sharpened knife.
Loving it,
Loving it,
the adulterous wife.

Friday, 12 February 2010

All A Tumbling

Need words..

and hands
and arms
and closeness...

Just need.

'Apologies for being so damned needy,' she muttered...over

...and over -

over again...


Windows are frosted and closed and shut.
Branches sway and swoon...

She is sorry really, she is.
She looks out
and watches
the ripples within the ancient bark.

(c) prettyintelligentprincess

Compartments and Empty Spaces

Lake District

This is beautiful space; clear and crystal and smooth, yet mountainous, vast, intimate.

Intricate, just like our minds, memories, hopes and our pasts...set in granite and in stone; foretelling unknown futures and meandering through dramatic landscapes from time to time.

I miss the calmness of a sensible mind I can call my own.
I miss the fulfillment of spaces that should be filled by the sensibilities of me.
I miss the feeling of ignorance and of normality, whatever that should be.
And it's not me.

His tender and concerned words filtered through tonight.

I miss him.

Thursday, 11 February 2010

Are You?

'Are you really alright?'
Distant words.
Are you?
Are you?

Hotness of tears and silence.
He made me do that.
He made me

'Are you really fine...?'
Are you?
Are you?

My darling have no idea
About the complexities of me.
You should not.
Would not.
Could not

The complexities of me..
Almost alright.
Almost fine.

This is me being fine.
This is me being alright.
This is me

In the complex sea of me...



I am strong..
they are weak.

Daddy rules the roost
in his house.
I would slaughter him in mine.

I feel the pain
the same
as he does.

I can speak it.
Feel it.

He is dumb.


That's a laugh.

A sister I have.
who lives with a divorcee;
38. No marriage or children;
I hide my glee.

Have the perfect criteria now
for a successful daughter,
yet they do not know me;

do not;
will not;

Succesful in my career,
my life without them.
A mother and a wife.

Yes I have faults,
yet my success exhalts

...and they are not part of me.

Penniless at 20
a bedsit
by the sea...and now,
...just take a look at me.

You need sunglasses to hide the glare you see,
They made me
They dumped me
They set me free.

'You'll come crawling back,'
Well Daddy,
take a look at me.
What do you see.


The Sounds Of The Motorway

Gliding lift doors and stale walls,
Bored female monotone telling her the doors
are closing -

In on her.

Doors opening and
for a moment,
she breathes the stale air.

She walks in,
she plays the game
she uses,
she wishes he abuses
just a little more

to the sounds of the motorway.

Sweat and blind imagination
she imagines him
over her.
His distant body
over her
as she writhes
and watches the clock.

She yearns for the smell of almond oil...
To feel heady
To feel...

Something soothing.
Something sensual.

Just something,
to the sounds of the motorway.


This Mother

I shouted and yelled and was terrible.
Moments later, I apologised and hugged the sobbing boy.
His tears stained my suit.

The girl sobbed and turned away.

Later, she sat with her mother in the shade.
She listened and talked about growing up.
She knew she was an 'old' nine year old...

Smiling and hugging,
she listened to her mother saying sorry,
she felt the fragility

of her.


all words from the nine year old girl...

Quiet wonder from the 40 Year old woman who listened
at last.

'I don't want to become grown up mummy'

She smiled and with silent tears, the mother replied,
'I don't want you to grow up at all...'

The first born still stretches your flesh and feeling
Still consumes
Still attached

to the invisible cord

of love.

White Lines Over The Moon

They were there tonight
white lines over the moon..

Soft cloudy streaks and glistening planes..
Glinting moments in the sky..

A second of someone's time..
A life time within the second.

I love to watch the gliding reflective birds...
I settle in the silence of distant journeys.

I stand still.
For now.
My moment.
As I watch the journeys across gentle skies.


Along Came Jack's Spider

Along came a spider
In the darkness
beside her...

As he watched
a voyeur
in the seeping shadows
behind her.

Brunette and black dress
flittering and skittering
upon her skin

her web.
An invisible
answer, a tangible desire

scattering all eight answers
before her.

© Prettyintelligentprincess

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Moon and Sky and Bats

It was lovely,
alone outside in the still stillness,
as the birds sang and wove the threads of their tunes around the quiet of me..

She shone so brightly-
So loudly-
She sang too.

as the bat swooped and swerved across the deep blueness of darkness
that covered my sky.
Brightly ebbing she was...the moon,
that covered my head,
that wrapped and
my mind with the pictures
I needed
to write the words I do,

'Go look at the moon,' she said.
'Trying to sleep,'he said.

Yet she is still illuminated.

© Prettyintelligentprincess

Pictures In My Head

It's the rumble of the train beneath the ground.

It's the brightness of sunlight.

It's the heaviness of the curtains.

It's the height of the mirror!

It's the silence of his footsteps.

It's the study of his gaze.

It's the sound of his voice.

It's the art of translation.

It's the peace of sleep.

It's the warmth of pleasure.

It's the smell of awakening bodies.

It's the feeling of him touching my skin.

It's the sound of his patience.

His patience and me

© Prettyintelligentprincess

Hungarian Ark

Listening to his silence is hard.
Touching and remembering is plaguing my head.
Always; always I remember and it is my curse, jarred.
I try to forget and now Kasztner is there, documented...
making me see red.

I do this.
I try not to and usually I succeed.
Usually it's an ice maiden that feels the need
shares her greed,
never takes heed...
But sometimes, sometimes...
I do this,

I envelope the mind of the man,
I capture his voice,
I carry his words
Inside my swirling head
consuming my loud and colourful pictures
that remember not only the sanctuary of our bed,
but all that was said...

It is there.
Weeping and dancing and shouting.
It is there.
Intricately inside my head.
© Prettyintelligentprincess

Words On My Mind

Why do I remember words in my head?
Why are they burnt into my brain?
Why can I see them and never ever rub them out?

Why is it I cannot delete a certain telephone number?
Why is it I can see those text messages...even after years...?
Why can I see the long slim late night secret conversations on the MSN screen?

Why is it I remember the very part of the pavement I was standing on when he said that?
Why is it I remember the music playing when we talked about that?
Why is it I remember his answer to that question?

Why do I remember the four people on the table next to ours?
Why do I remember the marks on skin?
Why do I hear their voices,
Feel their hands,
See their words,
For always?

© Prettyintelligentprincess

Taunting The Memories

Taunting and trivial..
He was there again,
him and I
the conversation

before sleep hits,
Words,twist inside.



No, I did not
But you...
you did.
Over and over
You did.

Voice outside sleep
is strong.

I stand up.
I face him.
I tell him.
Screaming silent words.

Silent now.
Heart racing.
Tears falling.
Hands clenching.

Wishing to be somewhere else
Someone else

Wishing for sleep
and silence
and sense.

He does not hear.
can not hear.
Never hears.
He is not there.

He is here.
Deeply piereced
inside the fragments of thought.

Inside the mess of memories
The mess of me.


He broke her passion in a few moments.
He just snapped it.
Massacred it.
Shredded it.
Kicked the pieces away.
Sitting inside her fragile shell,
the muted harsh rant glanced off her;
she shifted slightly and the roaring venom pierced her very core;
her very heart;

The shell began to crack.
Slowly at first,
a thin spidery line,
shuddering and shaking into a fragmented jagged split,
which split again,
over and over
leaving a sharp gaping wound
exposing the delicate centre
nestled deep within.

Walking inside muted corridors of blankness,
she stumbled home.
She stumbled being a mother and a wife.
She stumbled being her.
She stumbled, but she managed to stand - -


Viciously, convincingly,
the darkness fell around her.
It smothered her.
She could not breathe and she could not reach.
It choked her and he tightened his autonomous grip.
Succombing into her way out, she no longer stumbled:
-she fell,

hard and crashing and alone.

She fell into oceans of coolness as she drank.
She fell into waves of numbing air as she swallowed,
and reached, and found,
and swallowed some more.

Smooth and circular pebbles.

The world whirled around her head,
lifted her body,
balanced her blood and there she lay in a new and beautiful heaven
of calm and silence and peace.

No voices
no pain
no passion

no God.

A Week Tomorrow

Mr Home Office reckons he will spank my bottom...as long as I wear stockings.

I wait.
With trepidation.

Monday, 8 February 2010

Mundane Midnight

Mundane midnight only minutes away,
she is still too frightened to sleep.


Just like the sway of the seconds
The click of the clock.

Tidal sleep.

Moonlight glittering over the silver sea -
She drowns...

Lost and whorish memories

Sneaking out of the hot and heady place...filled with drunk and so loud people with no decorum...I turned and saw him.
A brief glance as his eyes switched from the give-away tattoo on my back down to the seams of my Jasper Conran stockings...

The owner had seen me and I melted away into the hard icy jangle of narrow streets, church yard and market square...not a taxi in sight...

It is some time now since I was the whore at thirty minutes after three in the same place ...empty...upon the leather sofas and amidst free flowing spirits...the owner and me. A casual flirt leading to dreadfully more.
Not seen him for a while.
Not wanting to.

The taste still bitter in my mouth

Sunday, 7 February 2010


'I miss you,' she said.
'Sorry for bothering you,'she said.
'Likewise,' he said.
'No sex,'he said.

She sighed.
Wanting him under the sheets and over her.
Legs apart and him within.

Too much water between them now.
Not even a bridge will suffice.

She waits


I wish for some love.
Nothing more.

Did I?

Did I ever tell you how sexy it was when Jones pushed me down, onto the floor...
did I?

Did I ever tell you how sexy it was when he pinned my arms down with his knees...
did I?

Did I ever tell you how sexy it was when we kissed, on the floor...
did I?

I miss him.
He left a mark.
A beautiful mark on my memory.

Dirty Dreams

I have them.
Bet you do too...but you are more shy.
I dream I am between two men.
I dream I am pleasured by a woman too.
I dream of being bound and gagged and silenced.

I dream of hot skin and spanking.
I dream of deeply passionate kisses.
I dream of my underwear sliding off.

I dream of the faces I know.
I dream of those I don't.
I dream of being tied.

I dream of a long silent night with one.
I dream of his kisses and the way he undressed me.
I dream of the way he pushed inside me.
I dream of that.

I can always dream that.
I lived that.
I did that.
I remember that.

A Big Burglar

'At half past 4, I heard you and Daddy snoring' (very good to know...god what must a lover think of me?)
'Well, it was a heavy footstep,right outside my bedroom door, much heavier than you or Daddy.(Confused relief)
'I heard some bells and then I held my breath.'

'Why?' I ventured.
'Because it was HIM!!!'


'Oh Mummy, who do you think? Heavy footsteps and heavy breathing outside my door....it was Santa!'

I actually panicked.
Had we been burgled?
I was bloody asleep at half four...as was the husband!

So, so lovely and so wonderful what a child's imagination can do.

Deliciously wonderful and I must remember this at it will end so soon...
a child's belief.


Today the 52nd child now fatherless because of this conflict...

Today the 106th soldier killed this year was announced this evening too...

A dreadful Christmas for their families.
A dreadful Christmas for all who have lost someone in the forces in Afghanistan this year.

My thoughts are with them.I know there will be two minutes silence from me on Christmas day.

Peace to all men?


is golden.
Anticipation is silence.

I have thought of him but not texted Darcy.

First time since my heart stole away.

I feel not the need.
I feel strong without him.

Hope all is well with him.

My Girl

She was ten today...my girl.
How I love her.

The lantern we released flew high in the sky as she made her wish from the frozen ground.

Jones The Explorer

Scuba and sun.
Snow and blankets.
Warmth beneath.

I miss the Jones who writes the words.
I miss the man
Who loves the

Missing You

I do.
Miss Jones.

'Missing you,' he said.

Just that.

Short and simple and uncomplicated...enhanced by the letter x, times three.


Never has a man stolen so much, in such a short time.

I don't want it returning...

Told him that.
Just that.
Sensibly of course.

Sensible and...

Of course.

Late Night Porn Girl

Slept late.
In bed late.
Porn girl fixation again...

I need a real man. Real sex. Real reality for a short hour or two.


Too long have I been the dutiful wife.

I am suffocating..

Jones and Jottings

'You remember so much,'he said.
'Champagne and shoes...' she said.

Ahh I remember.
So much.
Too much.

The looks.
The walk.
The talk.

Beautiful bodies in a bath.
Massages and messages in almond oil.

'You remember.'
I remember and
it haunts

The food.
The film.
The flesh. Delicious.

Jones is far away but close in word.
Closer than you think.

Jones and Words

'Your words just landed,' she said.
'Not crash landed I hope,' he said.

'No,' she said. 'They floated down onto my screen.'

Shall We

Shall we go to Switzerland then?
Shall we.
All white and all blind?
Shall we.

A clear cloth
A red cross flutters and shields..
Meets the needs.
Shall we?

Let us feel clean
and free
and keen.
No place for ardour,

Shall we?
Shall we to Switzerland


He's a man of worth.
A man of long silences.
A man of intellect.
A man of sense.
A man of passion.

His words float down onto my small screen...
glimmering into a calm darkness


I am moving.
From there to here.

I will need a few suitcases to carry all my words.