Flames and Beacons

Darkness and travel.
Again.
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
Then

Another
and
Another, burning hilltop.

Fires along the
Craggy coastline.
Along the craggy crevices.

Warning and danger.
Danger.
Dange

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.

And,
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.

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

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?

Salome

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
drowned
by the motherly dread.

She wakes
lies in her bed.

She faces the space.
His head.
His head.

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.

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.

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-
silently
calling?

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

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

Boy Buried

He is young
the boy buried.
On the moors,

On the moors,
alone
poor boy.

A young boy
In a shallow grave
Alone
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

Within
their childlike
damp
shallow
caves.

Last Orders

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

So.
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
drawings.

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
Silently,
Still,
She could see -
the silly wobbly hats -
Hear distant Christmas laughs...

drinking last orders
with him.

Ravens and Writing Desks.

It's mad.

Completely.
Utterly.

Wonderfully...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.

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
Comfortably

Inside my skin.

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

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8KQmps-Sog

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!'
Wonderful.

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
through...
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
Him
In.

(c)prettyintelligentprincess

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.

Silently.
Patiently.
Womanly.