Flight of the Butterfly

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You win

You pin her there

A fluttering bye poised

Perfectly rare

Crucified in air

On your bedpost

Caught cut and pasted

Gracing the dreams

Of your sought for self esteem

Her spirit trapped in flight

And held aloft

For all to see

Your private recreation

Breaking Moments

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The midnight hour is half past left

Empty of meaning without solace

It sits enamoured of the dark

Heaving sea of vastness

Held loose and swimming free

Moments are breaking open

In pain turning

Space without shape

Cogency got up and left

Long ago before words in rapture

Wrapped around the soul and squeezed tight

To blind and hold hostage the senses

Before the full deep fathoms

Of the endless shifting voids

Could begin

Confliction

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Push me pull you in the gut

Thumping forward

To rip and tear

To force me on

 

Biting fighting fists of fury

Pummelling my way back

Refusing the urge

To purge the need

To race and run

Away and to

And back again

 

Dizzy with spinning hate

And fear of what is there

The care to love

To life to striving on and on

The onward march of ageing

Locked within the cruel embrace of time

Without rest

The pest resides within

And cannot sleep

Shadow Lock

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When I am small and weak

Closed in my shadow

Locked within the compass of my grief

Lure me without menace

Compel me without force

Drink me like air

Breathe me easily wide

Into the inviting skies

Bark For Freedom

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Shirley Poodles had been called by her surname ever since her mother had the errant effrontery to plant the said appellation on to her small, somewhat irregularly placed daughter’s shoulders.

To add further insult to the proverbial  injury incurred, Shirley Re: Poodles had an ever curly, effervescent, buoyancy of massive protruding, tinged with bright springs of crude, rude, ginger hair that perfectly complimented her canine allure.

Unfortunately this was combined with Shirley’s galloping gait, which merely reinforced the application of that once so fond juggling of proper nouns.

Its usage eventually became practiced by the wider and less biologically primed to love community. Therefore, having extended from the nucleus of her cosy, family hub, the pet name, pardon the pun, stuck fast and Shirley’s fate became irredeemably sealed and shut tight.

“What’s in a name after all?” said Shirley, shrugging uneven poodley shoulders, whilst raising her corkscrew eyebrows somewhat quizzically to quote by rote “a rose by any other name” in a misguided attempt to convince herself of the belief she clearly didn’t have.

People would courteously nod in marked and too agreeable haste with an affable cordiality, so eager to please THE POOR UNFORTUNATE WERE THEY!

Deep down however, in her privately secret self Shirley was not, nor could be pleased. Ever!

Shirley nursed a malign and fervently fermenting resentment towards people, poodles, hair, shoulders, ginger tinges and any discernable length of stride a person may in any event exhibit. In short, Shirley was in the unremitting firing line of her own attack with no defence.

Nasty, spite ridden, plotting, planning, unexpectedly waylaying and abducting self hatred barred her any and every attempt to interact in the wide and can be so wicked world at large.

In fact, it could be said, the unavoidable collateral damage we all collect through our embarkation into the thrusts, throes and busy throngs of living existence pale to an insignificant hue, when compared to the self-mediated damage inflicted by the red raging bull of Shirley’s habitually activated self-hatred.

Members of the anonymous conglomerate of public persons, looming largely unaware of Shirley’s own inflicted afflictions, would assume on initial encounter that Shirley was an empowered woman of positively radiant and assertive confidence. Over weaned on self regarding appreciation and fully enamoured of her own er?… charms, despite her  poodley  behaviour and appearance.

But no, Alas! Shirley’s utter self-loathing had thoroughly fenced her off with remarkable effectiveness from all other possibilities to reappraise her status.  She could not alter the fated course of her destined and defeating tendencies, nor possibly procure any path through life’s vicissitudes and some may say character building challenges.

Character building my arse” retorted Shirley to the life coach she once enlisted to conjure a miraculous release from the imprisonment of her punitive mental confinements.

Opportunity to Grow “Fuck my tits and suck your own nob off you spindly louse” was her parting repartee to the wiry therapist, steeped in bookish lore and recent theory based on empirical evidence.

Shirley clearly was an individual who needed no enemy to take down in envy the mast of her little life’s ship. An accomplished mistress in the dark art of self sabotage, she was busy sinking her own boat and refusing to swim before anybody could even get a chance to shipwreck the character she so dearly deplored.

Every career plotted after every career attempted came ignominiously tumbling down. Each early promise of relationship or social network inevitably tensed, frayed to shreds and collapsed to oblivion.  Dreams hopes and wishes shattered repeatedly to land flat at her despairing feet.

Shirley finally could tolerate the situation no longer and intensely scrutinizing her hated features in a mirror opted for the plastic route to liberation.

She would cash in all her investments, harvest as many loans as possible and hocking all her goodly chattels seek a surgeon to re-mould her appearance.

Oh Yes! Off would toss the ginger curls. On with the transplants, implants, pump ups and outs, nips in and tucks to stitch her into acceptable cutedom.

A bit more here and a lot less there would do and better do the trick at all costs.

Costs it did.

The surgeon was extremely happy with the result for his heaving bank balance became extra hefty with Shirley’s hazardous and varied schedule of treatments. Even the private and personally assigned, expensively paid nurse was rather impressed with the unexpected, but magnificent outcome!

For when the last surgery had been committed and the coiling bandage unwound, people exclaimed in awe at the tremendous, stupendous beauty that sat before them.

The mirror was duly handed to Shirley to inspect the results with all breaths bated.

Shirley peeked hesitant and nervous at the reflection, then full face beaming on she lit up like a Christmas tree streaming with fluorescents.

Heartfelt tears of gratitude scrolled rapidly down her cheeks, as she was greeted with the unbelievably stunning image in the mirror.

Years of unalleviated self hatred simply evaporated. The tight, loathsome and so tormented grip from the deepness of her once unreachable and very personal innards had loosened and simply left, as she appraised her new features with unadulterated pleasure.

Shirley felt light and bright and happy for Shirley was free. Shirley was beautiful and could love herself.  Shirley had recast her fate along with the surgical plaster that painfully had encased her limbs.

As she leapt off the vetinary couch Shirley gave a woof of delight, shook her bobbing doggy mane and trotted into her canine and happily drooling future.

Rouse Me Red

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Foaming sea of rage red blood

Bubbling and frothy moans in the vein

Racing like a roaring bull

Charging like a light brigade

To raze and rent asunder sentiment

Cheap meant

Intention slithers off lying tongues

That acrobat

To wield advantage false

Like a weapon to strike

Me down dead

 

But I am easily roused

To new life

With this power surging

Urging me up and bold again

Like the serpent

I can shed my skin

And last to the end of your eternity

Autumn Whispers

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Needy and wraith thin

Secreted in the crack

Of the willow wreathed

In grief and draping

Down to deep roots and underground rock

Reaching for crevices to creep

And roll to oblivions clarion call

The whispered will to inward weep

When Autumn comes