Poetry | Stories | Photography
A crystal chalice is topped up again and again as he ingurgitated many bottles of claret.
In a haze of inebriated numbness, he imagines seeing a nymph stepping on seashells.
When he wakes, he’s lying in the pantry covered in eggshells with the dog licking his face.
‘I love you like I love Pavlova. Will you be my Pavlova?’
‘Do you want me to be fruity and frisky? I’ll give you a double mango and a double strawberry surprise.’
‘Kinky.’
‘First, let me sweep you off your feet.’
‘What!? Don’t you drop me!’
‘Oh no, you’re heavy.’
‘What!!!’
‘Stopping flapping your legs.’
A broken heart touched him once. Now he works in a lab trying to find a panacea.
This thesis is solid, the results are collated, yet the cure never passes the testing phase.
The funding starts to dry up, and all hope seems lost. Then he finds the cure: love or death.
“It’s so grey. See the rain?”
“Yes. Do you see the way the grey extinguishes the last of the light?”
“I do. Son, the grey is beautiful. It reminds me of your Mother before the desolation of her life.”
“Dad, how sentimental you’ve become today.”
“Your Mother always knew my heart.”
Spring has come to your heart, yet I sit here in my Winter world wondering what you’re doing with all of those so-called, “friends”.
I love you, yet you are like a Hydrangea in bloom. Your love will last from early spring to late Autumn, yet it never sustains the Winter.
Cow manure hides in grass pockets. Pigs dream of staging a riot, while the chickens only care about designer hats. The cat meows, “Bastards”, and the dog barks at unseen things.
On the farm, a cool wind starts up as Bob steps in manure, and the cat meows, a smile, “Idiot”.
Pockets of sunlight spring forth between shy clouds, which sit highly in the afternoon sky; the clouds lament that shyness is often mistaken for weakness by the mob.
Most think clouds lack the will to spill heavy rain and sweep quickly across the calm sky. The sun knows the mob are full of bullshit, stinky cow dung, and sloshy old turnips.
The clouds laugh wildly at the sun’s phrasing, which gives them renewed resolve; a philosophical debate is going down on high between the sun and the clouds.
Below, an angel stands obscured by an odd mix of sunlight and shadow, experiencing strange tingling sensations; sweet sensations overtake this heavingly light warrior as the armour feels a bit too tight.
“The mob dare not believe me”, the angel whispers to the clouds as they appear closer.; the sun retreats and the clouds darken as the rain bursts forth onto the dry old Earth.
The sun retreats for a nap, and the angel
laughs loudly as droplets touch worn skin.
My ovaries laugh when he says kind things, yet they won’t get the chance to see you come into the world. You will be born of other parents, and I will remain barren and alone, or is it just the hormones telling me lies?
I have struggled with the choices I made for a few good reasons.
I struggle without my imaginary daughter; then I wonder if she came into the world, it would never be as I imagined.
There’s too much horror for broken people like me, so we:
mature later,
laugh hard, and
hurt more
for so many long-winded reasons.
I see the socially acceptable normal ones, the ones who have it all. I see them, and then I look deeper.
Cracks lay across the picture. Black ink seems to smear parts of the image. Underneath, there are pieces of them hurting, hating, hiding, hitting, kicking and screaming, dying, crying and lying.
I see no normal ones. Instead, I see many filters blocking out reality. I see myself in the mirror, and I know that life is about fate and destiny, yet life is also about strength and courage. Life is about love, but not this anger that’s consumed me for too long.
Sitting and feeling sadness boil into anger and resentment, I write it all out. Perhaps I will never have my daughter is a given now, yet perhaps so many others will not too.
Your head is low; you sit and wait. The clock ticks loudly. Even in death, there is no escape from the time.
The smell of anti-bacterial solution numbs the senses and leaves a sense of sadness in your thoughts.
You are sitting and waiting with such intensity; the flatlining beeps and the screams of urgency jolt you. Your head turns towards the sky, only the ceiling.
Anguish grips your chest. There is a knowing that this is the end; numb feelings and recollections of little things about the face you love.
You wait for answers, which never come. Time passes, and fatigue sets into your bones. A person arrives, trepidation increases, and you know your world is shattering: a knowing of sadness.
A person says, “Come with me…“.
The silence, as you look down. Ghosts wait in the wings for sadness to come so they can feed and devour on the stench of heartbreak.
One look and you know he is not there, yet his body remains on the bed. The sheets are white, his flesh is cold, and you know death has come to the love of your life.
Your world softens as a kind hand touches your skin.
Even now, you feel love and know you will get through this. You know this, yet what of your love?
A string of pearls decorate her neck, fall past her chest, and create the illusion of length.
Before the mirror, she holds a brush with a geometrical pattern in blue, silver and white; this precious brush holds sentimental value money cannot buy.
What is the sadness she feels darkening the patches of light from the overly rectangular windows?
Cassandra sits on the bed looking at the beauty in front of the mirror and the brush in her lovely hand, yet she does not know what to do; when she reaches out to touch the beauty, her hand moves straight through the pearls, her chest and nothing makes sense.
Then, without warning, the apparition looks at Cassandra with a longing so sad. Her mouth moves as she says, “Come to me so that I can brush your hair. It is so beautiful.“.
The words grip Cassandra, and she feels an overwhelming urge to be with this beautiful, familiar lady. The feeling intensifies, then it is unclear what happens next; One moment, she was longing for this beauty, and then she felt the brush running through her hair.
No longer feeling herself, she says to the apparition, “Why are you so familiar to me?“
The apparition says, “Cassandra, I have been watching you brush your hair for so long. I’ve grown very fond of you.“
“Who are you?“
“Don’t you know?“
Confused, Cassandra looks around. Her body lays deathly still on the floor. Her lips of blue and her eyes of cloudy nothingness frighten her so much, yet she must ask a question. “What is your name?“
“Cassandra, I am Rebecca.“
Something jolts Cassandra’s memory as she remembers the mansion her husband refused to live in, for his wife died down by the cliffs. Her husband gave her that brush and sometimes watched her brush her hair. Something about the way he watched her seems relevant now, as she says, “Were you my husband’s first wife? Did he kill you?“
“Yes, he pushed me off the cliffs and into the sea.“
“Why am I dead?“
“You have been poisoned over many months. Perhaps it is a cleaner way to die.“
“I can do nothing now.“
“Perhaps you can come with me, and we can make things right.”
They walk from the room together.
C & K 