...
. That is all.
Ladders"This is no fantasy ride".Ladders
When I first began to tell my story to the nurses in white and blue uniforms, it seemed strange to me that as I reached for the words to describe the images in my head, they slid out of focus and flickered past. They seemed to paint themselves in front of my eyes and writhe in shades of dull yellow and dirty, ugly grey, recounting the events of the last twenty four hours, whilst at the same time avoiding every movement I made to capture them with language. I wanted nothing more than to sleep away this nightmare. Yet the pictures in my mind, as if in an attempt to tease, snatched my tiredness away each t
Amongst The Old ThingsSo there he rests, gazing out Into sunny streets below, at the market Where people will sell new pottery For more than a rusty vase And children beg tired mothers To buy them lonely animals from cages. Occasionally, a slinky rat appears And nibbles at rotting remains Dropped by the young ones. He sits watching it all Tucked away in his drowsy room With hands dry like painful tree roots And ugly lines Gauged into a face that hides From colour and green new things. The attic, he feels Is his true place: Amongst brown curtains that cling WAmongst The Old Things
Foreign?jest becuse i dont understnad about punktuashun and wurds dos not meke me stupid. its not my fualt that leters come elive like inceksts and beetls and wigle akross the paige, the foll stops bein >trapt< in stikcy spyders webs mede of ls and qs and ps and the long words sllllllliddeForeign?
like ll pp rr snakes ss ii pp yy
in a hot desert of paiper. sumtimes i wish tha evereybody rote f o n e t i c l y so that i culd undastand them beter and here all the difrent acksents and al the difrent
PlacidThe coils of crashing and clanging creep around you Stop, trip, trap, keep And try to tie you to the tracks Before the whistle blowsPlacid
The cracking and snapping, Ripping and dripping, Flesh and bone conjoined into Such perverted union
Bindings bound you for a moment, But only once you see The flashing and flickering of fluttering light Leaving the sky and luring you along
So you find yourself new, No longer a slave to the harsh and battered Temple below; You belong here now, where such things as angels dwell.
The GirlThe flames rise; an orange glow reflected in the sheen of sweat on her skin Taut, smooth, as she writhes to the music, the movement her release Caught, torn, she dances on the edge of reason An individual amongst thousands Drawn to the rhythym, enslaved by the heat Her stomach twists, crunches Her body a focus of attention Her mind at odds between desire and self-restraint: She claws the air, she claws her skin Eyes trace her curves, barely concealed The straps slip from her shoulders Every moment bringing her closer She clutches the black cloth to her breast PoundiThe Girl
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"Poetry is the perfume of the soul." - Otep Shamaya
It is a lot harder for writers here opposed to other artists, but keep at it.
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I Like Morons, They have so much....... Culture.
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"I'm like a person whose hands were kept numb, without sensation from the first moment of awareness--until one day the ability to feel is forced into them.
And I say: "Look! I have hands!" But the people all around me say: "What are hands?"
Thank you for your comment
--
Repeat after me: "Good shot" is not a Good Comment.
~fote-stock | Chris McKibbin Photography
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Luv
Ems
xxx
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