Safety in Number?

It is the lone worker who makes the first advance in a subject—

And there can be only one…

IMG_5572 800The girl who read expressions lessened her eyes to fingertips; closed hers and found his lips. She found them wanting she decided, but found hers dry. The girl who read movements loosened her shirt, her neck released, showed her heart still beats and found sweetly his within her hands. And with him inside little sounds, took him down, letting go the mouth she found and crowned— herself the girl who took a look aside the skin she tried to use to hide, was left there shaking, an aching-like play-thing made believe. She was not petrified…


Home is any four walls that enclose the right person…

Which wouldn’t be me. As for Asbo

Just the wrong kind of walls…

424980_10150708723606041_1819417037_nWere it not for the house-sitting I’ve been doing for my sister, I would no doubt have finished the few things I’ve been working on; I’d been looking forward to it too— but after spending most of today getting over yesterday; which was spent in much the same way as today; and then moving back: I’m in a full-blown phase-state. I’m sure you’ll all know a variance of it well: a lack of decent sleep leaving you feeling half-awake, physically drained and not too clever; have work in your head but getting to it requires the services of the part of your brain’s that’s already in bed.

This is what shifting houses can do to me, it can throw me out of whack, out of sleep and leave me rather worse for wear; and this is before factoring in Asbo the anti-social beast my sister calls a pet. I should ideally have come home during the day, sat at my table with my view, next to the kitchen and been irritated by my own cat: she’s allowed to do that, she’s a monster I can take all the credit for, but Asbo— though he’s a magnificent looking creature, he has an inherency to maim and strike fear into you. Physically, it’d be all too easy to describe him as low-maintenance because he’s either indoors sleeping or outside prowling— but that doesn’t take into account the time spent dressing the assorted wounds he inflicts as a matter of course. In deed, thirty seconds after arriving on Tuesday, I was bleeding from where my right calf used to be.

My sister thinks this is all wonderfully amusing, it’s just her way— she actually called me up to see how things were going and if she was surprised I was still able to answer the phone she hid it well. She said there was some chicken that Asbo and I could share if we wanted. I told her he hadn’t asked for any and of course, she felt the need to point out, he’s a cat, of course he hasn’t asked you… I told her I’d just eaten and’d left some for later— she said, Oh, you’d better check that…

“The little shit, he’s…”

What’s he done?”   *snorting*

“He’s finished my sodding dinner!”

What was it?”   *still snorting*

“Chicken… Don’t you dare!

“So he did want some chicken…”



Neither my dinner, nor the cat was anywhere to be seen…

Anyway, the other side of physical side is the stressy side— the anxiety of letting him loose, which isn’t much worse than knowing I’m in the house alone with him. It’s just I like to know that if he wants back in, I’ll be ready; maybe in some deluded way hoping that he’ll return the favour by not mauling me every time he sees me.

So naturally the knock on effect isn’t much fun; I feel slow and far, far duller than is usually the case. I need a quiet evening with the doorbell unplugged and a decent night’s sleep, then hopefully, I’ll be able to finish some work.

A man is like a cat; chase him and he will run—

Sit still and ignore him and he’ll come purring at your feet…

Helen Rowland

An ultimately pointless piece & the irony-box…

Overload or mood as metaphor:

It’s not overly difficult to be striken by pink, when the pictures I’m thinking in clash

The recovery starts when colours feel like bullets…

218038_10151214972321041_292642255_nA nice smote pink can do the trick, sometimes it’s something altogether more violent: violent colours for violent moods. Sometimes it’s something unpleasant for a foul one, sometimes delicate or spiritually arresting even— but nothing to get arrested with. Sometimes it’s something from the satin-range with its carefully selected blend of subtle whites with ‘a hint of brain’ or something similar. Anything really, to aid the relief of migraines— or something else… Just nothing that looks too sticky.

It can be a ghastly thought— a lack of style, a collection of both. Anything.

It’s enough to make you scream at times— in lines mostly: straight ones, bendy ones, it doesn’t really matter; lumpy lines too— it certainly makes turning a corner particularly interesting— not the easiest thing in the world to do at the best of times, but if you’re in the habit of frequenting just the one room and treating all other rooms, as little more than extensions to that room and to the utilities you find… well, they’re rooms too. Stuff can be a pest.

But they’re not, because they’re little more than cupboards in the house that is no longer a house— just a giant pantry with fewer doors— bigger mind; and floors little more than a convenient place to put things.

A pirouette on the other hand is still a pirouette, just no longer a turn. It is a dance, or— since we’re on the lines, it’s the turn of economy: an extension of something that’s part of a dance— when accompanied of course; because a twirl without music is little more than a spasm, and I for one, prefer to do my spasming in the company of friends, which cancels out any semblance of being a part altogether.

And then there are the lists: comma, comma, comma…

It’s easier to lampoon what grates you, in the same way it helps to imagine idiots are made from cheese— it’s fun. It’s one of those versatile food stuffs that not only tastes great but is a self-contained irony-box— and in itself, a rose-tinted; white-washed review of bad taste only far, far sweeter— you can obliterate it in so many ways.

Either way it’s ultimately pointless;

Except the bit about the cheese anyway.

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