Citrine Dreamer

Originally Written 09/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021

Bestowed gift of manifestation
As laid by this babe's head,
Bring abundance to this child
With bounds yet to be unknown.
Create from his flesh a conduit
Flowing bountiful in curiosity
And free in unabashed glee.
Fortify his bones against misery
And afford him only adoration.
Grant him true expression of
Boundless and pure creativity
Cascading from his fingertips
Or coursing from his pouting lips.

Hold his tongue from envious spite.
Transform those jealous intentions
Into tangible and fortuitous actions.
Harbour angers, fears and explosions
To free his spirit for fresh pursuits.
Transmute his negative shadows
Into innovative and fertile passions
That may regenerate his being
And unshackle his ambitions.
Produce from this humble bairn
An infant of widened eyes and heart;
An enduring and steadfast being.
Make him true, fair citrine dreamer.

Spirit of the Sprite

The day has too few a sunrise to explore
But the innumerous colours are counted
In ritual along the distant early skyline anyway. 
Beyond the principle of merely being, 
There's the principle of endless sight seeing
Fluttering on the delicate iridescent wingtip. 
Although all sights are born of intrinsic good, 
Reality requires a respite of recuperation
So the sprite may realign it's own energies. 

Wrapped in nature's most pastoral gifts
The sprite feasts on the bounty of true justice:
Nourished by the fundamentals of harmony
So it may be vibrant in passionate expression.
Though delicate to the lowly observing eye, 
The spirit of the sprite is bodaciously hardy,
Fearlessly inspired by the very air it breathes:
Time had tested itself, and failed to win battle
Against the ethereal protector of land and sea.

Tar Kiss

I can stare you dead in the eye
But only my hands are fixed in Jute.
I play no longer as your equal
In this demarcated, lonely space,
But as your possession, obsessed.
Today the lungs ferment a tartness
That you’d planted years ago,
But as I cough up curdled astringent
So it may salve your wounds,
I renounce my previous control
And embrace your oblivion invitation.

Meretricious

She lacks symmetry.
In the curve of the looking glass
She’s obtuse,
Deliberate in naivety.
Her melody chants emptily
Constricting her harmony to base notes:
Rooted and diatonic
Yet obliquely tuned, off key.
She reflects with the clarity
That only the distorted can:
Off-balance and perfectly malformed.
In the eye of creation
She’s a falsified sequence
Sat between design and serendipity.
A constellation unmapped
For her rising suns are only set
And her moons are drowned
In the tides they made.
There’s no happenstance here,
To her, existence is a gift.
The opportunity to remould
The kinetic sand in which she swims
So it may smooth the surface
To form a meretricious shine.

Poly-Cotton Shield

Don’t pull the covers away;
I’m not ready to face the world
And all of its sharp edges.
I’m warm under this comfort blanket,
Safe under my safety net,
Hidden from those peering, prying eyes.
I’d rather be smothered in poly-cotton
Than drown in the darkness out there.

Don’t pull the covers away;
I’m not prepared to face the world
And all of its harsh voices.
I’m calm under this comfort blanket,
Safe under my safety net,
Hidden from those intrusive, prying eyes.
I’d rather be veiled in poly-cotton
Than exposed the judgment out there.

Don’t pull the covers away;
I’m not equipped to face the world
I’ll just crumple at its feet.
I’m serene under this comfort blanket,
Safe under my safety net,
Here I cant be vilified for being.
I’d rather be concealed in poly-cotton
Than pretend I want to play this game.

You Were Right

My Dearest Armistead,

I hate saying you were right, 
But you were. 

The smile on my face 
Was a temporary mask 
That has been peeling away 
Ever so slowly. 
My insecurity has bled through 
The white linen robes of my naivete 
And caused me to run to dark corners 
To bleach them clean before anyone sees them. 
Perhaps one could blame 
Our re-acquaintance; 
Nonetheless, I fear this feeling, 
It, would be dreadfully lonely without you.

My eyes feel extremely drowsy, 
But they are failing to rest. 
My mind feels heavy and intoxicated 
By the recurring nightmare of emotion, 
It haunts my every waking hour. 
And my heart is too preoccupied 
With its' reminiscing 
Wo live with the rest of me.

Armistead, 
You have trailed us back 
Through every corner of our suffering 
And imagined them feats of ink.
Do you not see these moments 
Are open wounds? 
They are the episodes in our life 
That we wrap up in neat little stories 
To hide the scars they are transcribed with. 
Yet, for some reason, 
I have removed the bandages 
And allowed you to lick and 
To gorge at the fresh lacerations.

That grief you see 
Sat upon my shoulders 
It is ours to share. 
Are you prepared to split the burden? 
Because Armistead, 
It will continue to grow.


Lovingly,
Armistead

Mrs. Delora

Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!

I took the man up on his offer,
And sat on a stool inside the tent.
Across the large wooden table
Sat a Fortune teller
Drowning in hemp cloth
And gold charms.

Her face was haggard,
As if she had seen a thousand lifetimes.
Her breath, strained and heavy,
And the smell of stale smoke,
Mixed with burnt herbs choked my lungs.

She placed her hand out on the table,
And coughed, wordlessly
Demanding my hand in hers.
In my open palm she placed a red stone,
And closed my fingers tight.

Are you a whore child?
I gasped, offended,
A whore! How dare she!
I guess you’re just promiscuous,
Don’t be offended,
I’m just teasing, child.

She started laughing,
Throaty and coarse she cackled.
But her humour was fugacious.

You’ll be barren of life,
You’ll just be a stand in,
A temporary.

Her words spun around my head,
As they tightened the garotte
Around my throat,
Pulling burning breaths
And twisting them under my tongue.

Would you like some tea?
It helps with the truth,
Makes it palatable…

I sip the mossy coloured liquid,
It burns my mouth,
But I can breathe again.
I can breathe much slower,
Pulling air deeply 
Into my famished lungs.

Yes child, that’s it,
Breathe.

I nod, and bare my hand,
The red stone in my open palm,
It was tinged with black,
Like a plague was spreading
Tainting its surface.

You won’t have to worry,
You’ll not be left a spinster,
You’ll be left,
Penniless, naked,
Alone in a ditch.

Wha… Wha…
The words slur incomplete.
My breath long but shallow,
My eyes open,
Unblinking.

Just breathe,
Let Mrs Delora liberate you,

Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!

Introspection

I am years of depression in the making,
A broken concoction of self-help and self-hate.
Progress, the weapon utilised to silence the audience,
Is just as fake as the smile I paint on in the morning,
To hide the desire to either laugh at my suffering,
Or to will my heart to cease beating.

I am composed of trauma’s melodic refrain,
And I am played over my own disturbed backing,
Pretending every moment is a blessing,
When really I am gluing my pieces back together,
Finding discarded shards all over my psyche,
Pretending I am on a journey of self-discovery.

I am bursting at the seams with rage,
Sewing myself a harness to contain my mania
With the snapped threads of my heart strings.
The blood thirsty fever dripping from my jaws,
The seething grit that sits in my grin,
Aims as inwardly as it does outward.

What to do if you crash land your spaceship in England

Step one:
Exit the space craft from the nearest exit,
Leave any unimportant belongings behind,
Regardless of their worth,
And stand at least half a mile away from the crash site.
Ignore the flames,
They are typical of a crash site,
And will likely fizzle out on their own.
It might be worth notifying the authorities,
To do so, please call 999,
Inform them of your location using GPS if possible,
But beware they likely only speak English,
Which could be highly inconvenient.
 
Step two:
Take a moment to gather your thoughts,
And go and grab a cup of tea.
It is advised to go to a regional tea shop,
But a café will suffice if one is not available.
Be warned these places are like witch doctors,
And so, the medicine must be used with caution.
It is widely believed across this alien land,
That a cuppa will cure all ills.
Whether this is emotional or physical ills,
Well that’s unsure to many,
But add too much milk and…
Well the locals are known to pounce.
 
Step three:
Take note of the weather.
The rain falls precisely 100% of the time,
Or near enough to that.
It is customary to comment on this,
So the following phrases might be useful:
‘Miserable outside, innit?’,
'It's really coming down out there', and
‘It’s raining cats and dogs!’
This is not meant literally though!
If it does literally rain cats and dogs during your visit
DO NOT consume!
Many animals are treated for fleas,
And therefore, lack proper seasoning.
 
Step four:
Complain about Europeans taking your job.
Unusual, I know.
Especially considering you don’t have a job here,
But believe me,
That’s because of the EU!
Failing to do so will lead to societal rejection,
And vilification for not being aware
Of the local lands real problems.
But it’s okay,
This does not make you racist!
 
Step five:
Learn to use sarcasm…