A collection of thoughts. A conversation with no destination. Milk and honey. And the dirt that came from the fallen pot plant... The rest... I leave up to you to decide what to label... Stereotyping is fun... or so 'they' say...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Bands Around My Wrists..
Monday, August 3, 2009
Thankless Marriage
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Cups of Jupiter
Cups of jupiter tea... swirls of colour in the bottom of my cup..
Burning lips... A constellation in my hands..
Sinking battles, ships at sea. Woman by the windows... waiting. waiting.
We carry what we need, and lose the rest... along with our minds.. and our dress.
Sense and ability to leave.. now it's gone.
And we walk on.
But never forget, the scars on our arms, our hearts... the dark hooded cloaks that we will forever have covering our faces, so as not to look into the eyes of the ones who used the knife...and severed us apart.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Of filaments of light & space
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Of Swedish Origin.
Maybe we are to be trapped in this dimly lit world forever.
Then the music changes to live... as a man stands on the stage... his quiet presence along with his music seems to be putting people to sleep. I watch. And listen.
And soon he is finished, the crowd around me pushes in closer, like a herd of animals trying to fight off the Cold Swedish Winter.
He was only the support. Then we see who we have been waiting for and the atmosphere changes from a sluggish appreciation to fearsome screams.
He greets everyone, somehow making it personal to the individuals that make up the sea of faces. And then bang, he's straight into his set.
As the time progresses, he has the crowd sing harmony with him. The grin on his face making everyone sing that bit louder.
An encore is not in question, as soon as he steps off the stage, the crowd goes into a dramatic fit, yelling and screaming and stomping feet, how the tables have turned. Quiet talking is of the past.
And he delivers. He comes back out, with that same grin of recognition and graciousness for such an appeasing audience. And then the night comes to a close, and the big men in outfits of SECURITY tell us to leave. But he promised to come back and talk to us. He promised.
And everyone is standing their ground to the Security, who are agitated to say the least. And with that we see he's well dressed lanky figure emerge from the back door. And he talks and hugs and thanks us for making his evening there a wonderful one.
But in return we say: "Thank you O Music Man of Swedish Origin for making our night."
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
STILLNESS...
It's silent claws digging in to my flesh, like an animal before consuming it's prey.
The consistent whirring and high pitched squeaks of the electricity powering our lives....
Full of agitation.
Cold water splashes and insistent stares into mirrors...We try and wake ourselves up to the reality of who we are.
We are mere specks, a particle of dust, of skin, laying on a glass tabletop...waiting to be wiped clean, or blown away, to another unobserved position... we like the anonymity...
The anonymous does not bear responsibility, and yet... we thrive to be known in our way, to be recognised, to be discovered, to be loved...
Like Matroshka dolls we want someone to find us and pull us into individual pieces discovering our layers of emotion one by one, and then putting us back together, again.
Disjointed, Awkward. the clock ticks, slicing the air, my heart in time... Tick. Tick. Tick.
With it's fanatical obsessive beat...