measured out in coffee spoons

Blessed night, beautiful winter

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 23:12:05 GMT

Mother of God

Theotokos,
lovely in the flickering light
of a poor lantern-

this darkness is yours,
this night both fragile and unbreakable

this night when the very stones
sing of the One
who gave you your name.

Theotokos means 'mother of God' in Greek, which is one of Mary's titles. The term was used especially in the early Church.

the sky was dark, but you were clear

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 00:43:06 GMT

I don't tend to post my writing up online apart from this journal and the occasional other spot, but I've had an itch for poetry lately so I revisited an old writing site at which one of my uni friends is a moderator. I reviewed a few other pieces, and figured I'd toss up one of my own.

This one, actually: http://errantwinds.livejournal.com/8980.html

A fellow commented as follows (these are excerpts):

You suggest that I have managed to have hung my life around my neck.
Well, I used to hang a stethoscope around my neck, but it wasn't my life.

You have hanged metaphor on metaphor,
and similie on metaphor so determinedly that you have no actual
subject, and that on top of that, you've got me running around with
about a ton and a half of various metaphorstied to my neck and chest.

So,if you changed your running metaphor to representing the immediate present,
and you dropped all of those not only cliched, but actually imposible metaphors
and simliles; and you wrote it so it made sense; I think you'd have a very
nice poem.

Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch. Oh, and... ouch. I don't claim to be an excellent poet. Heck, I don't even claim to be an especially good one, but I'm pretty sure I'm not all impossible metaphors and cliche similes.

never knew you, never thought I would, never thought I could

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 00:15:56 GMT

Silence

In the dark, thick like water,
my fingers traced across your chest;
a splinter of moonlight illuminated
the ragged paleness of your scars.

I saw you anew, then–
your years mapped out so starkly before me;

and as I kissed your shoulderblade,
it came to me
that we might have no need of words.

the miles just keep rolling

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 15:48:16 GMT

'Drifter'

I have no claim on your affections
but if you're so bitterly determined,
you can post them to me

or just send the pawn ticket

next year, in the rain

while careless winds swept from the sea

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 23:55:43 GMT

I've been reading Tolkien's 'Lay of Lethian' recently, with its impressive flow of rhyming couplets and its haunting images. I've always been fond of epics and laments and stories told in verse, so here, in miniature, is a small one of my own.

It's about a character called Rohwyn, who returns to the town that she and her military company swore to protect, only to find that it's been destroyed by an invading army.

==

Lament of a Guardian

She stood amidst the crumbled eaves:
the charréd huts all strewn with leaves,
the hollow shells of cot and byre,
the ravages of glaive and fire
lay all around her in the dale.
Her breath was drawn, her cheek was pale;
the stench of corpses heavy fell
over the scene, 'twixt older smells
of battle. And there on the ground,
the body of a brindled hound
lay sprawled beside a mangled child.

With shoulders firm but eyes deep-wild
she tucked her kirtle, bent her knee
while careless winds swept from the sea.
She softly touched the tousled brow,
her voice a whisper, bent and bowed;
'I swore to keep thee safe from ire-
thy people, farm and cot and byre.
Oh, would that I had kept my vow.
Oh, would that I had died, not thou.'

And long upon the blackened sward
she knelt and spake no further word;
she thought of faces she had known,
the people she had made her own.
So thus she witnessed Southshore's lot,
the wrack and ruin Death had wrought.
Yet in her deep eyes no tear burned.

At last she straightened; silent, turned;
rejoined her men upon the hill
and gave her orders, quiet still.
They had no time to keen and weep
with graves to make and watch to keep;
yet well she knew, with foresight's spark,
in years to come 'twould haunt her heart;
for with the lives of Southshore's folk
her hope had gone, in fire and smoke.

The Alterac Falcon, part one

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 14:34:36 GMT

This is the first part of a longer story I'm writing called The Alterac Falcon. It's set in World of Warcraft, and although it's from the point of view of a certain Dorian, the girl in the story is a young Annie Fox. Opinions and suggestions are always welcomed and appreciated.

==

The Alterac Falcon

Chapter One: The Fox at Bay

At nearly an hour until midnight, the forest lay quiet. A man knelt on the forest floor, reaching between the jagged splinters of a moss-ridden pine trunk, long since fallen from its place in the crown of the forest and now comfortably rotting into the surrounding detritus of leaves, needles, and grubs. As he leaned forward, a shaft of moonlight caught the dark face, pulling it for a moment out of the shadows. Dark hair, its colour indistinguishable in the absence of day, fell ragged over his shoulders, framing a harsh face; a falcon-like face, with a hooked nose and dark features.

The man, whose name was Lord Dorian Andural, plucked a white, almost luminous, fungus from the rot and held it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it. Ghost mushrooms were rare; it was an unusual gesture of fortune that this one had grown so close to the camp, and that he had spotted its eerie cap here in the cleft of a decaying log. He opened a pouch on his belt, pulling out a scrap of linen, and carefully wrapped the mushroom in the cloth.

Dorian's musing was cut short by a low and very nearby scream. The sound crashed through the night for a second and then ended, abruptly, before it reached its pinnacle, but its echo rippled through the heavy air, permeating every trunk and needle and stone. It was akin to the cry of a wounded animal, but Dorian, who knew the calls of every bird and beast of this forest, recognised it as human. He dropped the mushroom into the pouch and, leaping over the fallen log with a cougar's litheness, sprang away into the shadows.

Two figures struggled at the edge of a small beck, only muffled sounds and shadowed movements making their way through the thickness of the nighttime forest. As he darted into range of them, the figures tumbled out into the moonlight. Dorian at first could see only the back of the nearer one, who was also by far the larger. It was a man with a coat so dirty that the colour was long since lost, but which was probably something like the muddy brown of his hair.

'Where did you think you were gonna run, filthy little bitch?' The words came out like a snarl as the man suddenly shoved the other figure sideways against the trunk of a knotted, dying pine.

It was enough. Dorian leapt forward from his brief pause, a blade flicking into his hand from some hidden place on his person. He snatched the man's hair, forcing the head back, the blade moving to the exposed neck– and then, as he recognised the assailant, a low, disgusted sound growled from Dorian's throat.

'Carl. Well this is rich.' He put a boot to the man's back and released the greasy handful of hair at the same time that he thrust his foot forward, sending the man stumbling with a sudden cry into the stream. Dorian stepped forward, resting the same boot on the side of the man's head as he lay halfway submerged in the gurgling mountain water. Dorian's dagger was in his other hand now in addition to the small knife in his right; it was a small, keen-edged blade with a red pommel-stone, one he always carried.

'You know how the band feels about this sort of behaviour, I think.' Dorian looked down at the sodden, muddied figure under his foot. His tone was quiet; the quiet of a cat padding before it stops to pounce. The man named Carl gurgled something, and then as Dorian lifted his foot slightly, he heaved his head from the water and began to cough, hacking up mud and water. Dorian stepped back from the edge of the stream, the blades in his hands glinting where they caught the moonlight, which fell full on the clearing and on the three figures there.

'I could make an end of you here and now, you know, but up until this moment you were one of us. So start running, Carl. And if I ever have the misfortune to lay eyes on that carcass of yours again... I will kill you.' Dorian re-sheathed his handsome dagger with a smooth motion and then replaced the second blade in the back of his belt, his eyes not moving from the man at his feet.

Carl stumbled to his feet, wiping his face with his ragged sleeve as he staggered onto the bank across from Dorian. He stood facing his assailant for a moment, his face contorted. Dorian folded his arms carefully across his chest; as the moment ended, Carl spat deliberately into the stream, and with a black look at the third figure, who still crouched in the shadow of a pine, he turned and ran into the forest.

Dorian watched him disappear into the dark tangle of the undergrowth, and then turned to the girl. She sprang to her feet, one hand clutching the torn neck of her rough-spun shirt. The majority of her hair, a deep copper-brown, had escaped its braid and fell wild around her shoulders. Her eyes were startled but they hardened as she moved, like a cornered animal, nearer to the tree at her back.

'Hey now Nellie, it's fine, you're safe.' Dorian lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. 'I can assure you he won't be coming back.'

She looked up at him and then, with a shuddering sigh, nodded, her muscles visibly relaxing.

'Are you all right?'

Nellie's eyes flickered down to look at herself, and she nodded again. 'Er, yeh, I'm... I'm a'righ'.' She took another deep breath and looked down at her torn shirt, pressing her lips together. There was a brief silence.

'Eh, your lip is bleeding. Here.' Dorian reached into his shirt for a handkerchief, stepping forward and covering the distance between them to offer the square of cloth to the girl. She took it gingerly and began to dab the corner of her mouth.

Dorian heaved a long, soundless sigh, and as he looked at her, he remembered when they had first found her and taken her in. She had been a child, then; twelve at most, with that same, furtive, hunted look in her eyes. All she would tell them was that her name was Nellie, and without further questions, since they were used to those with something to hide, they had brought her into their small band of outlaws. Thieves, deserters, ne'er-to-do-wells; all fugitives from the one thing or another. Whether or not they were fugitives from justice was debatable in Dorian's mind; some of them were decent men, most were scoundrels, but they looked out for each other. And he looked out for them all.

That had been nearly four years ago, and the girl in front of him was no longer a child. There were only a few women among them, most of them attached to a particular man. Very occasionally there was trouble; however, Dorian knew that sometimes there would be a woman running from her past in the same way that they all were. And considering that anyone left on their own too long in the forests was unlikely to survive, he refused to turn them away.

Nellie felt her swollen lip again and then, seemingly satisfied, offered Dorian the bloodied handkerchief. She cleared her throat softly. 'I, eh... thank ye for lookin' ou' for me there. Sorry ye 'ad to.'

Dorian took the cloth and pocketed it, a dry smile crossing the harsh lines of his face. 'It was hardly your fault. But you're welcome.'

She nodded, gathering up the tangle of her hair with one hand and throwing it behind her. She hesitated a moment, tipping her head and looking Dorian over. 'By th' way... how did ye do tha'? I mean... toss Carl aroun' like tha', an'... well he didn' even look a' ye twice, an' he weren' exactly a mouse.'

Dorian smiled again, the weariness of the day suddenly settling into his bones now that the danger had passed. 'I have a few tricks.'

A very small smile crossed Nellie's face and then she lifted her chin, her eyes travelling over the narrow, proud face of the man in front of her. 'Would ye teach me some of 'em?'

'I might do that. But for tonight, we should return you to the camp. There are wolves in these woods on occasion.'

'I know. Seen 'em.' She shook her head, and with a last frown in the direction of the beck, followed Dorian into the shadow of the trees.

Of Annie Fox

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 01:34:14 GMT

After some kind and encouraging words from aohdwyn, I've decided to post some of my short pieces about my roleplay characters. Most of my roleplaying is currently in the setting of World of Warcraft, but I'll do my best to make the stories accessable and add background and context where it might be useful.

My favourite character, and the one on whom I've spent most time, is called Annie Fox. As an introduction to who she is and what she's like, I decided to write up a few short paragraphs in the form of a documentary. A set of interviewers is stopping people in the streets of a city, asking them whether they know a woman by the name of Annie Fox, and filming their responses. This is certainly an experiment as far as the writing goes, but I hope it will be a short and snappy way of introducing a character of whom I'm very fond!

[The camera pans to a dark-haired young man in the uniform of a city guard, who, as he’s approached by the interviewer, quickly hides a bottle behind his back and looks up with a startled expression.]

‘Annie who? Oh, you mean that fit redhead who tends bar down at the Blade? Hell, I’d hit that. I mean, sure, she’s not as young as some of the girls around here, but have you seen that arse?’
==

[The interviewer approaches a tall man with a neat appearance and a fair, well-trimmed beard. He bows politely, introducing himself as a doctor in the employ of the city guard, and then tips his head to listen to the question.]

‘Yes, I know Miss Fox. I think you’ll find she’s something of a personality in this city. She’s best known for her tavern, the Smoking Blade, but she’s one of those people to whom there’s more than meets the eye. What do I mean by that? Well... she’s a very perceptive woman, from what I’ve seen, and she has a talent for being in the right place at the right time. She’s even assisted me once or twice in emergency surgeries – a case springs to mind wherein a young soldier was shot outside her tavern.

I’ve heard her described as a peasant and a petty criminal, but although she can be coarse, I’ve never thought of her in such a light. Pardon me, what was that? Oh, yes... yes, I believe that I would consider Miss Fox a friend.’
==

[The next interviewee is a scruffy, unshaven man. He seems young, though it’s difficult to tell underneath the wild growth of his beard. As the camera focuses on him and he’s questioned, he immediately bursts into an angry shout.]

‘Ugh, I fucking hate that bitch. Why? What do you mean why? She... she... what hasn’t she done? Every time I even come near her place she swears at me. Half the time I get kicked out before I can even get a drink. For doing nothing, mate, I’m serious. One time she came at me in the street and tried to knife me, just because I made a few comments about some dead bloke she used to know. Really, I’d stay away from her, she’s fucking crazy.’
==

[Our interviewer taps a young woman wearing a short skirt and jacket on the shoulder. She turns around, breaking into a quick smile, and twists a finger through a strand of long hair before answering.]

‘Oh yeah, I work with Annie. Or to be real honest, I work for her, so don’t go tell her every little thing I say, alright love? She’s okay, I guess, when she’s around. She’s real friendly with the customers, anyway – especially some of the soldiers. If you really want to know, I hear she gets around a lot – you know what I mean. She’s with Led, though – the real boss, the one who owns the Blade – so I couldn’t say for sure. A girl just tends to notice things working in a bar, you know?

Hm? Oh, I guess she’s alright to work for. Kind of distant, never really talks about herself, but we get paid pretty well and all. Oh, though sometimes she’ll get real pissy for no reason. One time she socked a lass in the jaw just for slacking instead of working, and then she fired her for mouthing off. To be honest, some of us are a little afraid of her.’
==

[The last passerby queried is a young man with a firm jaw and a shock of black hair. He wears a dark coat and has a brooding countenance, but when he’s asked the question, he smiles briefly.]

‘Course I know Annie, she and I are together. She’s... she’s something. When I first asked her to manage the bar for me, I didn’t really even know her. I’d just seen her working and noticed that she had some real sense. That’s one of the things about Annie, compared to a lot of the people around here – common sense. She’s careful, she watches and listens and doesn’t just shoot her mouth off all the time.

A temper? Well yeah she has a temper. Sometimes I stand in the corner and just laugh when she lights into some friggin’ idiot. A lass with red hair and a temper can be pretty damn hot. And no, I don’t think it keeps her from doing her job. Annie’s got her demons, the same as the rest of us, but she’s a decent judge of people and I trust her.’

oh how little we really need

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 08:32:01 GMT

Dawn Portrait

The first dull light caresses the water;
the heavy salt-air stirs
as the mist rises.

A woman stirs
and throws a blanket like a shroud from her shoulders.
Her feet caress the floor as she rises.

Her shadow is a sundial, reaching out, out into the distance–
her hands tell the years,
in lines and burns and calluses;

but caught in her hair, in the turn of her jaw,
beneath the scarred and ragged skin

is the glow of everliving sparks.

you never regret the cursed and the blessed open road

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 09:32:11 GMT

A Shadow and a Flicker

Your heartbeat
is a caged songbird, a canary
fluttering, beating
its wings against the futility of the hours
rising, sweeping,
toward the parching sun;

yet you have hung your life around your neck,
clutched it against your chest,
etched it into every line of muscle
and every traversing scar.

Some days,
in the warmth of the parching sun,
the past fades into a cool, mouldy corner
biding its time, tamely;

but most days it lurks
or sprawls or crouches,
waiting for a time propitious
to leap like a flame around your ankles,
through your calves and groin and chest,

and to consume you
until you are only ash.

your life all happened in the past, but no more, no more

Thu, 05 Mar 2009 07:24:47 GMT

Girl at Thirty

Dreamin' in the firelight,
pouring wine over my cuts and thinking of you--

of the days in the kitchen
in the bar, behind the casks and glasses
when nothing but liquor comes between our lips

and we are like the ends of cigarettes,
glowing.

memories there will be always

Wed, 25 Feb 2009 07:36:27 GMT

Dreaming in Colour

You were the gentle hand,
the firelight, the corner of a dusky pub.
No one remembered our names, but we,
in perfect silence,
were more alive than the most explosive
fireworks.

I only dream in black and white, now,
without the green flicker of your eyes.

you bring me your words, and I bring you empty sounds

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 08:46:13 GMT

Angelus of One

Dark eyes, lids laden with winter days
like snowdrifts on a coal heap:

He was young in the city,
this forlorn and ragged
boy-almost-man; all eyes and
white skin stretched like rice-paper over his cheekbones.

This apparition, he said, “Lady,
lady-

holy shit you’re not the girl I remember.
You’re like a streetlamp now,
tall and lovely,
and I wish you were here still—

more than a spectre in my drug-fuelled
and long fragmented dreams."

in these snow days, between love and loss

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 10:43:25 GMT

The Farewell Messenger

How did I manage to lose you, Gabriel—
was there anyone who loved you
without hating you

or was it only I,
one-handed and one-eyed,
crying like the Nile, but always
singing?

Or perhaps we were like a bird in winter,
scratching meagrely—
a scarlet exclamation mark against the snow.

two memories from the bitter wind

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 20:24:44 GMT

Here As We Were Last Year

1.

Between the mending and the scraping
between daily visits to the hospital
in search of memory and desire.
Because of my own inertia
once the ball was set rolling, damn
it rolled
collecting snow

and at the bottom of the hill nothing was left but the
fragmented corpse of a snowman.

2.

If you like the grim-dark
in fiction only,
you wouldn’t like this hotel.

Judging by the stains on the wallpaper,
I would guess that someone had a quarrel
and threw tomatoes.

you lost me back there, in the snowstorm

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 02:14:31 GMT

American winter
is the breath of frost,
the eyes glowing from behind dustbins,
disembodied
like sad voracious children.

They are the last coals,
for tonight ushers in our uncertain dread-
colourless, odorless,

like perfectly formed icicles.

Harangued forecasters say clear skies, but
don’t forget your coats-
and you might want to bring your pearly whites,
too,

so that when you’re standing in the gutter,
disembodied,
you’ll be able to hear them chatter

and you’ll know that there is still life
in this goddam city
among the flotsam and the jetsam.

There might be a fire burning somewhere,
dustbins smouldering with dead leaves.
The frozen skeletons of autumn
are everywhere—

If you were more delicate,
you, too,
could be one of them.

Who said you could die in peace?

certainly not the damn frostbitten
bony hand of winter
in America.

you've still got me to keep you warm

Mon, 10 Nov 2008 22:55:15 GMT

The Travellers

As I came to know you,
I saw that you were like a bear,
the dark loam of your eyes glinting
under deep and shaggy brows.

You carried me on your back
over the threshold of hope,
taking care with each step
to keep us from the clutches of thorns.

Tenderly you lumbered forward
while I clung to your warm neck,
the weary sentinel
looking toward the end of the road.

waking up

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 12:14:09 GMT

Although I am sure this doesn't need to be said to anyone who knows me, this poem is about someone other than me.

First Morning, Last Days

Peel off the blankets, layers of an onion
that wrapped you tighter than my arms.
Pull your boots on,
whistle while the floorboards creak under your steps;
let me slip from your memory.

Swagger down the indifferent stair
while your seeds grow into thorns.

Oh, I was asleep the whole time,
dreaming of the South Seas.

some childhoods are more equal than others

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 11:57:31 GMT

Images

You used to fight with fists
knocking down the bullies on the playground

in your mind, anyway.

Life was simpler
although you took a few knocks yourself;

a young eagle grew inside you
screeching, waiting to hatch
waiting for the day

when your wings would stay unbroken.

_

second version:

Images

You used to fight with fists
knocking down the bullies on the playground-

so the shadow in your hallways,
the ghosts in your living room, well

they weren't so much bigger.
They could be knocked down, too-

in your mind, anyway.

Every new year
there were still ghosts and shadows

but a young eagle grew inside you
screeching, waiting to hatch
waiting for the day

when your wings would stay unbroken.

malaise

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 16:16:46 GMT

I'm not sure if this is really finished, as it was the product of a few minutes, so I welcome your thoughts...

The Shades of Winter

Scene One: a desk, sheaves of paper
strewn around like snow

and a man sits, smoking.

The air gleams with syllables;

poised,
they condense on the windowglass
before making rivulets on the page.

Scene Two: the attic
of stereotypical indolence.

The page is blotched,
the poet in bed,

echoes of last night's vitriolic gin

sprawling carelessly
like a ghost above the headboard.

draught 2

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 16:27:57 GMT

Within my dusking memory
is a day when kings were wise, when bards would play,
when ashes lay upon the grave
but beauty was near to every heart—
as near as the sword to the warrior's hand,
as near as the sinews 'round his bones.
Thus was the kingdom of which I sing
until the shadows fell darkling over its dales
until the twilight fell.

Great were the deeds that time has covered;
fierce was the fall of the Northern star.
In the night when life gave up its ghost
to thrice-accursed shades of death
all was a noise of burning.
O bright gleamed the fires in Lordaeron
over men with starlit brows
over men with reddened blades.
And when children fled behind their mothers
and few men held their ground
in the flamelight was a sea of bodies
half living and half dead;
and so all the living fled.

Heard ye the keening when Lordaeron fell?
that city's folk running, the countryside scarred;
the folk were like hares estranged from their burrows
and the streams and the wells were defiled.
Men's kin were devoured, a plague devouring
all without recourse to kith and kin.
Had you been there, could you have stood, o warrior?
Few stayed to fight in the face of the burning;
those few are the steel of honour's own blade,
though yet they fell.

Bright were the brave, shining the company
who wielded their blades for Lordaeron fair;
they flashed like the thunder
for she who had borne them and sheltered their fears,
they flashed like the thunder
though the streets before them were shrieking with death.
Battle they offered, but battle was naught
in the face of a hell-driven scourge
in the face of such carnage.

O City, City, eye of all cities,
what shall I compare to you?
What blackened powers desired you,
that you should come to such wrack and ruin?
In the light of the dawn, starker seems your downfall;
your children torn from your arms
your body bruised and broken.
In the light of the dawn, a darkness swift-rising
has covered the gild of your walls.

I could write and write and write today

Sun, 26 Oct 2008 13:15:26 GMT

The Apple-Man

There are no leaves left,
when he lifts blind eyes to heaven
his hands on the gnarled bark,
his heart among last year's apples.
Time was squeezed dry in the cider-press;
the furrows in his face
the rocky soil in his knuckles
root the vast expanses of the orchard
to the vast expanse in him.
There are no leaves left,
as he withers with the trees.

some were created for the evening

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 02:41:14 GMT

Beauty speaks, or a few words to the weary

If one would seek a brighter star
Than Jupiter, or russet Mars,
I would blithely recommend
He find a field at daylight's end.
There wild stems gleam quiet-white;
Dewy shards refracting light.
Could Day have such resplendent maids
As twilight's gossamers and greys?

for love is timeless

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 00:50:12 GMT

I thought I'd just put up a few wedding photos with which I've been experimenting... they are all pretty and black and white ^^ The actual photography isn't mine, obviously, and I'll note the photographers as I post them!

(Clare Sawczuk)

(Clare Sawczuk)

(Clare Sawczuk)

(Rachel Moss)

(Rachel Moss)

(Rachel Moss)

(Clare Sawczuk)

(Clare Sawczuk)

(Clare Sawczuk)

Sun, 31 Aug 2008 21:45:12 GMT

This is a rather rough version... I do miss having people to read/ mercilessly edit my poems.

The Natives

Six cool eyes, three lasses;
seen through a dozen rose-coloured
martini glasses

and the evening sprawls outside
like a cat before the door.
The panther full with hunting, turns
his yawning head, and waits
for the next twist of the knife.

Julia Rigby, lady sans mysteries,
comes to Sunday dinner
and asks no opinions but her own
like the good manager of a shop
she gnaws upon the bone.

'I am tired today, are you tired?'
I am not one for dialogue. The words
come out all wrong, misspelled.
'Oh, nevermind. You're all right,'
Come the words out of the night
until death do us part
until the world falls down.

Slender Aphrodite
grew from sacred pearls
Isis and Diana
sprang about the world;

for all the world's a stage
and those alive all players.

I play rugby in the morning,
and snooker around noon. A full English
with a pint, until evening
when the wind grates at the door
and lights beat away her claws.

What'll it be-
the Fox and Hound, or Revolutions?
I never thought much
of a night without a girl;
remember Jessie Alexander?

From Lower Briggate
to the colony shores
there is a jungle knotting up her insides,
growing through her core;
some infection or disease
that she's too beautiful to see.

sometimes it's just worth a laugh

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 13:47:34 GMT

Sibling Rivalry

I speak English:
I had a shower,
made a cuppa,
and at the end of the day,
I was knackered.

I speak English:
I took a shower,
made some coffee,
and when it all came down to it,
I was worn out.