Irresolution

What to resolve?  Things I should already do but don't?  The daily self-maintenance routine, which basically, I suck at.  Most days I fail to fully complete a routine of toning/moisturising/cleaning teeth/cleaning ears out, weekends I sometimes have a whole day without a bath or a shower.  I could resolve to do more of these things.  

I could resolve to write more, or write better.  I am trying at this.  I could resolve the usual dieting, exercising, taking care of myself stuff.  I am trying at this too, helped by a hangover, they are good for something....  

But it is only a date, and why should a date suddenly make me able to do all these things that I have failed at before.  So this year, again, no resolutions.  A vague hope I will procrastinate less and "accomplish" more, and I guess a good start would be to understand what I would see as an accomplishment...

Too Much

my poem Too Much has been accepted by Shannon Peil for amphibi.us!!!

http://amphibi.us/all/too-much/#comments



1st of the year (although technically it was accepted in 2010, it was in a time zone at least  5hours ahead of me and therefore arrived when I was imbibing ridiculous amounts of wine, and therefore counts as this year)



I would celebrate but I think the two day hangover would carry on then...

too much practice

I cry when I come

too much practice, too little

else, I come alone

mi mi cry

now featured over at The Camel Saloon

click here

leaves, shoots & eats

a new poem over at dark chaos ;)

click click click

46 hours

38 hours, and counting.  A tiring morning, going Christmas shopping.  Wearing the wrong clothes again, my knickers are falling down inside my jeans, I have to periodically back into a corner in the shop, on the street and push my hand past my belt, past the swell of buttocks which you would think are large enough to hold anything up, push my hand down and hoick the offending knickers back up. I think about going into the department store toilets, wondering if it is worth taking them off and going commando?  Inside the store, without all the striding around, they seem to be holding.  I clutch various things to me, they don't seem to go much for shopping baskets in this store, but I make sure they are bought and bagged before I brave the escalator descent.

38 hours, and 2 hours into the shopping, my feet are aching.  Wearing the wrong shoes, or well, maybe the wrong socks. They ruck up under the balls of my feet and my weight falls onto the creases, rubbing, pressurizing the soles.  It hurts and I need to sit down.  I haven't finished the shopping, I know I have missed a couple of people so far, and I know I need to go to the other department store in town.  I decide to treat myself again (yes, the books seem to be all for me, and those other things that seem to have got mixed up with the gifts too) and have lunch out.

38 and a quarter hours and I sit at the table.  Dry mouth, tired.  A glass of wine would be good, and I could have a couple really as they will have worn off by the time I have done the next round of shopping, by the time I would get back into the car. But I am good, I hear my voice tell the waitress "Cola Lite, bitte" and then when the food comes, I pick it up out of the bowl, and my hand shakes.  It is very noticeable when you are eating noodles with chopsticks, they quiver, the sauce spatters off them sporadically.  I bend my head closer to the bowl, try to eat them faster, so I can get home as soon as possible.  The coke is good though, thirst lulling. The chef makes origami swans out of patterned paper, whether he knowingly does it to impress the waitress the result is the same.  They catch me looking at them and think I want to rush off, and come over with the bill.  I smile, I would have liked to stay watching them a little longer, get my notebook out and write about his surprisingly thick fingers and the tiny paper folds.

By the time I leave the restaurant it is 39 hours, but today the wine is already chilling in the fridge and I know I won't even try to resist its call this evening.  I have earned it, I have completed some normal tasks, interacted with the normal world.  I did not have any yesterday.  I have earned it.

Conkers

He thinks that I am something, because of the numbers.  He thinks that because I have a lot of numbers I am a connoisseur. He thinks that piling one on top of the other makes the difference, that the numbers mean something more than experience, something like popularity.  

He must be confusing arithmetics and athletics.  He thinks that the experience is more than hours filled, holes filled, he thinks that each number collected means something adds up in me and I become greater.  He thinks that I have known so much and still I stay with him and that must mean that he is something.  I try not to think of accumulators.

He wants to think that some of my numerical greatness transfers to him when we fuck, but it isn't a game of conkers, he doesn't gain all my numbers plus one if he breaks me, if we break apart and he adjudges himself the winner.

polished?

This week, I wrote in a mail to someone explaining my bulimic writing process.  I'm from the vomit school of writing, I sit down and spew the stuff up, then tidy it up a bit.  Things happen in life, I swallow it all down, and then sick it back up, somewhat selectively.  It's not that life makes me sick, I just react to it stomach first.  My natural inclination is not to polish writing endlessly, to pick the perfect perfect perfect word because near perfect will do for me.  





So I was quite surprised to find how much I enjoyed the polishing up of a haiku series yesterday, adding pictures and creating a new Issuu "publication" for it.  Perhaps there is no thing as too much practice ;)  Click the picture to see the finished result!

A circle of friends

It was a subdued night in the George & Dragon, the drinks were being nursed rather than gulped in deference to just dissolved hangovers, and the conversation was desultory except where it touched on the reality TV programmes.  It was mostly the same crowd that had been there the night before, except Carl and Donna were missing, some problem with one of the kids Donna had told Kate, and she'd told the rest that too.





Kate was quiet too, thinking about the night before, it had been romantically wild and crazy and would have been something to brag about at the pub with the female half of the gang if only she was ten, maybe fifteen years younger.  Back in the days before the gang's relationships coalesced from an amorphous mix of shifting allegiances and suddenly everyone was paired off.  Now that they were grown ups, it wasn't done to keep pulling at the old bonds.





Sometimes those bonds could be recalled with just a glance though.  Last night, Carl had seen the circle of bruises around Kate's wrist when her sleeve had slipped back, but he didn't say anything immediately, waiting for an opportunity that eventually came when they were both waiting to fetch drinks back from the bar.

"Did Daniel do that?" he asked her, touching her wrist under the sleeve.

"Sometimes he can be persuaded," she smiled, and watched his eyes for a reaction, for the old memories to resurface.





The window she'd climbed in through banged in the gusting night.  Carl had sent her a text saying the coast was clear, that Donna had gone back upstairs thinking him passed out in the living room, and when she arrived he had held out his hands to help her over the wet sill.  A dramatic heavy night, dark with expectancy, the thunder and rain appearing with perfect scenic timing as she arched her back on top of him, on the sofa.  The lightening heralding the next rumble froze the image of her hand across his mouth, pale with painted nails that looked almost black in the stark flash.  His arms darker than hers reached, gripped her waist, helped the rhythm build.  She'd lifted her hand off his face, allowed him to moan when the thunder cracked and rebounded around the room, squeezing it back when the sound faded.  She'd forgotten that he was so much bigger than Daniel, and that riding him like that pushed his cock into her so deep, almost too deep.





There was little enough time afterwards for her to stay in the circle of his arms, she hadn't been sure if she really wanted to anyway, a small taste of comfort and nostalgia went a long way.  It had been enough to keep her from the chill of the short walk home, the streetlights glimmered coldly off of the windswept puddles.  Into the stone flagged back yard from the alley, pulling the wet things off of the washing line, an excuse for having been outside.





Daniel was waiting for her in the kitchen.

again...

you left me alone again today

I know you don't see it like that

it is just the weekend

and of course you have to be

with your family.

They are real

and I am not.

your comment is awaiting moderation...

I know, I know,

I am outspoken, yes

but the things I say

to you

they are private,

right?

My life is awaiting 

moderation but

you don't need

to censor me

really, do you?

I am immoderate

in everything,

I have enthusiasms

for people, for ideas,

and mostly it is

inconvenient for them

when my mind clocks on

and my being

is engaged and

the cogs whir.

They only wanted

a moments

distraction,

they did not want

my over-eager 

immodesty, at least

not more than once.

Moderation in all things,

definitely not

my motto.

You know that?

VAST - pretty when you cry

you're made of my rib or baby

you're made of my sin

and i can't tell where your lust ends

and where your love begins

i didn't want to hurt you baby

i didn't want to hurt you

i didn't want to hurt you

but you're pretty when you cry

and the moon gives me permission

and i enter through her eyes

she's losing her virginity

and all her will to compromise

i didn't want to hurt you baby

i didn't want to hurt you

i didn't want to hurt you

but you're pretty when you cry

i didn't want to fuck you baby

i didn't want to fuck you

i didn't want to fuck you

but you're pretty when you're mine

i didn't really love you baby

i didn't really love you

i didn't really love you

but i'm pretty when i lie

you hurt me baby

i hurt you baby

if you knew how much i love you

you would run away

but when i treat you bad

it always makes you want to stay

i didn't want to hurt you baby

i didn't want to hurt you baby

i didn't want to hurt you baby

i didn't want to hurt you baby





http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdDts3rsdzE

colour by numbers

A says "Not now, I'm swamped today."

B metaphorically pats me on the head, tells me to keep up the good work with my writing.

C says nothing because I did not abase myself in front of him today.

D says "Hallo," in the restaurant and makes a mental note to contact me privately one day, maybe even one day soon, but the days drift by and home is familiar and it is winter and not the time to try new things away from the cosy hearth.

C still says nothing.  I say nothing back to him because he values my reticence more than he values me.

powerful aroma

A new man comes to work in our office.  He is the commanding type.  He sees me in my smart business suit but he doesn't believe I am all business.  He sees the heels I wear and does not think I am sharp and stylish, fearless.

He smells a victim.

He hunts me. 

He finds me when I am alone and stands a fraction too close.  In meetings with other people his gaze slides downward from my face.

Yesterday he closed the door of the meeting room when there was only us two in it.  He touched me, skin to skin.  His hand loosely circled my wrist and slid up to my elbow and he gripped me there.  He watched my face.  He touched me and my heart accelerated, G-force pushed my back to the wall and his body followed mine there.  His breath was calm but warm on my top lip, and I looked into his opaque eyes and I part my lips to be ready for him. 

He placed his mouth over mine and his teeth closed over my bottom lip.  It will leave a mark, an imprint of his incisors, reddest purple on the skin next to my mouth but my lip will swell over it, hiding it a little.  I know this.

He smells a victim.

He smells my longing.  It would be a lie to say that I love him, unless he tells me to.



inspired by a writing prompt at sleep.snort.fuck

dark chaos

features one of my poems today



click "you/i"  go check it & the site out... 

A breast filled with hope...

She grasps the wash-greyed nightdress by the hem and pulls it over her head in front of the bathroom mirror. 

Normally she does not pause and contemplate the reflected flesh, but today, again, her breasts catch her eye. 

Pink tipped like a tender sea-animal, high and firm, their youthfulness was not so pronounced when she was thirty; but now, nearing her fortieth birthday they seemed riper and perkier than the rest of her, Dorian Grey breasts.

They are a secret repository for her hope, they are filled with it, they store it all so that if asked about hope she would say she has none, but it is all trapped under her areolas.

They grow ever more buoyant, one day she will float to the ceiling and graze her skin on the woodchip.

Luckily, hopelessly, they don't grow much over the years.

afterwards

the bruises he left,

plum hued thumbprints on breast

fade to memories



-



today sour yellow

splashed on skin, dimmed fantasy

I hug to myself

half a mile high club

He left the plane ahead of her, after resting his hand on the small of her back and saying goodbye, he had a meeting to go to while she went to wait in the lounge for a connecting flight.  He didn't look back after that, but the married ones never did.  Not now the weird intimacy of sitting by a stranger for thirteen hours was over.

Hurtling through the skies in a darkened cabin, over land so far below and so uninhabited that there were no lights to be seen even though the clouds had scudded out of the way.  You couldn't feel the speed except when the turbulence sloshed the wine in their glasses.  He kept calling the stewardess over to top up the wine, and the first few times she smiled as he spoke in her native language.

It was nice, to talk to someone on these flights, she thought, so many times they passed virtually in silence after the opening Good Evenings.  He asked questions and listened to the answers, and she was in a sociable mood, open to the flow of conversation and ready to talk.  They talked with the ease of people relieved to find a pleasant way to pass the time.  They were the same age.  His job, her job.  His youngest child was just five months old.  They talked through the meal, and the chocolate tart went virtually untouched as she explained that blogging was her main hobby. 

The wine helped of course, and as the meal trays were cleared away, further top ups requested and their heads inclined together as their voices lowered.  He asked her what she blogged about, and she smiled as she told him, Sex.  He smiled back, more drawn in, they both were.  Engaged in flirting, he made a note of a couple of websites she told him about.  She said Fuck deliberately, spelling out the website's address.

People reclined their chairs all around, put eyemasks on and slept fitfully.  The cabin lights were dimmed but his reading lamp was on, creating a warm pool of light between them.  He asked her if she'd ever had sex on a plane, and she said, truthfully, No.  Heads leaning ever closer, and when the stewardess grew resentful at bringing more wine, he went to fetch some, stepping over her legs, stepping close to her with his groin at eye level.

More talking, and now she cannot remember what was said when, but they both knew it was only talking to fill a gap until something more.  The wine bottles were drained so she got them whisky, and then at his turn, he said the purser refused to give them more as they had had enough to be drunk.  They giggled at this and then he reached a hand to her face to kiss her.

Faces sideways on the pillows under the privacy hoods, lips touching and even this was only a prelude for his hand reached into the neckline of her blouse and he grasped her breast in his long fingers.  His hand was not gentle, it kneaded her, fingers pushing into her flesh and squeezing towards the nipple.  His kiss was gentle but he gripped her tightly, she felt the strength in the bones of his hand under the rubbing skin.

He removed his hand and told her to unpack the airline blanket and lay it over herself so he could move his hand lower.  She loved being told what to do, loved that he took charge and let her lay there under his exploring touch.  He slid his hand into the elastic waistband of her trousers and under her knickers and now his hand was gentle again.  He told her to move her legs apart and she did.  Her knickers proved to be too much of a barrier for him to probe her folds so he told her to go to the toilet and remove her underwear. 

She took her knickers off in the garishly lit cubicle, mirrors reflecting her flushed face back at her, saying Look at you!  What are you doing?  She ignored this voice, and on her way back to the seat had to scoop the knickers up from where she accidentally dropped them before tucking them into her handbag.  Back in the seat they adjusted the blankets and he replaced his hand inside her trousers, bumps under the blanket as he rubbed his finger expertly along her slit, and she whimpered, quietly. 

Ssshh he told her and then made it hard for her to do so.  Made it hard for her to concentrate on anything other than the growing need for release, the trousers slid down and she tried to clutch the blanket so it would cover her bare legs.  Ssshh he said again, and smothered her rapid breathing in his kiss.  Ssshh and he brought her thumb to her mouth to bite on it and Ssshh as he plunged two of his fingers deep into her cunt.  She could feel the cool metal of his wedding ring against her.  She could feel so much.

Afterwards, she wanted to return the favour but he said there would be too much mess.  She pulled her trousers back up and they slept, and in the morning, bleary with lack of sleep and incipient hangovers they exchanged business cards and she found out his name.  His long fingers rested on his black jeans as they talked, coming into land, and lust coiled lazily in her stomach. 

big in japan

so here i am on a friday evening once again glued to my computer somewhat like my lenses are glued to my eyes right now.  i am listening to the sweet rumble of trains going past as the hotel is on top of the station which at least makes it easy to locate and find my way around to the next transit point.  i am less than halfway up this world, floor 12 of 25 but i guess even the rooms at the top can hear the trains too as this hotel is nowhere near as posh as the last two also on top of stations but with thicker window glass or perhaps better seals (cue sealion bark and flapping hands)  i ate in the hotel i wanted to be brave enough to venture out alone and fuck the worlds stares and confidently plonk myself down somewhere that looked interesting and see what happened but i didn't i ate in the hotel.  a couple of teams or maybe a couple of squads of schoolkids in tracksuits came and giggled and crowded out the buffet and i smiled it was ok for me to dwarf them as they were kids.  i drank a flask of wine and forced myself to go out of the hotel and walk around the city for a while in the entertainment district just outside my hotel door and i am brobdignagian there are maybe a handful of guys that are as tall as me but by fuck i've got everyone beat for girth.  i do stride although i clutch my bag to my shoulder i have sloping shoulders and it would fall off and so i bend my left arm back around at the elbow and clutch it to my left shoulder leaving the right arm to sway noncholantly confidently.  i have been here for four days now and i have not seen anyone else with red hair even though i saw some fantastically bad hair dye jobs walking around kabuki-cho no-one else in the entire country apart from me has red hair.  a couple of people even said hello to me brave souls a group of three "black" guys although they did not look african in origin, and then another further along the street i said hello back in a cut glass english accent and walked on.  noli me tangere.  i did not see any of the fabled (according to a friend) used-knicker vending machines although i bought some beer from a machine.  someone behind me wondered if i was a woman but of course i did not have the vocabulary to turn around and say that sometimes i wonder that too i do not worry about my eggs running out and my womb going unused i worry where my next beer is coming from (this is sorted there is a vending machine on every floor of the hotel)  but for all of this i like the country and it is only that i am screwed up and lacking in whatever i don't even know or i might do something about it but lacking in whatever it is that makes friends with strangers when alone in a strange country but purely in a friendly way enough to get through a shared evening pleasantly without repercussions and not sit here typing typing typing instead of living.

Sins roundup

Well, the 7 Deadly Sins pieces certainly brought out a whole bunch of reactions over at 6S, mostly complimentary and all commented upon. 

I admitted to envy, wrath, pride, gluttony, sloth and lust, and to having an understanding of avarice even though it's not a sin that is particularly dear to me.  I was going to do a summing up of the comments, and try to create some sort of league table as to what people (albeit from an admittedly limited sample size) thought the worst sin was in general.

However, I got an over-reaction to dear Belphegor, the demon representing my most excessive sin, which completely skewed the results.  Even 6 days I'm still not entirely sure what prompted it, although I suspect my worst sin in this case was a half flippant/half exasperated 3 word comment ("Count to 6") on a previous post by the 'author', prompting him to a vicious personal attack. 

This 'author', apparantly stinging from some "carefully crafted cutting comments" which must have been made by others, called the moral majority to round upon me for having such wicked thoughts in the first place.  I was called a troll, and accused of being the sort of person that only finds validity through hurting others to feed my own super-ego; and told I must learn from the knee-jerk comments of people who had no understanding what my point was in the first place.

I'm not 100% sure why I am still dwelling on this, the 'author' has made a fractional retraction, in removing the original offensive post, although reposting it without the words he'd copied from me.  I think it's because, even though (I felt!) my words were explanatory, logical and not particularly inflammable, they failed to persuade.  In the words of a writer I respect deeply the 'author' is "an arrogant little fuckwad (sic) afflicted with an utter lack of sense regarding not only his, uh, moral righteousness" but I still feel a sense of failure in my inability to get him to see my point of view. 

I should be better.   





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