Shes Always There

She smiles at me in puddles of blue
I look down and all I see is you
Our vanity runs like blood in veins
So real and alive we are together in chains

She follows me and stands in my shadows
I move in away avoiding the gallows
Our pattern is jagged and she tries to keep up
So quick footed we forget not to get hung-up

She tugs at my hair and says hello all the time
I watch her as she dances and chimes
Our efforts to remember each other won’t die
So much so we are each-others lives

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Polly had a Dolly

Dolly was alone in the shed with nothing closer to human than a shoe and the crumbling walls around her. The memories within her coquet only as solid as her expression, as happy as her surroundings and as loved as a memory. Just a few scratches and bruises on surface of her exterior, she waits feeling inferior as no one wants a Dolly without an appearance and the personal parts of her life have shown no adherence, her meaning is gone, her essence torn, nothing identifies her, no hair, no clothes just fingers and toes.
Polly learned early in life about disposable goods, so there Dolly does lay in a land of decay waiting to fade or be burned away from the dismay of a Polly without a Dolly institutionalized and advised to move in her own way.
Dolly

Stone throwers in the sky.

Stones are hurled from the city sky, wearing masks as disguise we set our eyes on the prize that time won’t buy with dollar coins and flat ironed notes all we can do is sit and write quotes for the success or failures which the future denotes. 

No one lives upto their expectations we die before our time just trying to make a dam dime for the stone throwers in the sky gluing man to the machine that grindes our bones into powder for the thrones of those living up high on the foundations built upon our lives spent on our dimes.

Whilst humanity suffers and and the helpless stand by the sides of those so high to weak too fight for humanitarian lives we go supporting your crimes and believing your lies because it’s too hard to define the lines between whats wrong or rite for us and our lives, it’s all a lie. Stone throwers live in the city skys living on greedy diets and filthy lives polluted by year’s of chime and we don’t know why they continue on that line for they will only die. They will die. We will all die. So live your life where the stones stand by trees and arnt thrown by thrives.  

Platonic

Platonic, it’s a fun word to say, say it, and taste it as it rolls around your mouth much like the texture of banana. It’s not defined to a taste though, it tastes more like saliva, and it feels like hope. Not defined like cinnamon, or nutmeg, not even close to banana, actually closest to steak. Yet it is, the feeling of hope, wish and wonder, interfered with and destroyed by desire and curiosity, trampled by jealousy, and burns much like the flicker of a candle in an open room. Sucking for oxygen and being threatened by what fuels it as it flickers, breathing, but if it breaths too hard… it will be blown out, darkened, leaving behind a few seconds of smoke and darkness until eventually someone comes along to reignite the wick much like a friendship for it to only endure the same inevitable outcome.

You can think of all the scenarios, different outcomes and situations as you please but there is always one standard rule for all. Sex. If they are a person of the opposite sex and you have struck up a friendship think about why, you are attracted to them in some way, may it be; mental, physical, visual and always sexual. Hey girls, so your best ‘guy friends’ how many of them have you screwed? All? Did it start innocently and end innocently? No you fucked. And if you didn’t, will you never hit on him? Will he never hit on you? One of you will, yep then your platonic relationship is screwed. Hey guys have you ever struck up a friendship with a girl without ever thinking about or wanting to bone her? Didn’t think so… And don’t say you haven’t weighed up the likelihood of you fucking the girl that comes in on Fridays to deliver paper and packages takes your signature and leaves, or the guy at the café who presses and grinds your coffee and fluffs your milk to make one take away latte with one sugar every morning. And if we wern’t fuckable’ to each other than we probably wouldn’t be friends. But at least once we have fucked we can move on building stronger relationships knowing that it just didn’t taste right. And we can only hope that jealousy doesn’t find out, or act out. Nature has built us this way, men are a herd of horny raging bulls who need to fuck and spread the seed and women are a bunch of horny cows who want to get bent over and fucked. And don’t think your best mate hasn’t thought about himself and your missus, vice versa.

Platonic, how does it taste now? Like cynicism, banana, or imaginary like saliva?

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Shifting Shapes

-Missing the blues and searching for clues, Looking left though feeling right, denying the morning light which shines upon my face feeling faded and out of place. As she weeps, her secrets roll down her cheeks, exposing the pale flesh underneath the radiant glow of flawless streaks.
Head bent down the pain inside ripping apart her tender sides, screaming out and shouting for help no one hears her silent cries for help.

Hours later I open my eyes only to see my reflection from every angle in the corner of my eye. I wonder why I had even cried, for everything seems to be beautiful as dose my pride. Silent steps I slide away, cross  the creaking floor into my own obey, sunlight through the window warms my skin melts away the crystals of ice formed between the layers of my skin. White lacy dress I pull aside and hold to my growing pride. I put it on and fall a daze, my seeping memory over glazed. My legs walk me through the yard there I sit upon my guard.

Sweet tiny voice of cry wakes her from her gaze, the swelling sound of a baby in need, she looks around and as if to remember oh, it’s crying for me. Slowly she staggers back through the gate trembling for the pain is again within her wake. Shyly she walks onto the big empty house; the eucalypt shalt put her at ease nor will the soothing summer breeze. She cradles the cool flesh of plump baby weight, she looks down to a curious frown which she reflects an expression of hate. She trembles around in her morning gown, eyes are red and blurred with tears, she sees the gentle man she now steers.

Looking up, looking down trying to see the signal frown spread from face to a position so out of place, hiding pain you’re so vain.  Shamed you are how bizarre.  Man of such character lowering yourself into a heaving mess willing me to appear from my distress.

His sweet calm face, and gentle hands, how I love such a man. I am weak and he is strong, will me to come along into the world of no fear, regret how I’m so displaced, he doesn’t mind he will wait.

Morning bell chimes awake, the door it rings for someone is here. Light smile upon my face I open the door to Trudy’s gleaming face, how out of place… I welcome her in we sit upon the balcony, cups of tea we lightly converse in a manor un diverse she cradles the child that is known as mine and I feel I’m accepting it over time.

Meditation, the day so bright as it quickly turns to night, sun lit sky into moon lit night I wonder how the days stay so bright.

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I posted this May last year, and then left word press for 12months before remembering my login details and coming back to it. I decided to re post it as it needed a refresh, Hope you enjoy reading it as must as I enjoyed writing it.

Edge of this world.

Edge of this world.

“Life on the edge of this world, everywhere every step is heard. Ocean to land the sun will rise and the moon shall fall, some shall die and others grow old. Every day and every fresh breath we shall remember the ones who left.”

I was here just moments befor my dear friend called me in hysterics. Her baby boy had died, the child inside her had passed. But we must remember that everyday the sun still comes up. Untill then its not all over. We are still apart of the cyrcle of life. She gave birth to Lincoln John Doley Born 7.57Pm 12.05.12 Weighing 500 grams at 25cm. In her words “he is so perfect”.

Big Blue

Big Blue

Commonly known from Duce Biggalow  male jiggalow “here fishy fishy fish” Kept in a blender and later zooonked into a thick black liquid. This guy was one of my favorite buddies in the aquarium today. Blissfully looking at the finger smudging lolly pop licking shrieking jumping and glass smudging children, he glided ignorantly in his own blue lighted, regulated and temperature controlled artificially organic world. The life perhaps un-initially intended for the fella’ but somewhat for filling as the picture from behind his thick transparent secure world he watches the two legged land dwelling kind who still have something in common with himself. They are also in their own artificial world looking at him who is so out of place looking back at them thinking the very same thing.