tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18389324774379142712024-02-20T10:04:09.891-08:00Play Time!Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-41120653692458393042012-02-28T13:01:00.001-08:002012-02-28T13:03:05.186-08:00BrandedA moment of held breath<br />soft skin touches.<br />Tear smeared and sweaty;<br />grazed knees, sticky fingers<br />smelling sweetly of ice lollies<br />long gone.<br /><br />His hands pat my face<br />searching for secrets, <br />I sigh.<br />He rests, warm <br />breath on my neck.<br /><br />Sleepily stretches arms;<br />long legs ready to run.<br />Breath quickens<br />he races away from me.<br /><br />Races and wins,<br />breath comes <br />hard and fast<br /><br />A slap on my back, <br /> he passes me by<br />his handprint left there.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-33210709925452233242012-02-28T12:55:00.002-08:002012-02-28T12:58:31.484-08:00ListenShe stooped low<br />pregnant with words,<br />and yet,<br />every time she<br />placed one down,<br />on the table<br />it turned to dust.<br /><br />'I love you'<br /><br />Gone in under three seconds<br />not there<br />long enough to read.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-55708719853777049122010-09-07T10:42:00.000-07:002010-09-07T10:43:31.622-07:00Seahorse baby.I’ll be your seahorse, baby.<br />your long eye lashes,<br />cheeky chubby cheeks<br />flirtatious dances; hide and seek.<br /><br />I’ll be your seahorse baby<br />I’ll carry your eggs<br />I’ll sing to you darling,<br />you just lay down your head.<br /><br />Put down your worries<br />put away your woes,<br />cause I’m cooking <br />a big batch baby.<br />You just watch me go.<br /><br />We’ll have a Josh, Jemima<br />and a Peter too.<br />A Roger, Rebecca <br />a little baby Roo. A Mai <br />a Mia and a Maya, too.<br />All the must have names <br />in tank twenty two.<br /><br />Look I’ll be your seahorse baby, <br />I’m your number one, I’ll hold you<br />darling, till we're all done.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-45309043339758427762010-03-17T14:18:00.001-07:002010-03-17T14:18:31.576-07:00Flat packA flat pack version of my former self,<br />lying in a pile, one screw missing.<br />Two point five children, searching for instructions<br />lost somewhere along the way. Me waiting<br />disassembled, what fits where, who knows?<br />Screwdriver resting in dusty drawers, lost.<br /><br />No longer wild and free, I wander, lost<br />inside a regulated rectangle, willing myself<br />to speak up, while his allen key pokes me. I know<br />what he’s trying to achieve, but parts are missing.<br />Is anyone looking, rummaging for me? I lie waiting<br /> praying someone, somewhere finds the instructions.<br /><br />‘I won’t be dictated to by instructions,’<br />my husband claims. Once lost<br />now found, at the computer. Me waiting,<br />stuffed under the bed, a flat version of my self.<br />No-one has really noticed I’m missing<br />A faded impression of what I once knew.<br /><br />Memories made from mdf, he knew<br /> what was promised, intricate instructions<br />to hold me together, forgotten, missing.<br />Fighting through a foreign language, he’s lost.<br />I admit I have with-held myself<br />lying still, coded and cold, waiting.<br /><br />He strokes my silky soft surface, waiting,<br />fingers fondle my lengthy legs, I know<br />what comes next, I’ll finish myself <br /> off later. Part A fits part B, old instructions<br />are followed. Feigned ignorance looses <br />appeal, as once again the final piece is missing.<br /><br /><br />My cheeky Chippendale is missing<br />that fantasy is cracked at the edges.<br />I’m left with a bit of rough, splinters, waiting<br />to be removed. I haven’t completely lost<br />faith that my stripper will come, I know<br />he’ll smooth me away from here. Instructions<br />won’t be needed, I’ll please myself.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-14140065526135568182010-03-16T13:06:00.001-07:002010-03-16T13:06:43.540-07:00First Day BluesMr Teacher standing tall<br />fearsome guardian of pens.<br />You tower above me<br />mere parent of Liberty.<br /><br />Mr Teacher by the door<br />blessed with a generous gift.<br />Not an apple it's true but<br />she's precious with eyes of blue.<br /><br />Mr Teacher so out of reach,<br />can you see? She gazes up<br />at your hardened face.<br />Should I leave her in this place?<br /><br />Mr Teacher, key in hand<br />will you help her mind expand?<br />Or will she become an absentee<br />my small daughter, my Liberty.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-76363065601844293582010-01-14T15:02:00.004-08:002010-01-14T15:03:17.606-08:00Volcanic VeinsRealise the release I crave<br />alone with a blade.<br />Words fired at me,<br />magma travelling<br />through volcanic veins.<br /><br />Sat here in the heat of the sun<br />your eyes glint metallic grey.<br />Sharp and unnatural.<br />Learn to look away,<br />interrogation is ugly.<br /><br />Your voice, nails on a blackboard. <br />I watch boiling blood under my skin,<br />pressure building<br />from the noise,<br />of your lecture.<br /><br />Gaining in momentum<br />demanding freedom.<br />Heat,<br />building up <br />all over my body,<br />needs to get out.<br /><br />Heart pounding,<br />I panic,<br />as my jumper slips,<br />skin exposed.<br />One day you’ll notice<br />scars from my<br />careful carving. <br /><br />Sometimes I’m scared <br />that you won’t.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-38427567675201132932010-01-14T15:02:00.003-08:002010-01-14T15:02:42.520-08:00Public CancerHer hair <br />shaved off<br />her womb <br />cut out<br /><br />Smile strapped on<br />media flashes<br />bounce off<br />her naked scalp<br /><br />Community spirit<br />shines a blinding<br />light in her eyes<br /><br />Camera vultures<br />hover and swoop<br />poising to rake over<br />the pickings<br />of her bonesAnitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-50987259750244666882010-01-14T15:02:00.001-08:002010-01-14T15:02:14.172-08:00Three Time GoddessSmooth bare back, nipples lie dormant,<br />rose buds awaiting sunlight.<br />Tentative clouds float by, cool air circles.<br /><br />New moon emerges.<br /><br />You approach me, dressed in white<br />pure and clean; snowdrop<br />after the darkness of winter.<br /><br />Crescent moon sheds light.<br /><br />Limbs expectant, full with<br />experience. Breasts bountiful, <br />providing sustenance.<br /><br />Full moon smiles down. <br /><br />You embrace me, moist, <br />fecund. Lily in summer sun<br />nourishing nectar, glistening.<br /><br />Waning moon retreats.<br /><br />Saggy wrinkled, deflated sacks,<br />swinging low. Weighed down <br />with cold wisdom.<br /><br />Darkened moon. <br /><br />You hover behind me, awaiting my fall.<br />Cover me, with your story blanket,<br />a place to leave my skeleton leaves<br />dry, dusty, comforting.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-46094341872224064752009-04-19T13:10:00.000-07:002009-05-15T16:45:07.380-07:00Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-32559488232133039342009-04-19T13:09:00.000-07:002009-04-19T13:10:14.479-07:00Paternity LeaveHedonistic debauchery created me,<br />four-limbed dance, as old as time.<br />Dionysus in the form of my <br />originator, producer of sperm,<br />proudly posing his fertile phallus.<br />Me, swimming safely to the embryonic <br />embrace my Mother provided.<br /><br />Her maternal brain laden with<br />opiates, dressed in poppy red,<br />playing with Pandora’s padlock:<br />knowing she shouldn’t open.<br />Hazily observing her expanding<br />womb, watching the acid patterns <br />cast by lava lamp shadows.<br /><br />Shocked her labour produced me,<br />snake headed baby medusa:<br />no tuft of dark hair to stroke;<br />no way of Daddy escaping<br />my gaze. His eyes frozen in time.<br />Stony faced, meaty grin held still<br />with the echoes of my cries.<br /><br /><br /> Dionysus Greek God of hedonism.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-69337319530876429152009-03-16T15:51:00.001-07:002009-03-16T15:51:56.808-07:00Shedding SkinObsessing over the vast continent<br />of my ever changing skin.<br />It pins me down like weighted cloth,<br />the heavy scent of decay takes me <br />back to places I’ve been before. <br /><br />My hair primed to promiscuous pink,<br />I fought for my right to be invincible.<br />My breasts bathed in gold glitter,<br />running through town throwing <br />flippant colours of youth in vacant faces. <br /><br />As casual commitments were cashed in,<br />I constructed interchangeable masks.<br />Heavy black eyeliner streaked across my disguise,<br />painting false promises in honour<br />of the transience of time. <br /><br />Echoes of sinister shadows haunt me,<br />ghosts caught in strobe light. <br />Guarding my small bucket of scars I sit<br />content on the shelf up high where<br />grasping fingers cannot grab me. <br /><br />Memories like flash photography force<br />marks on my skin to spill my story.<br />Map-readers eyes scan purple valleys,<br />bruised by birth. Fingers trace indigo brandings,<br />tattoos declaring tribalism once striven for. <br /><br /><br /><br />The rise and fall of my womb stretching<br />left me observing the pummelled pillows <br />on my chest.<br />Gold glitter replaced with small pink lines<br />tracking the ticking clock. <br /><br />Comfortable under my weighted cloth<br />absorbing alcoholic medication.<br />A brazen examination of my exposed flesh<br />leaves me bathing in<br />burgundy glasses full of loosened tongues. <br /><br />Trailing the threads of rebel tales,<br />foreplay to carry on the oral tradition.<br />Waiting to unravel into obliging hands,<br />hopelessly taunting passing scribes<br />as the seams of my stories unwind.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-1389849055381992492009-01-10T13:59:00.000-08:002009-01-10T14:03:11.509-08:00Monday MorningAnother Monday morning<br />waiting for the day<br />to start.<br />And yet the rain<br />keeps coming<br />down.<br /><br />Staring and thinking<br />thinking and staring<br />Chewing. Blankly<br />appearing as though it all goes by<br />un-noticed.<br /><br />She often stared up at the <br />grey, grey clouds<br />the rain<br />dropping and dripping<br />dripping and dropping<br />her face does the same<br />drop, drip, drop, drip.<br /><br />She gathers the folds in her skin<br />and smooths them down<br />calming her tired eyes.<br />Eyes that track the rain.<br />Every drop. Every drip.<br />Every Monday.<br />The same.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-84500841921569158512009-01-10T13:58:00.001-08:002009-01-10T13:58:47.512-08:00Sunday DinnerHe pats his taut skin<br />like a lover<br />would pat a passing<br />bottom.<br />And yet it's the rise of his own<br />mountainous stomach<br />that he gloats over.<br />Holding memories<br />of clove scented apple pie, butter filled pastry,<br />potato clouds, rich dark gravy.<br />Aroma of sweet baby carrots<br />dulling his mind, young<br />broccoli trees trotted down his gullet. <br />Mouth now open,<br />saliva now spilling<br />meeting<br />the tautness of his<br />stomach, where his<br />happy days<br />lie.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-71355483231703472372009-01-05T15:34:00.000-08:002009-01-05T15:35:12.749-08:00The bear danceYou encircle me<br />casting a web <br />of light<br />at my feet.<br /><br />Confused as to <br />which way to tread<br />instead;<br />I dance.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-58981583459696017292009-01-04T14:36:00.001-08:002009-01-04T14:36:50.790-08:00Moments of satisfactionProudly sitting anywhere<br /><br />and everywhere, deliberately.<br /><br />Showing how it's done.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Milk drawn from deep inside,<br /><br />complete openess, eyes drinking,<br /><br />moments that are imprinted.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Skin to skin, feeling<br /><br />utter satisfaction, gently drifting,<br /><br />sleepily falling, into dreamland.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-63409845311433337432009-01-04T14:34:00.000-08:002009-01-04T14:36:00.917-08:00‘Out Of Step.’<br /><br /><br />As the car pulled up outside his old dance studio a cold sweat had begun over the surface of his skin. Stomach clutched at the emptiness it contained. It had been one year since he’d last been here. One long year, lonely times. Richard didn’t want to get out of the car. Although he’d agreed to meet up with his old dance group the absence of them was the biggest scar he had, regardless of his legs.<br />‘Richard are you ready?’ Alice’s blue eyes staring unflinchingly at him from the front. <br />‘Would you like to wheel yourself up there? Or shall I push you? It’s a ramp so might be better to save your strength for when you’re in there. It’s been a while.’<br />He held her gaze ‘Ok let’s do it.’<br />The last time he came here he had legs, long legs that leapt, twirled, jumped, stretched, and well defined muscles that flexed. He had felt desired by women. He looked down at his legs, it was hard to believe those capabilities were still so absent. <br />The railings once intended for support up the path, now another testament to the neediness of the surrounding community. Dark red flakes of paint peeling off rusting metal. Weeds sprawling out of the open wounds of the concrete. A new addition to the wooden doors ‘slag’ in a jarring green; a saddening waste of paint. <br />Richard’s arm automatically moving up out of a long lost habit for the bell, he couldn’t reach it; Alice put her hand gently on his shoulder. Jumping as if he had been slapped, he looked around violently at her. Remembering the burn of unwanted sympathy; scanning her eyes for pity. Alice calmly reached out for the bell knowing the welcome they would receive once inside. <br />Alice had worked hard to get to Richard to this point. She wasn’t his only carer but she had been the only constant person in his life throughout this broken time. A tick in the clock. She had seen the light in Richards’s eyes any time he had talked about dancing, even when he was upset. He was still passionately angry that his studio time had been taken away from him.<br />It had only been the shock of thinking the group could be disbanding that had shaken Richard out of his self pity. Somehow he had become quite comfortable in his victim status. To think there wouldn’t be a group he could be left out of; no me and ‘them’ was like his identity being completely wiped out.<br />The familiar click of the lock, heavy wood eased open, smiling face shining. A halo of autumn sunlight surrounding her head, Mia his dance partner, they had been two pieces of the same puzzle. ‘Richard, I’ve missed you so much.’ Her brown eyes filling. ‘Alice it’s so good to put a face to the name. Come in, come in. We’ve got the hall to ourselves today, just us. I’m ready to start if you are.’<br />No words came to Richard. He rubbed his hands over his hair, the tight brown curls comforting him. Mia had listened to him, he had requested that they set up today as a dance session, he didn’t want to sit around talking about lost time and missed opportunities. He needed to come here and for this to be a safe space where he could suspend his defences which had become so polished and abrasive. Everything that had been buzzing around his mind stopped abruptly, as he heard the first notes. The tears that he held hidden inside evaporated as music flooded into his brain, pushing all thoughts firmly out. Utterly and completely. She had remembered his favourite classical track, Bach the cello suite. It could spin the pulped mess of a brain into a breath taking cobweb discovered in the morning sunrise. Order, completeness, peace, sunlight catching rainbows in each dew drop nestling on the web threads. Each thought held still and cherished for the complexity it contains. Still, paused, peaceful.<br />He stood in the hall he been in a hundred times before. An old black and white photo caught his eye of himself and Mia. Immediately he was transported back to a past performance in London, two years ago. In his mind he heard opening chords of the cello soaring through the night air. He saw the clothes clinging to his body, the sensuous freedom of heat rising from the audience, wanting, needing to see him. The pulse of energy from five hundred people, one thousand eyes searching the stage in the darkness. Jumping up and down to keep the adrenalin under control. He pictured Mia on stage spinning so fast, a blur of energy, a pulsating vortex to be drawn into. <br />In the seemingly awkward moment Mia pushed him into the centre of the hall. The peace Richard had felt was shattered, he was jolted into the present by the unexpected movement. His head buzzing loudly. ‘What the fuck are you doing? You can’t just push me around. I’m here as a dancer not as a client. I need to get out of this chair. I don’t belong here. It’s not supposed to be mine, it never was.’<br />Expecting this, Mia glanced at Alice, she nodded and said simply, ‘He’s strong now.’ <br />They moved towards him, lifted him, placed him on the floor, shiny freshly cleaned.<br />The smell of wood polish, so solid, constant, reassuring. As if being held, cradled in his mothers arms. An urge to curl like a foetus and suck his thumb passed over him. The impulse was in his body before his mind. Knees jerked up. Breathing. Breathing. Richard sensed Mia had moved close and was lying next to him. Reverting to routine Mia talked them through a warm up visualisation.<br />‘Starting at your toes, breathe into your toes, feel them. Put your consciousness into your toes. Working your way up to your feet, breathe into your whole foot; breathe into your whole foot.’<br />Her voice created a melody sending notes to each body part she named.<br />This routine closer to Richards’s heart than waking up. His eyes closed, mind caressed his body, stress dripped away. He missed what was being said as he gently rocked from side to side, mentally travelling over each muscle, each limb. <br />Twisting his torso, swivelling hips he began to travel, slowly as if travelling through setting concrete. Mia joined him, she knelt gently next to his head. Mia opened his arms up like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, wings still damp, softly stretching. They looked into each others eyes for the first time since the accident, an instant flood of communication, no words needed. Mia got up to change the music. <br />Richard cleared his throat, ‘Alice, you can go now. Wait for me in the car please. Mia will get you when I’m ready.’ <br />Looking at the floor and hiding her smile under her long blonde hair, Alice left them alone. Richard had made sure Alice’s shift finished at half past six. The next support worker, Louise was really practical but unable to travel any emotional depths to meet her employer in his angst. <br />The vibration of the first long chord resonated through the wooden floor and sent tremors over his body. Although the hall was run down they’d always prioritised the quality of the sound system, it was invigorating to have the music massage his body so intimately. How had she known this was the song he was obsessed with right now? Although they’d always been grabbed by the same pieces of music it was just the right kind of synchronicity he needed. Piano chords dropped out of the speakers and trotted repetitively across the floor and ran up his spine. The notes continued their path up his neck and gently pulled the corners of his mouth up into a smile. The earnest yet sensuous female voice spilt out in a rush, accompanying the searing guitar. <br />‘And the pain has started to slip away’<br />As he lay there he heard it, the private words that had travelled round and round his head creating tracks in his brain. He had listened repetitively, obsessively and most importantly privately on his mp3 player for the past three weeks. <br />‘Do you really want to know how I was dancing on the floor?’<br />His eyes shut he could smell Mia’s perfume a musky spicy smell combined with her sweat. He knew she had been dancing before he got there. <br />‘I was feeling lonely, feeling blue,<br />Feeling like I needed you.’<br />She was there creating deep pressure on the length of his body. She was on top of him, her back on his chest. <br />‘And the pain has started to slip away’<br />‘Can you roll over?’ She whispered.<br />‘I think so, yes.’<br />‘Roll with me so I can move with you on my back.’<br />‘Ok.’<br />A strong clear beat now gave him strength, with the breathless rise of the singer they turned together at exactly the same time. He trusted her implicitly. He knew if anyone could carry him she could. It wasn’t simply about strength; Mia possessed incredible sensitivity in her body. It was what drew him to her as a performer when they first met. Each individual body part could dance on its own; he could watch her hand dance or her arm as it created its own repertoire. <br />As she crawled she used her whole spine to correct the balance he was lacking. She matched his breathing until Richard felt himself melt into her physicality, he no longer felt like a separate entity. He knew that was her intention. He felt as if he was moving on his own, he embraced her around her stomach. Gentle strumming from the guitar signalled the end of the song. Mia was breathing deeply, she’d been working hard carrying him on her back, he’d lost track of the time.’<br />‘Do you want to go back to the floor?’<br />‘Yes’ <br />Mia eased herself so she was lying flat face down. <br />‘Ok, Richard I’m going to turn slowly to the left, you are going to land on the floor heavy so brace yourself.’<br />‘Yes, I’ve got it. Ready.’ He felt a flush of shame if she had talked him through the movement when he first arrived he knew he would have shut her out thinking she was ignorant. He’d shut so many people out.<br />‘I’m sorry Mia.’<br />She sat up staring at him in the sudden silence. ‘What are you talking about?’<br />‘I just didn’t think you needed to be involved.’<br />She leant forward and stroked his shoulder; ‘I’ve missed you. Let’s focus on what we can do now. <br />‘I didn’t want you risking your career by taking time out too. I don’t understand what’s been happening. I thought we secured funding for two more years.’<br />‘Yes if we met the target audience. It was an ambitious project. We said we’d have contact with one thousand five hundred people through workshops alone. I couldn’t do that without you. You are highly thought of in our world. The dance world. You have a lot of influence. Anyway we haven’t met numbers, therefore the contract is broken.’<br /> ‘That’s utterly ridiculous, how can you stand for that?’<br />She laughed ‘Look Richard you haven’t been around. It’s been tough for you. I’ve missed you, the group have missed you. But do not tell me that I haven’t been trying. You haven’t been available to talk to.’<br />‘Well I’m back now.’<br />‘Seriously, You think we can pull it of? I was so hoping you would. There are some great inclusive dance companies out there; do you remember when we saw ‘Candoco’? They blew me away.’<br />‘We are not going to become an inclusive dance company Mia. We are going to continue being us. ‘Flight’. That’s who we are right? I don’t want to go on some crusade, I will have to take things at my own pace but I’m in. That’s it. Can you call Alice in I need to get back into that.’ He pointed to the chair in the corner. <br />‘Sure.’<br />He watched her as she pulled her long black hair into a tight bun at the back of her head. When she stood he felt her disappointment as she shut the door behind her. He knew they would be talking about him but that was ok. He would have to get used to that. He had always been fond of Mia but he had never wanted to have a relationship with her. Their chemistry was useful in performance and he planned for it to continue that way. He looked around and saw again the faded paintings; it was difficult to distinguish figures under the dusty glass. A rusted lock on the back door made it impossible to get out for fresh air. Richard instinctively took a deep breath in and was inspired to push for more. Wanting his old life back, he was ready for a fight.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-2656523816899020152009-01-04T14:33:00.003-08:002009-01-04T14:33:40.774-08:00LAST TIME<br />Looking in your eyes<br />I don’t want you to go yet<br />Aware of the time<br />Ticking away.<br />The moments we shared<br />Have all passed by now<br />Precious as they were<br />Just this last one.<br />Looking in your eyes<br />Holding hands together<br />Waiting for the last time<br />We say goodbyeAnitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-3702952785808600782009-01-04T14:33:00.001-08:002009-01-04T14:33:31.915-08:00I MISS YOU<br />Death hangs over our every meeting.<br />Death watches our every move.<br />Death inhibits our conversation.<br />Until I don't know what to say.<br />I don't know what to say.<br />I don't say.<br />I'm going to miss you.<br />I miss you.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-8775585703350406432008-12-14T13:19:00.000-08:002008-12-14T13:20:44.258-08:007.5 'I thought I'd always remember'I thought I would always remember this, but over time it has become blurred. He says now he left me but I always thought I left him. The children were so young it's hard to recall exactly. Their toys bundled up in boxes. Crying, lots of crying. There were so many tears. Yet what I can remember most is the softness of the powder pink sheets at the grand hotel. It was where I went, It was our sanctuary, no-one knew. Certainly not my husband. Jim. He always thought I'd gone to work. Certainly I'd always come back with money! Lesley was good like that, never wanting me to go without. She knew I was suffering even though I never spoke of it. They all had blonde hair, the three of them. The three children all had blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Did I really leave them? I must have. It's hard to remember now if I was made to go or if I just went. It's hard to be sure.<br />Those pink sheets, always pink. The coffee in the mornings, bitter, dark, rich. Always with cream! So decadent. Flaky croissants filled with strawberry jam, juicy tongues tracing the stickiness from our lips. Sun streaming through the window.<br />Who knows why I stopped going. They were the happiest days of my life. Why did I stop doing it? Three pillows each, feather. Quilts not blankets. She loved me, she loved me. Fingers drawing letters on my stomach, guessing messages she sent through my skin. Unaware of the world outside the door. Door so solid with proper keys, not those plastic card things you get in most hotels. Proper solid brass key with a satisfying click as the lock slid into place. After weeks of small children pawing my body, grabbing wanting, feeding off me. This sanctuary was the closest I'd ever been to heaven. Even now. The closest I've ever been to heaven was then. I wish I could tell her now. Too late. Too late.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-75395348508121817992008-11-15T15:19:00.001-08:002008-11-15T15:19:54.920-08:00trapped in a family home at christmasStaring at the clock with it's resounding tick,tick,tick. Every time the cuckoo comes out the whole family cheer. I just want to smash it. I have a very clear image in my head, of them in mid 'hooray'. At this point I hurl my cut cyrstal whisky glass directly at the clock. As it arcs through the air, ice hits the wall first. Glass hits the clock. Whisky slides down the wall, a very satisfying thought. It's essential, I do this whilst the cuckoo is still cuckooing, I want to be able to hear the internall call without seeing the bird 'popping out' to say hello. It has to appear spontaneous, which or course it will be for them. Just not for me. As I can see it happening EVERY time the bloody bird shows it's little head and the cheer rises. In a way, I wouldn't mind if the clock had been a christmas present. I could put it down to novelty but they've nad the bloody thing now for 6 years now. 6 Christmases, my God. Time really does fly by sometimes.<br /> 'Top up Geoff?' Daniel standing there hovering with the whiskey. He always has to pour it, always. Can't wait for me to finish my bloody glass. It's to show ownership. I think Joyce only lets him have one bottle a year.<br /> 'Geoff?' I hold out my glass. He doesn't really need to ask me. I always have a top up.<br />Anyway I reckon he has to hold onto that bottle so he sees how much everyone has to drink. That way he can see how much they owe him in the pub on boxing day.<br />God , the dogs smell, the whole room is filled up with the smell of dogs. Maybe I could take one out for a walk later if the bloody rain stops. When was the last time it snowed at Christmas, I mean on Christmas day?<br />I almost can't look at mum. She looks so. I mean, look at her. She's forgotten to put her false teeth in again, don't know how she'll eat her dinner. I'm not sitting next to her that's for sure.<br /> 'Geoff, you playing? I said we we're going to play monopoly.'<br />My God, please not the same hell as last year.<br />'Err no thanks, I thought I could take your dogs out for a walk.'<br />'It's raining.'<br />'Yeah, but they need their excercise don't they.'Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-45546233157222752222008-11-09T15:08:00.001-08:002008-11-09T15:08:55.022-08:00Amost LostHanging above me<br />Three mega tons of foot<br />I’m running again.<br /><br />Still not fast enough<br />The shadow is cast<br />I’m running again.<br /><br />Stamping just missed me<br />Extermination looming<br />I’m running again<br /><br />Panting now sweating<br />Thoughts bubbling through my mind<br />I’m running again<br /><br />Me ducking diving<br />Foot obliterating<br />I’m running again<br /><br />Over my head poised<br />Waiting for me to start<br />I’m running againAnitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-26430851097432118462008-11-09T10:26:00.000-08:002008-11-09T10:27:03.419-08:00Stolen time re-writeHarsh abrasive white light, bounces off, every surface in the room. It exposes everything, no places to hide, as I lay here available to everyone. The smell of disinfectant not quite over-coming the smell of sick, permeating the bedclothes.<br />Piercing noise is slicing through my tender ear drums. Another alarm going off. Nobody here is coping.<br />I’m concerned my ears are bleeding. My eyes heavy, carrying too much information. I force them to look towards the table where my tissues had been thrown down. Hand opens, closes, opens and closes. Can’t move, can’t reach. Why isn’t anything easy? I can see him, tiny little ball of flesh, like a growth that’s been removed. I shut my eyes. I prefer the darkness. The fetid smell rising from him every time he moves. I gag. The smell is physically climbing up my nostrils, painful little hooks, forcing their way into my brain. Telling me something.<br />‘Oh look he’s so sweet, I’ll move him nearer to you shall I?’<br />The blue of her uniform reminds me of better days. Her arms so strong and full of purpose. She’s always smiling, I find that painful. How can she hold her face in that position for so long.<br />She pulls over the cot box with an unenviable ease. I hadn’t seen her coming, my heart pounding, my flesh crawling, My flesh is moving. Hundreds of insects crawling over my skin. My flesh is moving. I can’t touch him.<br />‘I’m not ready to hold him’ breathing hard, sweat beads on my forehead.<br />‘Of course you are. You are one lucky girl, so happy and…’ Her voice is too light. It feels like she’s singing me a nursery rhyme. Her face looks distorted as if a caricature of her was sketched quickly, harshly, on a street corner.<br /><br />‘You don’t understand….’ I’m struggling to hold down a warm bile gathering in the back of my throat.<br /><br />‘Look all young mums struggle at first, sooner you start, sooner you can go home.’ She picks him up, hugs him to her already slightly stained chest. Looking at him throwing his head around gummily searching for a place to latch on. <br /><br />‘Look he’s hungry, let’s get you started off.’<br />Her smile so large She’s chirruping now, like a bird. A little black bird that spreads it’s large dark wings, pecking at my ears, at my face.<br />Suddenly acid pours into my mouth, pushing at my teeth. Lips parted, liquid rushing down my chest, the yellow of melted butter. Flushing away the milk dripping from my tender breasts. Sour milk, bitter, light ripping my eyelids. No sanctuary. If I could leave right now, I would. Longing for nothingness, I’ll settle for some drugs. She’s talking, I have to squint hard at her to focus on her lips.<br /><br />‘Let’s get you cleaned up. Don’t worry, you’re fine. A change of clothes will do you both good.’<br /><br />The rhythmic squeaking of the wheels means he’s gone. I know that sound. I love that sound, cherish it. I don’t want him, he’s not really mine. I didn’t ask for this. Legs magnets to pain, stomach grasping for something. It’s normal the nurse told me, after pains. Emptiness engulfs me. I want a drink. I‘m not supposed to be here. He’s not even mine. I didn’t ask for him. Forced upon me like this, like that. I’m not having any more men being forced upon me. Not in this life time.<br /> It’s not right. Someone else must want him, more than me. Surely. I’ve read about women desperate for those things. I could give him away, make someone happy. I can see her. The woman who would have him. She would be knitting little booties for him and singing him lullabies. Oblivious to the making of him. Not knowing the absence of love, the dirt. The blood. I can’t understand why I’m still so confused, lost in a deep fog aching, hurting, bleeding, begging, pleading, begging for help, help, help, help, help me help me. Can no one hear me? Am I actually speaking?<br />She would bake warm soft cake for nourishment. She would hold him close to her heart, so he fell asleep to her inner rhythm. Cinnamon bathed beauty, rubbing nutmeg on her wrists, just to inhale the scent. Bathing herself in the soft warm ingredients of love, with plenty of room to rise. Proving herself to be queen in the kitchen, an orange glow humming around her head. The cavernous space she has to fill, no little mouth to feed. It’s the only evidence of lack in her otherwise pristine kitchen. She catches herself in the metal gleam of the kitchen surfaces, her hair perfect, silky soft. Her name is either Emma or Dianne, or Lucy, a good solid, clean woman. I’ve read about her. I could help her. She would love him. I’ve got to find her. Someone’s got to find her.<br /><br />‘Take that one’<br /><br />I’m screaming. My throat, ripping, red raw. <br /><br />‘Feed that one’<br /><br />Please. I don’t want to know about anything more. I just want him gone.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-51996027772093672852008-11-08T16:41:00.000-08:002008-11-08T16:48:44.018-08:00Embarressment (swearing in this one)Blatent pig headed stupidity drove him to expose himself so repeatedly. He couldn't think of any other reasoning or excuse. He felt red and raw from the tip of his hair right down to the last toe nail clippings that now lay on the floor. The laughter still rang in his ears. Even though it all began in his own mind. The pain that felt so fresh and clean bore down upon his neck, as heavy as a freshly sharpened knife.<br />He could hear in the next room, yelling;<br />'He's never coming in here again, fucking idiot'<br />His skin crawling as if flesh coloured ants were the surface of his skin.<br />'He's so fucking stupid, I am pregnant. AND I'm getting married. He should know when to keep himself to himself. Fucking twat. '<br />He felt his cock twitch at the though of her swollen belly round and magnificent. She couldn't see how beautiful she had become to him.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-45518996253912009482008-11-08T16:35:00.000-08:002008-11-08T16:39:32.245-08:00Fat freewriteRippling surfaces, small cascades, my eyes keep focusing on the way the freckles are bouncing up and down when she talks. There's one little freckle just by her right eye, that is like a teetering smartie on a mound of jelly at a childrens party. Yellow jelly, that's been out of the fridge too long and is slightly watery. I have no desire to touch her. I am simply fascinated by the rise and fall of her voluptuous body. The expanse of it makes her breathless every time she stands up. Which I must say is not often.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1838932477437914271.post-9841742784040534002008-11-08T16:32:00.001-08:002008-11-08T16:34:38.485-08:00New shoesI love my new shoes, so red and shiny. So high and noisy. I feel like a whole new person. I feel like a whole new woman. Like a woman from a film, like a woman I've only seen pictures of before. Now, with my shoes I am her. Even if it's only whilst I'm walking. As soon as I sit once more my stomach bulges, my t-shirt sags and I sigh into my too tight jeans.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13427705616653079289noreply@blogger.com0