Touch

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It’s that sense of touch,

that traces the scars of love, safety, laughter, sex – the road-map to your regurgitated carol:

Past, Present, Future.

 

It’s that breeze of a touch,

that rockets you to the stars whilst chaining you to earth with bonds you cling to, flying past a moon that laughs

at the speed at which you race.

 

It’s that burning touch,

that reminds you, teaches you – urges you – into a manifest of that beauty that blossomed just once:

on that end-of-Summer day.

 

It’s when you lose that touch,

that the skies grow dark and the earth slips into mud slides that shoot you down to the flat rock bottomless pits

of why.

 

No more does the lingering touch

nestle close to you at night and sketch the curves of your hips, scorching this moment into your treasure box mind.

And so you back down.

 

You wait for that sweet promised touch

to make it’s way back with silver tongued words; with salted tears pouring oceans of Never Again.

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Restless waking

I could have walked for miles today.

I could have walked and walked and walked, through the rain and the wind, and the sky of broken brollies.

I could have walked to the edge of a cliff and floated down to the beach below.

I could have swam across seas and clambered up mountains, and played the bagpipes in the village hall.

I could have thumbed fresh books amidst the shelves of the shops and slipped between their pages.

I could have stood in the froth of the waves and let my toes sink into sand.

* * *

I could have walked and walked and walked today.

If my feet had not led me back home.

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One Thousand Pearl Drops

Pluck me from this world and drop me in to another. One with silence and peace and air and light.

Pick me up by my collar, between finger and thumb, and lay me down in opulent bubbles of pink.

Make me tiny and minuscule. Mould me into a bouncy bread crumb rolling in the palm of your hand.

More.

Stretch me out to be giant and infinite and tall and broad. Promote me to conductor and choreographer and wizard and god.

Yes.

Breathe fire into me – ignite me as the sun, and moon, and earth, and sea. Crush me into a billion stars –

– throw me into space and see where I land.

And then…

…shake me up, pour me as glitter onto a card made by a tiny human, grubby hands passing me along to her father on his birthday.

Pluck me from this world and lay me down in another. One with silence and peace and air and light.

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I’m out of sync with you

Relationships become a complex wiring of life the older you get. They stop being a fairytale and start to hollow out, waiting for change.

And that’s the problem: we spend too much of our lives waiting for change and then moaning when it doesn’t happen. It’s difficult to make that leap from wishing for something to change to doing something about it, especially in a relationship when previously things have gone so smoothly. It would be so easy to give up the second things became hard.

But there is a reason relationships get harder. They wouldn’t be worth having if you didn’t want to fight for it. Relationships become unrecognisable. They hurt you and heal you and make you laugh and make you cry. They are infinite and living.

And they are worth saving.

* * *

I’m out of sync with you

like a hip-hop

hopscotch

painter,

spreading a skin of butter over bread.

Electric hands implode

at a distance of millimeters,

stretched across galaxies

littered with metal cans and paper cups.

I’m twisting.

Turning,

mutating,

vibrating,

spinning free, a rubber ball

burning through space as fire.

Feathered lips contort a song

into different coloured words;

A kiss into an army of bombs

screaming in droplets of rain.

I’m out of sync with you

like a quick trick

deck of cards

swimming through cheers.

I wait and wonder

Why?

Disjointed.

Entwined.

Disconnected.

Eternal.

Tonight I am a satsuma

satsuma

Tonight I am a shriveled satsuma, juiced until there is nothing left but exhausted pulp and seeds of tomorrow.

Tonight my eyelids droop, heavy as dark grey storm clouds rolling their thunderous rumble as they swell and swirl.

Tonight the pellets of energy littered on my plate are Mount Everest’s for my tongue and teeth.

Tonight I am a cotton bud, fluffed and primed for soothing, filled to the fibers with sleepy dust, fairy dust, dreams.

Tonight there are no sounds but your steady breath soothing my wide awake soul. Telling me I am safe. Telling me to close my eyes. Telling me to sleep.

Why Casper the Friendly Ghost and I get on so well

I am not a person who believes in the supernatural. I am a logical, rational being with a brain hard wired to question everything and accept nothing…

…I say to myself in the early hours of the morning, knees trembling as I contemplate the dark expanse of carpet between me and the bathroom. If I could only reach the light switch.

I know. It’s pathetic. OFFICIALLY pathetic. There’s no getting around the fact that an independent twenty year old almost-woman doing a degree should not be scared of monsters. Or ghosts. Or possible alien invasions. The watching of horror movies should not intensify said fear. The first ten minutes of ‘Saw’ should not still be playing on my mind four years after I watch it.

In others words girl, MAN UP.

So I did. I marched across that carpet ocean and waded into the glorious pool of light streaming from the swiftly turned on light bulb as if I hadn’t a care in the world. And then I ran back to my room.

The fact remains that, as a young writer, I feel a part of me has to keep these fears alive, has to hold on tight to the imagination I had as a child and regurgitate it onto a page in whatever form it chooses. Where would we be without a little fear and naivete?

We wouldn’t have Doctor Who without a recognition of the possibility of aliens.

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There would be no Harry Potter without a belief in magic.

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We wouldn’t even have Casper without acknowledging the existence of ghosts.

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At the end of the day, who’s to say that something does or does not exist? We’re told time and again that novels come from inspiration, from memories, from reality…but I’ve never been told they come from fear, even though so many are driven by it. Fear of lonliness, fear of loss, fear of the dark, fear of the supernatural – this encompasses the entire Gothic genre for one, as well as touching on many others.

So embrace the little fears we encounter every day. Writers, poets, artists of any form, need a nugget of naivete, a core of imagination to draw on, and declare boldly to the world. Hold on to a belief that you saw the shadow of a ghost in the bathroom mirror as you were brushing your teeth. Rejoice in the independently creaking floorboards that made you jump.

Because nestled somewhere in that blossom of instinctual fear could be your next monumental piece of art.

…And if not, it gives you an excuse to slip on your mittens and a thick pair of socks so that the monsters under your bed won’t get you while you starfish in your sleep.

from: Cedric Hohnstadt Illustration

from: Cedric Hohnstadt Illustration