The World Tour Dream

Standard

I was going on tour with a group of people claiming to be a band. I’d never heard of them. But Hell, I was going along anyway. Free world tour!
First stop was France. We were staying in a decent hotel with a perfect view of where the band would be playing.
It was much larger than I had anticipated. This arena could hold a crowd of at least fifty thousand people. The stage loomed over the empty pit, daunting and scary. I felt sick.
We made our way down to the arena, and the band began to set up their equipment. I’d had no idea they were this famous! They’d sold out every available ticket.

Later on, when the crowds had begun to swarm in, the lead guitarist told me they wanted me on stage. All colour drained from my face. The band began to play songs by Pantera, but I’ve never heard any of their stuff… so I just stood there swaying awkwardly to the beat, watched by one hundred thousand eyes.
After a few songs the band began to notice my discomfort. They switched to The Hoosiers – Worried About Ray. That made me cheer up a bit. I could sing this! It’d be fine! The crowd may not like my singing, but hey! I knew all the words.
They handed me a microphone. I began to sing.
The crowd stopped moving, and I thought, “Hey! My singing must be so good they’ve all be entranced!” And then one by one, they all began to leave.
I suppose this is a sign that my singing career isn’t going to take off. Guess I’ll stick to writing instead.

Advertisements

The Dressing Table

Standard

This is probably my favourite poem of my collection so far. Based on a line from T.S Eliot’s The Wasteland.

In vials of ivory and coloured glass
the scents of lilac and primrose rests.
The vials stand in order of height
with proud and puffed out chests.

They linger and sicken the fragrant air.
Afore them, pots of rouge.
In pastel pinks: the sugared gloss,
and balms in cherry hues.

An incense stick, long turned to ash
effuses jasmine swirls,
And in the dancing smoke there is
the image of boy and girl.

In pride of place a single rose
lies on the table, petals wilting.
The thorns still sharp and deadly though –
the leaves dark brown and crisping.

The battered photo of a teenage man
nestles in the mirror frame.
The chiselled jaw under beret that
Hides the curls he could never tame.

And on the back of the velvet chair
hangs a kimono of finest cotton.
With floral patterns – in cherry, of course –
and the blossom that’s never forgotten.

Reminiscing

Standard

This poem was created by an exercise in class, where we created a ‘Rhyme Well’ of rhyming words, stemming from the word, ‘fizzing.’ I’ve never written anything like this before, so here goes!

He was a lyrical delinquent:
a cynical, quizzical,
frequently satirical
linguist.
With a flick of the wrist he would
finish and diminish –
or I would relinquish
our bickering. Always
snickering, never
listening.

I’m reminiscing back to a time
in our prime, when we weren’t dissing –
just kissing.
After our fleeting first meeting
it seemed fitting for
dirty messaging – bodies
glistening, mind tingling,
and all whizzing by
in the blink of an eye.

Mediocrity

Standard

This was my first ever attempt at a sonnet. Enjoy!

My pen has never swayed the hearts of men.
It never makes them stop and think awhile,
but still I try, and try over again.
My life lacks sorrows vital for such guiles
as poetic form, a moribund art.
With future generations it will cease
to make a person ponder, weep or laugh.
Though writing is my life and my release,
I realise other paths are safer bets.
I watch them pass me by, and wonder if
the winding path I walk leads to regrets,
but still I wander blindly on. So if
or when my skin folds and my health falls ill,
I’ll be a mediocre writer still.

The Bad For Business Dream

Standard

A woman was passed out in the toilets of my work. We tried waking her, gave her water, but she threw it back up. We tried everything we could possibly think of. But by the time the ambulance came, she was dead.
Only not all of her died. The contagion she carried passed on throughout our customers, until one by one they had all dropped to the floor and stopped breathing.
Body bag after body bag was removed from the pub. The floor was littered in them. You couldn’t move for fear of stepping on a dead body. My boss decided we’d stay open later.
A person I knew came in with a pram. I asked if me and my colleague could take the baby for a walk, get away from the stench of death. She agreed. We pushed the pram around until we got to a sloping street, and the baby managed to climb out of the pram and crawl away at super fast speed. I held onto the pram while my colleague chased after it. It was a nice pram, one of those posh black and white ones on four big wheels that you imagine the upper class to have.
My colleague caught the baby, but then yelled for my help.
It had somehow managed to undress itself in the corner of a wooden gazebo, and was writhing too much for any one person to hold it and dress it.
After a bit of effort we sorted it out, and stood up to take in our surroundings. We were in a small, poor village with lots of metal jutting out of the earth. We could see a small pottery shop – think more Arabian Nights than High Street – so we headed there to ask for directions.
An old woman sat in a rocking chair out the front. She took particular interest in the baby – an interest that unnerved me – and invited us in for supper. Once we and her family were sat around the tiny wooden table, I remembered the pram. I made my excuses and told her why I needed to go.
“Oh it’ll be long gone by now,” she said. “Nothing lasts long in this neighbourhood.”
She was right. The pram was gone. “Oh well,” I thought. “At least she’s still got her baby. We can buy her a new pram.”
Nevertheless I searched around the village for it. This place was so poverty riddled. All the people with sunken faces and ragged clothes looked up or shrank back into the shadows when they saw me. I sighed. This was hopeless.
I made my way back to work to find it packed full of people trying to find out what had happened. I saw a few people from my University course, and they asked me for details. I leant against a pillar and nearly cried whilst telling them. I told them I was there when it first started, and how everyone had just simply died. They murmured their sympathy, then carried on drinking.
It was 4am, and drinks were still being bought. It was busier than before the mass genocide of all our customers. I joined in downing sambucas and anything else that was bought for me. “For the shock,” I said.
My boss didn’t seem too fussed that the other two members of staff had vanished for a while. The mother of the baby was nowhere to be seen.

#FP Eggs of Oblivion!

Standard

Yay! I’m up to date on the #FP tweets! Wonder how long that will last.
The past couple of week’s themes have been “The Key to Oblivion” and, “The Secret of Eggs.”

The Key To Oblivion

afp

afp1

afp2

The Secret Of Eggs

afp3

afp4
afp5

Why not join us each Friday on Twitter with the hashtag #FP. Would be great to see even more people taking part!

The Ugly Drunk Dream

Standard

Once again I had moved into a new flat. I only knew one of the people I was living with, and the other three were all girls who seemed completely bitchy and plastic. They already had the flat full of their cloned friends. We decided to look around the flat and everything seemed adequate… although the showers were extremely weird.
They were almost laid out like a leisure centre. We had a shower upstairs, and a shower downstairs on either side of the flat. They were more like wetrooms though, with a clinical feel to them.
Anyway…
We decided to abandon the people we would have to put up with for a year, and we went dancing instead. We happily pulled some wacky moves on the dance floor; arms in the air, legs moving quickly – much better than I could ever dance in real life. Until someone elbowed me in the face.
Half of my face sort of exploded outwards. It instantly grew lumpy and red, totally attractive. It felt like a chewing gum bubble, all delicate and squishy. The guy went to apologise, then took one look at my face and practically ran away. I looked in the reflection of my drink, then shrugged and carried on dancing.
A female security guard stopped us. She said I wasn’t allowed to dance because I was too drunk and too ugly, and that I was scaring away the customers. I tried to explain the reason for the swelling, but she didn’t believe me. She thought I was just born with half of my face huge and red, so I told her angrily not all of us were born as ugly as she was.
…She kicked us out.