There was a mouse.
She was lonely.
She had a little house, a coincidental hole at the base of a big, old oak tree. She bustled around her hole, moving an acorn here, a grass seed there, keeping it ship-shape. (Although she’d never seen a ship).
The mouse stood in her doorway and looked. Every morning, every evening, watching the world go by.
She saw:
Beetles crawling over the dusty soil, through blades of grass.
Spiders scampering long-legged.
Birds flying high in the sky, soaring.
Ants marching forwards.
Bees buzzing from flower to flower.
Butterflies flapping haphazardly.
Half-heartedly hopping toads.
Life. She saw life. An ever-changing ebb and flow of creatures and insects and birds. All busy, all going about their business.
And the little mouse watched, wide-eyed.
“Such purpose!” she thought. “See how they go!”
And then she turned, and tweaked a grass-seed, placing it just so.
At night the little mouse dreamed wonderful dreams! She flew and soared and scampered and hopped and marched and crawled and flapped and buzzed! She did it all!
In the morning her eyes slowly opened, and blinked once, twice. Her safe little house. The dreams fading.
She got up, stretched, and quickly polished an acorn before opening her door to watch the world go by.
She was a twat, that mouse.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Hovering
Low level anxiety
Like a bumble bee trapped in a nearby room.
Just on the edge of awareness.
I want to forget.
I want to turn away from your face.
I want to send a postcard saying,
Saying just
No.
No.
No more.
Not any longer.
No.
Instead I wait here
In this place which feels like nothing,
Like beech effect tables,
Like filing cabinets,
And linoleum.
With a bumble bee in a nearby room.
Like a bumble bee trapped in a nearby room.
Just on the edge of awareness.
I want to forget.
I want to turn away from your face.
I want to send a postcard saying,
Saying just
No.
No.
No more.
Not any longer.
No.
Instead I wait here
In this place which feels like nothing,
Like beech effect tables,
Like filing cabinets,
And linoleum.
With a bumble bee in a nearby room.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Another Man's Compost
One person looks at egg shells
Tea bags
Potato peelings
Bread crumbs
Bits of leek, tomato, carrot
Dead flowers, stiff,
Onion skins
And sees rubbish.
Scraps for seagulls to squawk over from spilled bin bags,
Streets smeared,
Summer stink
To high heaven.
But.
Not.
The.
Potential.
Given time.
Heat.
Protection.
A little bit of rummaging.
The promise of rich, crumbling, darkly-latent life.
Ready.
Just
Waiting
To be seen.
Tea bags
Potato peelings
Bread crumbs
Bits of leek, tomato, carrot
Dead flowers, stiff,
Onion skins
And sees rubbish.
Scraps for seagulls to squawk over from spilled bin bags,
Streets smeared,
Summer stink
To high heaven.
But.
Not.
The.
Potential.
Given time.
Heat.
Protection.
A little bit of rummaging.
The promise of rich, crumbling, darkly-latent life.
Ready.
Just
Waiting
To be seen.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Stupid Hissing
It’s not even the start
And I can already feel the cold hand of the past
On my shoulder.
Whispering in my ear
A voice which is all hissy
And persuasive
And stupid.
I like your hands.
I don’t want them to be on anyone else’s neck
Or thigh.
Or your lips
To be pressed deliciously
Anywhere
But on my skin and lips.
“Hissy-hiss-other-women”,
The voice blathers on.
I suppose that’s what they mean by
Baggage.
And I can already feel the cold hand of the past
On my shoulder.
Whispering in my ear
A voice which is all hissy
And persuasive
And stupid.
I like your hands.
I don’t want them to be on anyone else’s neck
Or thigh.
Or your lips
To be pressed deliciously
Anywhere
But on my skin and lips.
“Hissy-hiss-other-women”,
The voice blathers on.
I suppose that’s what they mean by
Baggage.
Separation
Fewer planks of wood in the lounge.
Parma ham.
More confident with spiders.
More sex.
Better sex.
Friends.
Time.
Space.
Flowers.
Expansion.
Louder.
Bigger.
Thinner.
More fluid.
Less certain.
Increased capacity for peace.
New jokes.
Thought.
Yes,
With some crying.
Sometimes.
Parma ham.
More confident with spiders.
More sex.
Better sex.
Friends.
Time.
Space.
Flowers.
Expansion.
Louder.
Bigger.
Thinner.
More fluid.
Less certain.
Increased capacity for peace.
New jokes.
Thought.
Yes,
With some crying.
Sometimes.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
The Heroic Embrace
Dark. Then lighter, a cream-coloured dawning. Rising warmth.
Cool and greenly bubbling, the water sways. The morning brushes the top of the reeds. The clouds stretch, dissolving into the background of the sky.
The frog stirs. Life is waking in his belly. He blinks, tracing the minute shivers and ripples inside him. He flicks out his tongue; tastes. The sour ripeness of Spring reaches him. He blinks again.
Through the gloom, a gleam fades in and out. His eyes focus. A faint shimmering slenderly slips through the water, among the murk and the slime. A chink of light, a slip of something beautiful. The frog moves.
And something moves in him; rumbling, the urge of frogs past, the drive for future frogs, ancestors and offspring, conspiring to steer him on, forward, towards.
He kicks his legs. He is curious now, awoken by the return of impulses long-since unfelt. But remembered. His eyes widen. A longing burns. He kicks harder.
The weed drifts beneath him, tickling his belly as his swims. Ahead, the glimmer brightens, flickers, leading him closer. The sudden impression of scaly skin beneath his fizzes through him.
A moment. A shaft of sunlight catches a golden tail. The frog is frozen, caught in his yearning. She is perfect. He is hers.
Propelled by desire, by craving, he kicks again, swimming, reaching, grasping; his froggy limbs seize her with the power of all of his will, all of his wish and all of his hope.
He clings.
Her eyes blink.
She wriggles. She squirms. She flails. But he holds her tightly. He is certain.
The light starts to fade behind her eyes. She remembers the feel of water passing her by, a gulp of air, cold. It is all growing dimmer. She gently shudders. And then she is still.
He clings. He has found her. He will not let her go. He clings.
Cool and greenly bubbling, the water sways. The morning brushes the top of the reeds. The clouds stretch, dissolving into the background of the sky.
The frog stirs. Life is waking in his belly. He blinks, tracing the minute shivers and ripples inside him. He flicks out his tongue; tastes. The sour ripeness of Spring reaches him. He blinks again.
Through the gloom, a gleam fades in and out. His eyes focus. A faint shimmering slenderly slips through the water, among the murk and the slime. A chink of light, a slip of something beautiful. The frog moves.
And something moves in him; rumbling, the urge of frogs past, the drive for future frogs, ancestors and offspring, conspiring to steer him on, forward, towards.
He kicks his legs. He is curious now, awoken by the return of impulses long-since unfelt. But remembered. His eyes widen. A longing burns. He kicks harder.
The weed drifts beneath him, tickling his belly as his swims. Ahead, the glimmer brightens, flickers, leading him closer. The sudden impression of scaly skin beneath his fizzes through him.
A moment. A shaft of sunlight catches a golden tail. The frog is frozen, caught in his yearning. She is perfect. He is hers.
Propelled by desire, by craving, he kicks again, swimming, reaching, grasping; his froggy limbs seize her with the power of all of his will, all of his wish and all of his hope.
He clings.
Her eyes blink.
She wriggles. She squirms. She flails. But he holds her tightly. He is certain.
The light starts to fade behind her eyes. She remembers the feel of water passing her by, a gulp of air, cold. It is all growing dimmer. She gently shudders. And then she is still.
He clings. He has found her. He will not let her go. He clings.
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