The Cold Light Of Day

The cold light of day
In
Sid
U
Ous
Like gently touching your wet eyeball in the pitch black, as you can't tell whether your eyes are open or closed
And a scoop of stomach guts
Thrust down with a meat tenderiser
And regurgitated back to the ribbit in your throat

Peeling your eyes open
Chilled
All is usual
Dis
Con
Cert
Ing
Hollow suddenness
The flash of their death
The realisation
The dreaded gut wrenching fear darkly brewing up through your bubbling cauldron and trickling down your neck
The senses awakened

And a kiss
Stolen from your lips
Am
Big
U
Ous
Ly
Skipped a beat, stabbed the white knuckles and stomped the spit dripping from your brow
Tenderly weeping
Punched in the guts
Each breath heavy and heavier until you've drowned
Entering the treacle of darkness luring behind the curtains

And lungs
Burst alveoli
Dripping so sweetly sick
Mock
Ing
Ly
Disjointing
Never ending groaning again
Groaning and groaning
Rocking and falling into the
Into the wretched pool
Clinging
Strangling your neck

But you
It dawns
Dis
Gust
Ing
Ly
Gulping the sudden slap
Freshly woken
Senses toking
Flesh crawling away
Eating yourself enveloped and wanting to stomp the fire out
With your bare feet

Ever tried opening your eyes when the lids are sewn together?
Lights flickering against
Shadows
En
Gulf
Ing
Nausea is too keenly apparent
When gut wrenches thrown up and spitting up blood into your cupped hands
Eyes stinging

In the cold light of day
It all seemed so
Rid
Ic
U
Lous

The whispers in the attic.

The whispers in the attic are high above our heads, with the larks and angry ravens, dipped wings from white to black. 

They won't hear you, be calm. They hear you call the storm. They hear you make your statement with a thunderous clout, forlorn. 

But it wasn't. It wasn't heard. And all those whisperings of needles and pins like hundreds of sparrows wings, beating fast and spreading, splaying legs, plucked and shedding. 

Whispers whisper slowly, they sneak over and crawling, sprawling and bawling over rooftops from the attic, spilling out through black nights, crows pecking at  moon light. 

Squawking, singing, tripping, so giddy, to the ears of hidden privy. To tumble the word, the whisper it's golden. 

To spoil it would be rotten, but lest it is forgotten, that whispers are unspoken, 'cept in the rooftops of attics, where they're practically sycophantic. 

And some will seep and ooze, like a deep slumbering snooze, filling the rooftops like thick soup, reminiscent of halitosis, the stench of wrong whispers, twitching cats whiskers, tapping paws upon the skylines, whispers upon whiskers.

Get stolen, be taken by the whispers so mistaken, from the bird twitterings of stench, from wench upon wench.

Watch The Skies

When we were away in La Chaussée, I became obsessed with taking pictures of the sky.

And writing things down.

And when flying, writing all about how much I didn't like it. And laughing at the funny flight attendants secretly in my head, whilst they were doing their hand gestures silently, four of them separated consecutively down the aisle of the plane (as a recorded robotic voice said the emergency instructions). Which made it look like they were doing a very special dada-ist/contemporary dance, with extreme dolly-style bright rouge blusher, nearly covering their whole cheeks, like a red blushing beard and fake eye-lashes more realistic to spider legs than I have ever seen.

It was a good distraction anyway as I popped the herbal calming tablets and wondered where the trolley was to purchase a strong drink as I smiled calmly, (probably looking more like a stunned animal), knuckles white, fingers tightly around the arms of the chair with all the seats rattling as we began to move and my kids arguing over who gets to have the window seat. Not Mummy.

And eyes taking tentative steps towards the window as we were landing (and taking off), in case there was something scary on the wing, (as often portrayed in films)/noticing something broken/or the clouds are passing too quickly and we're plummeting downwards to sudden death (delete where appropriate). Then wondering what it would actually be like to cause a fuss about being a flying wuss and then finding that so utterly ridiculous and getting ones-self into a brain pickle, between public and silent wuss, and realise to be thinking in such circles only makes the flying-wuss more wussy and  wondering why the damn trolley really had to take so long and getting a little fidgety, noticed, next to me but one, a chap, in the exact same position as myself, clenching the seat for dear life. We both gave each other that look. That look. The shit-scared plane look. The understanding, mutual, la même chose look that whoever poops themselves first, is forgiven. Neither of us did and we were happy to place our feet on the ground again as the army ants/soldiers on drill/horde of passengers scrambled to get their bags first before anyone else and managing to get a superb bullseye by elbowing the short people in the eye with their chunky elbows and not even noticing, then leaving your eye stinging and streaming for the next half of the day.

I love flying, me.

TTFN