Saturday, 20 October 2012

Ooooof.... Words

Sup y'all. So, this was a poem I wrote when I was 15. Talk about teenage drama queen. Enjoy.


I’ve never been one to get my words out
ly. When a class joke or banter fills the air my contribution is
A murmur. A silent added coin
In the trying money machine that makes but little difference to the mass already there.

I’m there
Sitting in that photograph. Putting on a fabulous smile
(With those ugly teeth)
And shifting closer to my oblivious neighbour, in an attempt to make it appear like

I am popular.

Clingfilm, bendable, chameleon. 
Funny. How these words are so structured.
But I’ve never been one to get my words out. Properly. 

Thursday, 18 October 2012

The Cigarette

You Suck.
Suck on me, as pure white as the moon with a fire-head.
Your lips curl round my exposed skin;
Softening my harsh lines with your curled smile.

I’m putty, my legs cotton; I droop under your steamy breath.
As you draw your breath in, I come closer.
You, you monster, you Hephaistos, stripping me of my white
White white beauty. Drawing the flames
Down my black tar body.

As you suck,
Suck, suck my fire down
Towards the very core of me-
I merely smile. You addict. You are addicted to me.
I am your Pandora. Your thick, supple hands craft me.
Turn me into a woman, darling. 

Wednesday, 17 October 2012

Poetry is for cool people. Honestz.

This poem is a bit "Posh and Poncy." I was watching Breathless, and it made me feel all french and shit. So I wrote it, yeah? What do you think?  

So you whisper in my ear on that evening. 
Deep, sweet breath engulfs my senses: ‘let’s have some fun’. 
We dance, we flirt with boys we don’t know - 
you have that shirt on, that one which creases at the chest.
I live in those creases on that night. 

We drum on tables as the music gets too much.
We talk shit. We talk sense. 
I choke on your Gauloises. But I still draw in the smog,
Smooth as silk  with a stifling aftertaste.
Much like you.

We move, we sway, we love, we fuck with our eyes,
Our teeth, our hair.
And as we dance, my darling, as we move, 
Your hands stretch towards heaven, towards the unknown,
As if by elongating your body you will feel more,
Touch more, be more, you'll grab 
a piece of the night 
and put it in your breast pocket.

Ma Cherie, vous avez ete parfait ce soir. 

Tuesday, 16 October 2012

Fear is in the eye of the beholder.

....When do you realise what it is? 

I sit up, stunned. Can it be? Please, not again. Please God, not again.

What's that noise? My body shudders, I find myself afraid even of my own raspy breath which heaves on my lungs vigorously.

Another sound? Another movement? All I know, all I'm certain of, is that I am no longer alone in this room. 

My bedlinen is tangled around me but I do not move it.  I cannot bare to make any other sounds; it may bring it closer to me.


In the shadows, just by my dressing table, I’m sure I saw the outline of…oh God…please not tonight. I need to sleep. My body is aching, desperate for a night without this terror. I feel a single bead of sweat drip slowly down the curve of my spine. They say that they can smell fear. If they can, I bet I reek.

Wait! I’m sure I just saw….a huge black shadow has just moved across the floor. I'm sure of it. I know this time. My body convulses and I find my legs to be underneath me in a "preying mantus" position. Christ, my yoga teacher would be pleased; fear and not her nasal insistence for "deep calm breathing, Alanaaaaaaah" has finally taught me how to balance.

If I could just reach the door, I would not be alone with it. I’d be able to find someone, anyone, to help me. I know what they think of me, ‘oh that’s crazy Alanna who see’s shadows all night long’. Well I don’t care. More fool them. The shadows come after them as well you know, but they’re just asleep, asleep with their mouths wide open.

I must be brave, I must be brave. I peel my legs out of the bed, my heart racing. The door is three meters away. That mean three steps, four at the most. I can do this. I place my feet on the floor; the scratchy carpet instantly filling me with an itchy sensation that permeates my whole body and makes me shudder, as if something is crawling all over me.

One step down, I was close to the dressing table. To where it was. 

I must keep walking. Two steps down.

I am flush to the dressing table now. The third step is looming; freedom is in my grasp. I bring my foot up, pointing it as delicately as possible, as if my wide size eights would cause the terror to come out and punish me for having such un-lady like feet.

But I have to put it down, I have to leave. 

And then it appears. The object skims the floor with lightening speed - not keeping to the corners and skirting boards like it usually does, but brazenly dashes across the floor and stops before my door.

One leg, two, three, four...eight legs stood firmly still by the door, mockingly glaring at me with it’s huge beady  eyes, daring me to try and open the door, daring me to move.

"You move" it said, with it's creepy gross spider mouth, "and I will move so fast you'll shit yourself."

Stood on my one leg, with my other shaking violently in a pensive position (another yoga one actually, come to think of it, "saluting the sun" this time) the spider’s huge frame - at least the size of a jam jar lid - was like a prison guard, refusing my exit, mocking my feeble attempts at escape.

How would I ever get out? How would I ever be released from his grasp?

Suddenly, with a horrendous bang, the door opens wide, taking the spider with it. 

"What the bloody hell are you doing? I heard screaming?!"

My flatmate appears through the smog-like thickness of dark, an eye mask awkwardly pushed over her wiry hair and an unfriendly grimace on her usually smug face.

I can only point, still with one leg in the air. She sighs, and with her sleep deprived arms, she moves the door back, slowly, to reveal the squished reminent of the beast, its proud legs now not-so-proud, crinkled into the shape of the dressing table.

‘Well, that’s dealt with that then’. She said, arching her brow up. She turns and slides back into the darkness of the house. 

I put my foot down, walk three paces and get back into bed where I sleep soundly (with my mouth closed, though) all night.

Exercise - Writing on a "Spell" - short fiction

I kept walking, head down, focussing only on the tips of my Slush Puppies as they hit the cobbled streets. I could still hear them jeering behind me, mocking my maroon school blazer and clocking my feeble attempt to enter the club as the anecdote of the week. I pulled violently at my tie; an emblem of my weakness, my youth, and ripped it from my neck, stuffing it into my satchel where my homework lay, yet to be completed.
I turned right, tracing the outline of the club with my journey. My parka coat grazed along the mildewed walls. I could hear the music pounding inside and it vibrated my shivering, bitter body. This just wasn’t right, I couldn't leave. I had to see her, I couldn't leave without her.

I kicked a stone in my anger and it bounced off something metal with a clang – another door. My heart pounded; this must have been the back entrance. I looked around desperately; no bouncers in sight. The door was strange though; it was more of a metal panel than a door in itself having no visible handles. I ran my fingers down the edges and tried to find grip. It was hopeless. The door stood still, mockingly unscathed by my slippery hands. 

“Damn it!” I shouted, kicking the door in my petulance and turning away, covering my childish face with my hands.

“What do we have here then?”

I turned around; a man in his early twenties with bloodshot eyes and a penetrating glare had opened the door.

“Calm down mate” The words slurred through his languid lips, he looked me up and down, taking in my appearance; 
‘Though…always love a rebel me.” He smiled with big shiny teeth; all the better for eating me with, “you been kicked out? Come the fuck in!”

Thanking him silently, I moved past him into the smog of the club. I’d walked into a thin corridor where a thronging crowd pushed past each other– everyone around me was like the man I’d just seen – bright eyed, staring, grinning and sweating and moved in a convulsion, like a hot dark sea. I pushed and squirmed my way through until I reached what looked like the main room. She had to be in here somewhere. There was no going back now.

I was pushed at from all directions by a crowd by smiling strangers. The smell of weed and cigarettes singed my throat and made me long for the tranquillity of home. But I persisted. I had to. Behind me, the pounding music suddenly stopped to make way for a voice over. Jolting, I wrenched myself round to face the staging area. This was it. The smooth American voice called out the name I’d had on my lips all night and the crowd roared. My heart could have burst in my chest.  The woman next to me began to cry as the emotions overwhelmed her senses.

Heels, followed by a red dress and finished with a mouth of red lipstick tapped their way onto the stage. They were right. She was effervescent; mesmerising. The woman next to me fell to the ground, unable to look at her any longer through sheer want and desire. Me? I couldn't stop looking. She turned to the crowd and dazzled us with her white, sharp teeth and my body was no longer my own.

The crowd silenced.

“Darlings” The red lips said. “Are you ready for the most magical moment of your lives?”

The noise erupted. The woman next to me remained on the floor but in a praying position, silently mouthing her desires to her hands, never taking her eyes of the red vision on stage.

The crowds glee caused the red woman’s neck to fling back and a low laugh uttered from those lips. 

Then with a whip of her hand – we were silenced again. 

...Any thoughts on what happens next?