Here’s Donny !!!!!

Shouldn’t really laugh….it’s terrifying

stgreenie

As you lay
beneath the covers warm
behind locked doors
in your secure bedroom

I am
your nightmare
who has not yet performed
on the great stage
inside your paranoid head

Cause potential
subconscious doom
is always best served
when slow cooked
in the cauldron of dread

Of course you do know
deep in your soul

I am coming soon
beneath the blood moon

and when I finally strike
you will be
defenseless from me

as I penetrate your dreams
and strip away
what’s left of your sanity

trump--the shining

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Fucks Given. Or Not.

Fuck you, man

You gave me only hardship

Exchanged good blood

Anaemia your gift

Fuck you, man, I’ve rested

Know the truth now

You’ll drink me dry

Till nothing left but dust

Fuck you, man

Persuasion and your power

All lies you tell

To keep the grindwheel oiled

Fuck you, man

Not long now that you’re rumbled

Revolution imminent

Resolve

Survival of the fittest or the richest

I’m fit for you

Rich bastards

Watch me live

Watch me, watch me closely

Fuck your methods

I’ll outlive you

While, fuck you, I, no fucks can give

I’ll see you yet, in hell, when hellfire freezes

I’ll fuck your system sideways till I’m old

You have the means, we have the power

All that’s needed, hearts and souls, still whole and not yet sold

Fuck you, man…… although I’m tired

Weary of the fight…… but still go on

Let’s all fuck, as one, together

Can’t fight orgasmic power for that long

Fuck you, man, you faceless, mindless moron

The suit that serves you well won’t serve you long

Though fucked beyond endurance, we’re still standing

Fuck you, man, we’re fighting you, still strong

Watch the faces change as climax reaches

Point beyond endurance, simmering

You’re fucked, and time will tell,  you mark me

We’ll fuck you sideways yet, now boiling

Watch your backs, your anuses, you fucktards

We know you now for what you really are

Vampires, all, without salvation

I’m cursing you right here and none are barred

Your time is drawing close while ours is looming

Death beyond what you have ever seen

Expulsion from the hierarchy, we’re blooming

While you, you’re fucked, as if you’ve never been.

Superhero Danglers

They dangle from my ears and I just love them

Drops of silver, diamonds or gold

They turn with me and nudge my jaw or cheekbones

Make me brave, in truth, they make me bold

I’ve seen me going out without them

Forgotten in a rush and then I’m crushed

Nothing’s right, naked nightmares about them

Unlike Samson, feel I’m weaker when untrussed

Those who know me never buy me tiny

Studs that sit too tame upon my lobes

Got to dangle, got to jingle jangle

Undressed, if absent, even fully robed

I have a pair that hang right down and swing so

Towards shoulders, mucky minds, that thought of else

Those are reserved for when I must be bolder

They glitter so, I keep them as my best

What gives you confidence when you need extra

Is it clothes that make the hero out of you

Or is it something else, like shades or hairdo

I’m curious to know what others do

Superhero powers from some earrings

The dangly ones, of course, none else suffice

Maybe shouldn’t tell you of my weakness

Superman once did and then thought twice

My kryptonite is finding flat and lifeless

In a box where danglers live for epic feats

No one guesses, no one touches, locked up

My cowardly protection help me cheat

Been wearing them since Clark Kent was a no-mark

A cartoon nobody that needed strength

If he’d had earrings he could’ve worn those knickers

Underneath, where no one saw his length

If Kal-El had only listened to his granny

Like I did years ago when just a child

He’d have swapped his cape, gone in disguise with danglers

Guaranteed to subvert mild and wild

Lex Luthor might have laughed at the Boy Wonder

With the dangly bits that hung from manly ears

But, rest assured, he’d have crushed him without effort

Unworried about kryptonitic fears

I’ve told you now, so spare a thought for powers

Gifted from a granny long ago

Wear them long and swing them while you strut it

If she were here, she’d tell you, told you so

Need to go and polish superpowers

Phone Superman and put that hero wise

Tell him he can even lose the swim trunks

Let’s face it, he should welcome that surprise

If you catch me on the street without my earrings

Give me time to find a phone box near

Some struggle with my garments and, hey presto,

Knickers hanging down from round my ears

Mind Over Matter, Fact Over Fiction

There was no evidence of blood.

I considered that a good sign.

In fact, there was no evidence at all that I had come to the right place. I might have made a mistake. Taken the wrong, winding staircase up the wrong close. Arrived at the wrong time, perhaps. No one was around.

I worried at the absence of smells. Surely, every place has its own aroma. I’m susceptible to their detection but I could scent nothing here. I would have expected something, anything, to suggest that due precautions were taken to alleviate pain. Where was that hint of anaesthetic? The vague but overpowering antisceptic sterility? I almost left then. My nose knows when something is off.

But a door opened and he bid me enter. I was, momentarily, rooted to the spot. Incapable of going forward. Incapable of running.

The blood I had been looking for was found.

Every inch of him was doused in someone else’s blood. I imagined his apron had once been pristine. Now, even what little remained of white, was tinted dirty pink. The rest, a scarlet affront. I was glad he did not extend a hand in greeting. I could not have touched his blood-encrusted flesh.

He turned his back on me, without so much as a grunt. Somehow, I moved. Don’t ask me why I went with him. I can only believe, now, that the greater pain of not doing so galvanised my action.

Most of what followed was done with my eyes closed. I did not want to look again upon the room I had entered. Did not want to see the tools of his lurid trade. Could not bear to witness what had to be.

Saliva dribbled from his mouth, in anticipation of his prize, while my tongue, in dry refusal, resisted movement to arrest the oncoming onslaught. In unique betrayal, it would shortly attempt to drown itself, and threaten my survival, by its river-swollen size.

I did then what I had to do. What I always do.

I went inside myself. Found a place there, where the deepest of breaths attempted to calm my soul. His breath upon me, too close for any stranger, stirred my idle scent awareness. He overpowered. I was manhandled. Felt the force of his efforts. Cried inside for the child, in me, who had no one’s hand to hold. No one to rescue me.

As he renewed his efforts, I renewed mine. Green waves, upon a golden shore, shushed my rapid heartbeat. Distant voices called to me. Told me it would soon be over. Promised survival. I accepted their reassurances despite grievous, internal misgivings. They must know better than I. They had seen it all before. Borne witness to every such assault. Knew the outcomes; the gains and the losses.

They were right. They’re always right.

The twenty-something woman I awoke to, instructed me that a check-up, in six months, would be all that was further required. I left, at last, one tooth and twenty-seven pounds lighter. My worst imaginings merely a product of age-old fears and a certain scene from Les Mis.

But, ouch, all the same. :/

At The Harbour

Not quite business as usual yet – just wanted to get this dream out of my head. Hope you all have a lovely Easter weekend.x

Black dresses, on the slipway, at the harbour

White faces, satisfied, wreathed in smiles

Exhausted, but still cheerful, chat in passing

Long gone from home, a journey of some miles

Cramped hovercraft, of grey, with tiny doorway

Crawling through with effort, things in hand

Embarrassment of riches, carried loosely

Safe negotiation onto land

Whitest buildings, rising all around, with gangways

Tunnels, thoroughfares, all leading there

Espied upon arrival, at the harbour

Dishevilled from the journey to somewhere

Someone says, we saw you leave the small boat

Nice moves in your escape, you did that fine

A fleeting grin acknowledges their vision

We pass and part, each following own line

They’re heading to the harbour, I’ve just left it

Strangers in the night, opposing paths

Wandering intentions nod, go onwards

We’re dressed in black but, inwardly, we laugh

Were you at the harbour, did I see you

Partied out, with friends, returning home

Or heading to a gig, the night not over

While, dressed for night, I headed on alone

Faces, pale and smiling, were so happy

No cares, their drug the living yet to be

Were you at the harbour, bidding fellowship

Tell me, stranger, do you know and did you see

The woman, on her own, down at the harbour

Were you one who hailed and headed there this morn

Facing south while, northerly, I bid you

Good luck, down at the harbour, hazing dawn

Practice and Performance

tread lightly on the path of least resistance

on wooden toes, find strength, one must perform

balance on frail bridge without assistance

bright light in sight, no ligaments yet torn

plie, pirouette, without extension

trained for timely twirls to softly land

faster, faster, dizzying dimension

unruffled skirts, poised lithely, final stand

unapplaused in practice and performance

musculature, well-versed, its memory

carries through, determination’s dominance

treads lightly, choreographed, till finally free

Apologies one and all for being an absent blogger. Didn’t even hand in a sick note! Final leg here of around thirty thousand words in reports due in for tomorrow. No sweat. Well, maybe a little glowing – I’m a lady. Except for the swearing that has accompanied using an online reporting programme only barely fit for purpose. Bring back pens, I say. I’d have been done two weeks ago. Hope you’re all well and I haven’t missed too much. What’s the gossip? Oh, wrong forum. Been off everything. And all without withdrawal symptoms. Bit of a surprise, that.

Now, back to last of the reports. Any euphemisms out there I haven’t used to temper bad news? Just how many ways can you say, ‘you’re wean’s a lazy, blethering tike’?

Magic And Miracles

who has time for magic that needs spelling

miracles

more meaningful

have power

who has time to wait till cauldron bubbles

miracles

don’t need minutes

or vague hours

miracles can happen in a moment

a gasp of breath

to question

is this real

puffs of smoke

invisible

still gather

while magic takes some time to set its seal

who really wants to hear

the witches’ cackle

the haggard breaths and warts

that spell their names

one drop of faith

the potion is as potent

magic happens, daily,

just the same

magic

(source)

hold the universe

it daily wakens

within your hands

it’s there to weave all spells

all power bestowed in fragments

all components

a legacy of magic 

miracles