Masked And Dangerous

Right, having another bash at the mask shenanigans. While sitting in sunshine is far removed from the following it seems helpful in mashing the brain a bit.

Onwards by carriage, in cabin alone, pulled

by four horses, unknown maiden was borne,

masked and unseen, so she thought, as she rode,

unheeding of eyes trained on traversed road.

Forested hideout masked predator there,

man of some mystery, hidden in lair,

lying in wait for rich treasure to claim,

stand and deliver, his call, with no name.

Rode he to hounds in the day but by night,

donned cloak and pistol, visage kept from sight,

surprising all journeys along forest path, 

tonight, no exception, ever ready to grasp

bejewelled and bedazzled from carriages fine,

heard wheels approaching, areckoned apt time.

Midnight it was as he forced to a stop

carriage before him, at last strike of bell clock,

beckoned insider to part with her gems,

waved pistol wildly, guarantee of amens,

when out from the carriage, from cabin enclosed,

stepped lady lightly, more pale than white rose

with lips of rich red, aplumped they of blood,

sparkled of eyes where ruby did flood,

dazzling more brightly than riches he sought,

intentions unravelled, his plan came to naught.

Caught on the highway, predation to prey,

bit down she first then robbed as he swayed,

devoided of treasure, blood soaked, fell to ground,

while black plumed, her stallions, urged homeward bound,

back to her layer, her coffin in keep,

castle of masks, batted eyes, six feet deep.

Tattooed the hooves, same to face from her bust

suffused now with pigment of redded blood lust.

Beware the highway, deliver if asked

though man, masked for moment, lies dead to the task

erred in the path of the woman he chose,

asleep till tomorrow, masked once more as pale rose.

Nope, so no romance here either, per se. Right, this is getting beyond the pale, so to speak. I can’t write a love poem around masks? What gives? Masked encounters bring out the deadly in me? Who knows. But this was fun. I think I may have cackled at the end. Sitting in the sunshine cackling.

Maybe third time will be the charm. I’m not giving in. In fact, I’m really enjoying finding out where masks take me. Masks are fun. Like acting. Only better. No stage fright.

Seriously (or not so seriously!) link in in comments so I can enjoy your masked adventures. Mark has sent in one that I’ll post to this here blog after I’ve stopped writing today. Umm, might be late, Mark. 😉

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Rocking Friday

I’m having a night off tonight, I am,

It’s been a long week at chalk face,

Cabernet Sauvignon’s ready to pour

And there’s a movie I’ll watch for his grace…

Not really a fan of blood and of gore,

Hallowe’en’s just really for weans,

But I’ll risk some vampires and hunters as well

For his eyes and a dose from his veins.

Van Helsing is playing tonight on the screen,

Well, really, it’s Hugh that I covet,

But at a pinch, I’ll put up with the blood,

Suck it up and hope that I love it.

I rarely do movies it has to be said,

Not much a fan of the box,

But with glass held in hand and feet on the couch,

I’ll suffer ‘cos Hugh Jackman rocks. 😉

Rebuilding Bridges

Our realities were where they lived. They had always lived among us. Mingling and breeding, filtering the external ugliness over millenia, shape-shifting within families, extending their reach and influence, feeding their appetite for souls. We bled spiritual plasma to these psychic vampires; the Trolls piercing, sucking us almost dry and moving on to greener pastures while burning our bridges between the possible and the proscribed. Sometimes the medication helped, blurred the edges of the fairy tale we lived. Sometimes nothing helped. Spent souls huddled in silence awaiting the Banshee, keening their need to end the days, pleading for the stake that would ease their pain and transformation. Some bridges remained. We began the Rebuild.

Do Tell

There’s a wide-eyed wild woman in my house this morning. I’ve met her before and given her short shrift on my way out to work. My husband commented on her presence this morning with the words, ‘What time did you come to bed last night?’

‘Late’ is a perfectly valid time on the writer’s timepiece. It is just vague enough to have been reasonably early or heading for the hay as the birds twitter.

I wasn’t that late last night/this morning. But, good grief, I have to get this writing malarkey under control. Truth be told, I don’t really want to because too many years have passed wishing for just such dedication. And now that I’ve found it I’m scared to jinx it by being too controlling.

And I’m not so hot on the discipline thing anyway with regard to certain activities. I know myself well enough for that. I would have made a lousy soldier. I prefer to rely on impulse and compulsion in some areas of my life. Too much of it is dictated to by routine and rote. So, sensory pleasures must be allowed to flourish whenever possible. A more regimented routine is difficult to imagine at the moment.

But when I viewed myself, looking and feeling somewhat like a vampire – all white-faced and red-eyed seeking a good blood source for a much-needed feed, I have to consider whether I’m not neglecting my health in the name of the written word and thoughts.

So, I have to make some sort of effort to exert some discipline and self-control and rejoin the land of the living. But I don’t know how to switch it off without switching it off! Up too late writing, then thoughts disturbing my sleep. And hubby’s, I’m told. I’ve always talked in my sleep. Apparently, now, I also knock hell out of folk!

No selfies on this one but think Macbeth and three crones. I’m not Macbeth. But Shakespeare must have had a peephole into my future when he wrote that one. Maybe that’s why it was set in Scotland.

What do others do? Give in and go with the flow glad to be pouring forth on paper words that might never see the light of day anyway? Take pad and pen everywhere? I already do that. Try for a timetable? Take up running? I hear that’s good for keeping the thoughts flowing while getting fresh air. But that’s hubby’s love and I didn’t like it when I tried it. More than once, I might add, to give it a fair crack.

The weather’s picking up so maybe garden writing like last year. Sun and words, a wonderful combination. But it’s so hit and miss yet. And I can see clouds rolling in from here. I’ll never make my first year blogging anniversary at this rate. And I don’t like the coffin look. So do tell.

Valkyries, Vampires And Victims Of Vile Visions

Lay down, warriors, to demi-gods,

you are chosen.

Let virgins feed

all needs 

with meal and mead.

Valkyrie tapestry

depicts your future

while vampires

curse and urge

desire to bleed.

Victims of their visions,

you are welcome

in Valhalla’s halls

for dying

in the field.

Vile mastery,

treachery to living.

Lay down, now,

die,

display you yield.

Endless Night

‘Sleep,’ he strokes,

And satin cloak

Slides

Softly on my skin.

‘Deep,’ he moans,

‘Deep sleep,’ intones.

Drifting out and in,

Of slumber

Where, no nightmares

Dwell,

But teeth

Nip hard

And pierce

And tell

Of wanton kiss

Revoking life,

Mesmerised

By sharpened knife of

Incisors’ bitten bond.

‘Awake, my love,’

And shake the dream

From eyes

Of scarlet hue.

‘Come, my self,

Come fly with me,

Where others

Are awaiting you.’

Arise and weep,

An endless sleep,

Haunting still

The night.

Twin piercings

Shy from

Others’ eye,

Shunning morning’s light.

A twilight world

Of bloodied

Gasp,

Pallid hands,

A virginal clasp,

Flash of

Red tipped white.

Oliana, I hope you sleep tonight. http://tracesofthesoul.wordpress.com/2013/08/26/dawn-has-passed/

Simon, other reasons for red eyes. http://isimonfiction.wordpress.com/