Parker is my friend and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
(The Un-dream…
The litter decorated the grey with colourful bursts of kebab boxes, floral depictions made of carrier bags and misfortune. The sun shined on the alcoholic residue left behind on the beer bottles that were cast aside. The cans reflected the sunlight as the lakes and rivers once did. The grass grew a crippled brown that matched my boots. The oceans were made of tar and the fish of tin cans. London puffed on those familiar exhaust pipes, all the time enhancing her addiction to life. The dream was all backwards, the world turned inside out. Emotions were living, rage lived just down the road. The living were dead and pulling the unplanted flowers from the ground… the ones that were never sowed.)
Later…
An epic flow of rain ensured the cars got a good wash last night. So heavy was the down poor, Parker and I were forced outside cocooned in curiosity and fascination. We stood there staring in amazement at the weight of the water on the world. We also laughed a little at the world’s disregard for the trendy hairstyles that paddled there way home. We stood there for quite some time, long enough to be soaked right through. There really does come a point where you cannot get any wetter. Eventually you become part of the rain. The rain sank in to my skin, cold and concerned. The water rushed like an army of bandits to the nearest drain, to hide away from the world. The fire escape that we were sitting on had become a death trap. The pathway had become a series of life threatening rapids. All we could do was sit and hope the chaos would pass.
All of a sudden I noticed that Parker was weeping. His inky life blood was being stolen by the bandits that rushed to ground. The blue ink waving a tiny image of marble over my left boot. An inky script that was quickly lost in the ever pounding rain. I began to feel anxious and concerned for us both, my fingers now turning a little blue.
I reminded Parker of a time when I had been this sad. The tears like the rain just wouldn’t let up. With that I pulled my jacket over my head and my knees, creating a small cave. With the rain hitting hard, we didn’t have much time. The fabric of my jacket was wilting becoming heavier by the second. I pulled my battered notebook from inside my sock and wedged it onto wet knees. With my left hand still holding my jacket over us and the bandits racing through the night…
Parker took up his post,
And together we began to write…
Trapped
I’m trapped in a box,
Knelt down tight,
Crying my eyes out,
For my life I’ll fight.
For as I cry,
The box it fills,
With my tears,
It overspills.
‘Till I’m drowned,
Still trapped in my box,
Dead in my tears,
And the lid remains locked!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. Brighton 2001.
©Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Monday 23 August 2010
Thursday 19 August 2010
Purgatory Manifest
Parker is my pen and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
With the weekend came a tide of illness and exhaustion. For nearly a week now, Parker and I have been stranded within the world of slumber. The exhaustion turning our limbs to lead and our heads to stone. Time herself swallowed the days and refused us the rest that should come with nightfall. At least when insomnia dances for the stars, the time that you are given can be utilized. With a body made of stone and a mind as cloudy and confused as a drunk at Christmas, I was left both physically paralysed and mentally delinquent. I lay with nothing but a muddled cacophony and a sense of panic. Parker didn’t feel any better. In our half sleep state of despair and self concern, a worry crept into the forefront of my aching mind. Imagine if I couldn’t write!
Horrified at the prospect and in refusal to except the sorry state I was in, I took hold of Parker and made the rest written. In my more than aching muddle, my head swirling with incomprehensible pain and confusion I wrote of purgatory.
I wrote this for you:
Purgatory manifest
Here; birds hunt hard and bitten fruits fall.
Blooms entwined with horror, with serpents I crawl.
As pests quiver silently oozing poison from a plant,
Living within such hell, it is claimed that you can’t.
Where roots are strangled with branches of their own,
Leaves wrap cunningly, as the wind is blown.
Where creatures of the darkness move erratically with shame,
And seeds of flowering hatred are fuelled by the pain.
Where piercing screams are swallowed and hearts of love consumed,
Hands collect the downfall and buds of rage are bloomed.
Where nothing and all is falling, life not what it seems,
Death curdles sweetly and the sun without a beam.
Heartless creatures wander as venom stings the air,
Bitten and hate ridden, a life that seems unfair.
As serpents crawl beside me, I feel just the same,
Drowning in the downfall of poison in the rain.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London.
©Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
With the weekend came a tide of illness and exhaustion. For nearly a week now, Parker and I have been stranded within the world of slumber. The exhaustion turning our limbs to lead and our heads to stone. Time herself swallowed the days and refused us the rest that should come with nightfall. At least when insomnia dances for the stars, the time that you are given can be utilized. With a body made of stone and a mind as cloudy and confused as a drunk at Christmas, I was left both physically paralysed and mentally delinquent. I lay with nothing but a muddled cacophony and a sense of panic. Parker didn’t feel any better. In our half sleep state of despair and self concern, a worry crept into the forefront of my aching mind. Imagine if I couldn’t write!
Horrified at the prospect and in refusal to except the sorry state I was in, I took hold of Parker and made the rest written. In my more than aching muddle, my head swirling with incomprehensible pain and confusion I wrote of purgatory.
I wrote this for you:
Purgatory manifest
Here; birds hunt hard and bitten fruits fall.
Blooms entwined with horror, with serpents I crawl.
As pests quiver silently oozing poison from a plant,
Living within such hell, it is claimed that you can’t.
Where roots are strangled with branches of their own,
Leaves wrap cunningly, as the wind is blown.
Where creatures of the darkness move erratically with shame,
And seeds of flowering hatred are fuelled by the pain.
Where piercing screams are swallowed and hearts of love consumed,
Hands collect the downfall and buds of rage are bloomed.
Where nothing and all is falling, life not what it seems,
Death curdles sweetly and the sun without a beam.
Heartless creatures wander as venom stings the air,
Bitten and hate ridden, a life that seems unfair.
As serpents crawl beside me, I feel just the same,
Drowning in the downfall of poison in the rain.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London.
©Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Above: Bird 1.
Photograph taken by Spirit de la Mare aka Li'L Literati.London 2009.
c.Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Friday 13 August 2010
The Curious Incident of the Girl in the Tree.
Parker is my pen and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
On occasion I do things that I know may be detrimental to my well being or damaging to my emotional state. Often my plunging into this pool of error and misjudgement is entirely intentional. I am fully aware of how ridiculous this may sound but often it is essential. I am also aware that in declaring such curious behaviour, I may be dismissed as a crazy individual with a desire or lust for self destruction. I therefore must explain my experimentation and use of error and emotion, for medicinal purposes.
This bizarre process all began when I was a child. I was at school climbing the flight of stairs that lead up to my English class. At the bottom of the never ending staircase (or so it seemed) was a busy hall, filled with students racing to their classrooms. All of a sudden I lost my footing and stumbled onto my bottom, which lead to me being on my back. Before I knew it I was rolling and flip-flopping down the stairs like a slinky! As If the accident itself wasn’t embarrassing enough, I rolled in such a way that my skirt kept rising and rising until I finally reached the bottom. By that point not only was I bruised, but half undressed and totally humiliated by the whole ordeal.
When I returned home my Mother said as mothers do, that it would be fine and I would forget it all in time. I remember even at this point feeling that this wasn’t enough. My Mother bought me my first fountain pen in attempt to compensate for this event. (Parker).
I suffered two whole weeks of the crippling stomach aches and pangs that walked with me to school each morning. Two weeks of worrying and lack of sleep whilst I lay replaying the event in my head, over and over. Two whole weeks of wishing I had never got up that morning. (Please bare in mind I was only a child, so falling down the stairs really was quite an ordeal! Also this was a turning point in the way that I thought about emotions, so perhaps it seemed more poignant than it would do to another individual.)
Two weeks and three days later, Parker and I were out in the woods collecting inspiration. Back then it usually came in the form of worms and bugs and bits of flowers which would later be turned into a fabulous potion. Parker and I ventured up a large tree, putting my well practiced climbing technique to the test, as the tree was bigger than any I had climbed before. We sat and stared at the ground, which seemed further and further away the longer we stayed up there. I suddenly became very aware that the descent was virtually impossible. After much deliberation I decided that the only way down was to jump! I put Parker back in his holster and wiggled off the brunch, free falling to the forest floor.
It was the most terrifying act I had ever known up until that point in time. My heart was racing, my adrenaline pumping, my thoughts in a chaos. Thoughts of what I could have done to myself, the injuries I could have endured, where I could have landed. My body was filled with fear and relief all at once. I looked up to see the branch I had been sitting on. My eyes then wandered down the tree in amazement at how far I had fallen. I noticed my foot prints in the semi-moist soil at the base of the tree. Most of all I noticed the absence of the stomach aches and pangs. I had sure enough scared embarrassment away with a mixed dose of fear and relief. The measure of adrenalin that was released due to the fall on the stairs was completely over run by a higher dose, released by the jump. To my innocent and slightly bemused mind the world of emotions finally made sense. I had finally figured out a way of processing such things. Not only this but I felt at the time that I had discovered an antidote! I figured therefore that the way to deal with emotions was with other emotions. The way to deal with a bad emotion was to create an event which would stimulate a more powerful feeling. A feeling that would in turn over run your negative essence. I had hacked into the system and discovered all the answers.
The trouble comes with the ever increasing dosages that are required to reset your emotional balance. There is a limit to the height from which you can jump. Parker and I have written many stories of worlds where accurate dosages of emotions are stored in vials for medicinal purposes.
For instance, let us take into consideration the events that I have just relayed. The naturally occurring levels of embarrassment caused by the fall down the stairs would become the ‘sickness’. The antidote for which was fear and relief all at once. Within my stories I chose the medical formula as (F²+R). One shot of (F²+R) would totally eliminate the symptoms of E³°°, or embarrassment as we better know it! Thus you would be free of your sickness! If only the world were that simple.
Parker and I got to thinking. We discussed how the antidotes do not necessarily need to be created with physical acts. Perhaps the same emotional reset could be obtained by emotionally exerting yourself to an extreme extent. Such an extent that you may rid yourself of sicknesses such as heartache ((H¾ +A¼)³°°) or grief (Gf²) , through injections of love. (There is no formula for love yet). Imagine how the world would be changed. There would be rather special, emotionally resilient individuals sent out to harvest human emotion for the benefit of those that could afford the relief.
I shall publish my stories on the matter soon. In the mean time I have added two poems about love the most curious of all emotions.
Have a wonderful weekend!
Love Spirit aka Li’l Literati.
For you:
The Kiss
I’ll tell you why I cannot kiss you,
For I would then want all of you.
Your heart, your soul and your time.
I would want your forever to be mine.
I just cannot kiss you,
As it will never be enough!
I’ll dream of you and eternity and unrequited love.
I’ll dream of what could have been,
And desires that never found a place
I’ll imagine that kiss forever,
A lonely forever…what a waste!
I’ll puncture my heart with sorrows
And bleed tears of could have been,
I’ll un-act that kiss for now
The kiss that should have been.
Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009
©.Spirit de la Mare. London 2010
Poetry in motion
To the wordsmith, from the poet:
A muse, a wordsmith.
Every one of your words a perfect kiss.
Regret would only fall if I were to miss this.
Guilty pleasures,
Read verses on dreams that fight my sombre tones.
Poetry in motion need never be alone.
Forbidden fruits of Eden,
Within one kiss, I’m reminded of my freedom.
Kiss a secret kiss,
Touch a secret touch.
Worlds collide and some align,
As beating hands make love.
It is only in fearlessness,
We are ever truly free.
Break from the shackles of heartache,
And know what it means to see.
Love favours the bold.
Breathe…
Jump in…
Always with a hand to hold.
Jump in…
Kiss him!
With fearlessness and courage,
We win the battle with sin.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 14/10/09
©.Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
On occasion I do things that I know may be detrimental to my well being or damaging to my emotional state. Often my plunging into this pool of error and misjudgement is entirely intentional. I am fully aware of how ridiculous this may sound but often it is essential. I am also aware that in declaring such curious behaviour, I may be dismissed as a crazy individual with a desire or lust for self destruction. I therefore must explain my experimentation and use of error and emotion, for medicinal purposes.
This bizarre process all began when I was a child. I was at school climbing the flight of stairs that lead up to my English class. At the bottom of the never ending staircase (or so it seemed) was a busy hall, filled with students racing to their classrooms. All of a sudden I lost my footing and stumbled onto my bottom, which lead to me being on my back. Before I knew it I was rolling and flip-flopping down the stairs like a slinky! As If the accident itself wasn’t embarrassing enough, I rolled in such a way that my skirt kept rising and rising until I finally reached the bottom. By that point not only was I bruised, but half undressed and totally humiliated by the whole ordeal.
When I returned home my Mother said as mothers do, that it would be fine and I would forget it all in time. I remember even at this point feeling that this wasn’t enough. My Mother bought me my first fountain pen in attempt to compensate for this event. (Parker).
I suffered two whole weeks of the crippling stomach aches and pangs that walked with me to school each morning. Two weeks of worrying and lack of sleep whilst I lay replaying the event in my head, over and over. Two whole weeks of wishing I had never got up that morning. (Please bare in mind I was only a child, so falling down the stairs really was quite an ordeal! Also this was a turning point in the way that I thought about emotions, so perhaps it seemed more poignant than it would do to another individual.)
Two weeks and three days later, Parker and I were out in the woods collecting inspiration. Back then it usually came in the form of worms and bugs and bits of flowers which would later be turned into a fabulous potion. Parker and I ventured up a large tree, putting my well practiced climbing technique to the test, as the tree was bigger than any I had climbed before. We sat and stared at the ground, which seemed further and further away the longer we stayed up there. I suddenly became very aware that the descent was virtually impossible. After much deliberation I decided that the only way down was to jump! I put Parker back in his holster and wiggled off the brunch, free falling to the forest floor.
It was the most terrifying act I had ever known up until that point in time. My heart was racing, my adrenaline pumping, my thoughts in a chaos. Thoughts of what I could have done to myself, the injuries I could have endured, where I could have landed. My body was filled with fear and relief all at once. I looked up to see the branch I had been sitting on. My eyes then wandered down the tree in amazement at how far I had fallen. I noticed my foot prints in the semi-moist soil at the base of the tree. Most of all I noticed the absence of the stomach aches and pangs. I had sure enough scared embarrassment away with a mixed dose of fear and relief. The measure of adrenalin that was released due to the fall on the stairs was completely over run by a higher dose, released by the jump. To my innocent and slightly bemused mind the world of emotions finally made sense. I had finally figured out a way of processing such things. Not only this but I felt at the time that I had discovered an antidote! I figured therefore that the way to deal with emotions was with other emotions. The way to deal with a bad emotion was to create an event which would stimulate a more powerful feeling. A feeling that would in turn over run your negative essence. I had hacked into the system and discovered all the answers.
The trouble comes with the ever increasing dosages that are required to reset your emotional balance. There is a limit to the height from which you can jump. Parker and I have written many stories of worlds where accurate dosages of emotions are stored in vials for medicinal purposes.
For instance, let us take into consideration the events that I have just relayed. The naturally occurring levels of embarrassment caused by the fall down the stairs would become the ‘sickness’. The antidote for which was fear and relief all at once. Within my stories I chose the medical formula as (F²+R). One shot of (F²+R) would totally eliminate the symptoms of E³°°, or embarrassment as we better know it! Thus you would be free of your sickness! If only the world were that simple.
Parker and I got to thinking. We discussed how the antidotes do not necessarily need to be created with physical acts. Perhaps the same emotional reset could be obtained by emotionally exerting yourself to an extreme extent. Such an extent that you may rid yourself of sicknesses such as heartache ((H¾ +A¼)³°°) or grief (Gf²) , through injections of love. (There is no formula for love yet). Imagine how the world would be changed. There would be rather special, emotionally resilient individuals sent out to harvest human emotion for the benefit of those that could afford the relief.
I shall publish my stories on the matter soon. In the mean time I have added two poems about love the most curious of all emotions.
Have a wonderful weekend!
Love Spirit aka Li’l Literati.
For you:
The Kiss
I’ll tell you why I cannot kiss you,
For I would then want all of you.
Your heart, your soul and your time.
I would want your forever to be mine.
I just cannot kiss you,
As it will never be enough!
I’ll dream of you and eternity and unrequited love.
I’ll dream of what could have been,
And desires that never found a place
I’ll imagine that kiss forever,
A lonely forever…what a waste!
I’ll puncture my heart with sorrows
And bleed tears of could have been,
I’ll un-act that kiss for now
The kiss that should have been.
Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009
©.Spirit de la Mare. London 2010
Poetry in motion
To the wordsmith, from the poet:
A muse, a wordsmith.
Every one of your words a perfect kiss.
Regret would only fall if I were to miss this.
Guilty pleasures,
Read verses on dreams that fight my sombre tones.
Poetry in motion need never be alone.
Forbidden fruits of Eden,
Within one kiss, I’m reminded of my freedom.
Kiss a secret kiss,
Touch a secret touch.
Worlds collide and some align,
As beating hands make love.
It is only in fearlessness,
We are ever truly free.
Break from the shackles of heartache,
And know what it means to see.
Love favours the bold.
Breathe…
Jump in…
Always with a hand to hold.
Jump in…
Kiss him!
With fearlessness and courage,
We win the battle with sin.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 14/10/09
©.Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Thursday 12 August 2010
The Sinister Malfunction
Parker is my pen and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
The storm yesterday night had cleared the air, enough to smell the change. However, London like a sick addicted quickly reverted to sucking on exhaust pipes, guzzling chemical laden sewage into her heavy vein like streets. Her heart, as always was the worst effected. London puffed away dragging us all down with her, shunning morals or a helping hand. The buses tore through the land like war horses, as did the people. The world up turned and morally bleak, the land barren! Small patches of shrubbery burst through where there was still enough light to survive. The children outside screamed as they were pulled down into a life of addictive self-destruction and misadventure. Desperately trying to keep themselves from dying in a war torn world of sinister malfunction.
The urban pirates recruited them young, ensuring their infant eyes would bare witness to horrific violence, which they could later use as an excuse for their own barbaric condition. A sick monopoly to demonstrate years of frustration. Even the immoral heart of this great city cries for the children lost to blame. For the pirates themselves were blamed once and so the torch must be passed.
The veins of the city burst into a circus of blood spilt and rage. Condemnation and savagery haunt hollowed out hills. Creativity together with a more than adequate passion lies dormant, silenced by the steady marching of soldiers through their thoughts.
London went to war, as did the world. So swiftly ensuring the battle back home.
Parker and I got to thinking about those that get left behind. Those than never chose to fight, but loved some one that did. Those that bare the scars of war, having not even been there. Those that did not volunteer for this perpetuation of hate.
Parker in hand and words in sight,
I blocked out the chaos,
And began to write.
The Devil and the dancer.
Part 1
Your pounding feet,
To a false and even beat.
Contrasting that of my passionate soul.
No soldier here,
I march without control.
The faster I run,
My love does too.
The faster my mind forgets about you.
You took from me,
All my lush greenery,
Stole what you could,
To leave barren land.
But green grows freely…
…as you march on the sand!
You aimed to leave a desert,
And stop me being free.
You rob the earth,
As you robbed me.
You glorified killings,
Blood thirsty and highly strung.
I create and nourish life.
As you embrace your gun!
Remember forever my soldier,
What could have been.
Life instead of blood,
And all the blanks filled in.
Green filled the scene as we made plans,
I prised guns of destruction from your angry hands!
And I’m no soldier,
But still I disarmed.
As you walked… I ran!
As you fought…I just am!
Part 2
Pity and promises,
Blisters and lust,
Animals hunt, as you feel you must.
Sand filled shoes and blood shot eyes.
The demise of a hero, as you kill for lies!
Does this action define who you are?
Gunpowder glory on a fallen star!
Nourished with food,
Laid on by the Devil,
Drink bloodied water,
Not for love…
…but a meddle!
Sick and weary,
You march to the drum.
Personify bravery and blast away scum!
Killing the children that never got to be.
When bullet hits mother,
Just who is it you see?
Pounding and aching,
Screams of pain.
Your poisoned heart and face of shame.
Lands weep tears of blood,
As sands try to cover them up.
As you took…I gave.
As I am King…you are slave.
Part 3
Often angels fall,
Some are born in hell.
Where life once bloomed;
A carcass, where u fell.
Did you ever stop to question why?
Reason free from passion
Death in place of you and I.
Dead without the tree,
That gave shelter from the sun.
You take life before its birth.
And then smile, as though you’ve won!
March on the land,
That gave you life.
Gave you your freedom,
And gave you your wife.
Insult and injury,
And death in turn.
Honour and respect…
… is something you earn!
Part 4
I see you,
I see dew drops,
You see nothing as you take your shot.
Can you face the heartache,
When the bloodbath stops?
As the green nurtures me
I nurture too.
The best or the worst of life,
Its me or you.
For every drop of blood,
I’ll heel a seed in the dust.
In amazement we’ll stand,
As rose buds form within the harshest of lands.
The world meanders on,
Your gun in time will rust,
You rushed to kill,
Its that I cannot trust.
You take life so freely,
How different is mine?
Your killing us both,
Whilst your lost in time.
You shot yourself in the foot,
As you lost your soul somewhere,
The darkest days of dishonour.
Even your evil ran for cover…
… and left you there.
Remember when it rains,
It’s for you those tears are for.
You took everything,
Yet still bury for more.
Wash away your lust for hate,
And question what it is your dead for.
Drown in the sand, where I once held your hand,
Smell the roses where there once were plans.
Part 5
The chaos of tragedy,
Can you feel or heel at all?
Salty tears on blistered fingers,
Oh how the mighty fall.
Blasted cradles into sand dunes,
The truth you laid to rest.
Walk away with your head held high,
And claim you did your best.
This war that your fighting,
Is it not your own?
When you return home; still fighting,
In your head alone.
Days on end with just the sand,
Hidden in shoes and pockets,
As it flees the land!
The land claimed with the blood of others.
Crystal tears and the hearts of lovers.
You went to find yourself,
And didn’t like what you saw
So you left him in hell.
To remind you…
… what is you fought for!
Part 6
Your tracking and back-tracking
Made paths in the sand
Pathways to Hell in a broken land.
A rusty gun in a sinners hand.
As others left in death,
You yielded a crop of regret.
In seeing a self you cannot forget.
For it’s in that desert, you’ll live forever.
Where once there was greenery,
And we were together.
What a dishonour, in your right to fight,
Broken bones built broken homes.
Embedded in your head, though out of sight.
Where there once were moments,
Just memories and scars.
Dead and forgotten,
The life that should’ve been ours.
I flood the desert with a heartache,
That you’ll never know.
I wish for the you,
I used to know.
And I’m no soldier,
But still I disarm,
Within this war…
…‘twas your love that did the most harm!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009.
From the collection ‘Loved up & Let Down’.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2009.
The storm yesterday night had cleared the air, enough to smell the change. However, London like a sick addicted quickly reverted to sucking on exhaust pipes, guzzling chemical laden sewage into her heavy vein like streets. Her heart, as always was the worst effected. London puffed away dragging us all down with her, shunning morals or a helping hand. The buses tore through the land like war horses, as did the people. The world up turned and morally bleak, the land barren! Small patches of shrubbery burst through where there was still enough light to survive. The children outside screamed as they were pulled down into a life of addictive self-destruction and misadventure. Desperately trying to keep themselves from dying in a war torn world of sinister malfunction.
The urban pirates recruited them young, ensuring their infant eyes would bare witness to horrific violence, which they could later use as an excuse for their own barbaric condition. A sick monopoly to demonstrate years of frustration. Even the immoral heart of this great city cries for the children lost to blame. For the pirates themselves were blamed once and so the torch must be passed.
The veins of the city burst into a circus of blood spilt and rage. Condemnation and savagery haunt hollowed out hills. Creativity together with a more than adequate passion lies dormant, silenced by the steady marching of soldiers through their thoughts.
London went to war, as did the world. So swiftly ensuring the battle back home.
Parker and I got to thinking about those that get left behind. Those than never chose to fight, but loved some one that did. Those that bare the scars of war, having not even been there. Those that did not volunteer for this perpetuation of hate.
Parker in hand and words in sight,
I blocked out the chaos,
And began to write.
The Devil and the dancer.
Part 1
Your pounding feet,
To a false and even beat.
Contrasting that of my passionate soul.
No soldier here,
I march without control.
The faster I run,
My love does too.
The faster my mind forgets about you.
You took from me,
All my lush greenery,
Stole what you could,
To leave barren land.
But green grows freely…
…as you march on the sand!
You aimed to leave a desert,
And stop me being free.
You rob the earth,
As you robbed me.
You glorified killings,
Blood thirsty and highly strung.
I create and nourish life.
As you embrace your gun!
Remember forever my soldier,
What could have been.
Life instead of blood,
And all the blanks filled in.
Green filled the scene as we made plans,
I prised guns of destruction from your angry hands!
And I’m no soldier,
But still I disarmed.
As you walked… I ran!
As you fought…I just am!
Part 2
Pity and promises,
Blisters and lust,
Animals hunt, as you feel you must.
Sand filled shoes and blood shot eyes.
The demise of a hero, as you kill for lies!
Does this action define who you are?
Gunpowder glory on a fallen star!
Nourished with food,
Laid on by the Devil,
Drink bloodied water,
Not for love…
…but a meddle!
Sick and weary,
You march to the drum.
Personify bravery and blast away scum!
Killing the children that never got to be.
When bullet hits mother,
Just who is it you see?
Pounding and aching,
Screams of pain.
Your poisoned heart and face of shame.
Lands weep tears of blood,
As sands try to cover them up.
As you took…I gave.
As I am King…you are slave.
Part 3
Often angels fall,
Some are born in hell.
Where life once bloomed;
A carcass, where u fell.
Did you ever stop to question why?
Reason free from passion
Death in place of you and I.
Dead without the tree,
That gave shelter from the sun.
You take life before its birth.
And then smile, as though you’ve won!
March on the land,
That gave you life.
Gave you your freedom,
And gave you your wife.
Insult and injury,
And death in turn.
Honour and respect…
… is something you earn!
Part 4
I see you,
I see dew drops,
You see nothing as you take your shot.
Can you face the heartache,
When the bloodbath stops?
As the green nurtures me
I nurture too.
The best or the worst of life,
Its me or you.
For every drop of blood,
I’ll heel a seed in the dust.
In amazement we’ll stand,
As rose buds form within the harshest of lands.
The world meanders on,
Your gun in time will rust,
You rushed to kill,
Its that I cannot trust.
You take life so freely,
How different is mine?
Your killing us both,
Whilst your lost in time.
You shot yourself in the foot,
As you lost your soul somewhere,
The darkest days of dishonour.
Even your evil ran for cover…
… and left you there.
Remember when it rains,
It’s for you those tears are for.
You took everything,
Yet still bury for more.
Wash away your lust for hate,
And question what it is your dead for.
Drown in the sand, where I once held your hand,
Smell the roses where there once were plans.
Part 5
The chaos of tragedy,
Can you feel or heel at all?
Salty tears on blistered fingers,
Oh how the mighty fall.
Blasted cradles into sand dunes,
The truth you laid to rest.
Walk away with your head held high,
And claim you did your best.
This war that your fighting,
Is it not your own?
When you return home; still fighting,
In your head alone.
Days on end with just the sand,
Hidden in shoes and pockets,
As it flees the land!
The land claimed with the blood of others.
Crystal tears and the hearts of lovers.
You went to find yourself,
And didn’t like what you saw
So you left him in hell.
To remind you…
… what is you fought for!
Part 6
Your tracking and back-tracking
Made paths in the sand
Pathways to Hell in a broken land.
A rusty gun in a sinners hand.
As others left in death,
You yielded a crop of regret.
In seeing a self you cannot forget.
For it’s in that desert, you’ll live forever.
Where once there was greenery,
And we were together.
What a dishonour, in your right to fight,
Broken bones built broken homes.
Embedded in your head, though out of sight.
Where there once were moments,
Just memories and scars.
Dead and forgotten,
The life that should’ve been ours.
I flood the desert with a heartache,
That you’ll never know.
I wish for the you,
I used to know.
And I’m no soldier,
But still I disarm,
Within this war…
…‘twas your love that did the most harm!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009.
From the collection ‘Loved up & Let Down’.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2009.
Above: Image of London taken by Spirit de la Mare aka Li'l Literati. London 2010.
Wednesday 11 August 2010
Just an echo of events past
Parker is my pen and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
At first there was silence, my body as still as the air. However one by one the thoughts marched in, polluting the calm and robbing me of the quite. With a Fagin taught, pick-pocketing perfection they came and they went. The thoughts; they marched like soldiers on a mission. I thought of flower beds and how much damage a booted foot can do! The air began to feel thick, like an invisible syrup pouring into lungs that are already full! The lights became bright and the frustration became whole! There was a storm gaining considerable momentum outside. The rain hit my paper thin windows, sounding as though it were doing so within my own head. The wind mocked me for even believing that silence can co exist with creativity. My mind began to spin with a thousand words shortly followed by a flood of questions. The questions then multiplied like bacteria, the concepts bred and fed them still. I leapt out of bed in a somewhat panicked fluster, only to find Parker already waiting at my desk. I furiously scribbled and blotted and sketched in an attempt to ease the chaos, to which I had now become so accustomed. This ritual had now become medicinal, working as a sleeping aid. The process inducing sleep far more adequately than valeriana officinalis ever could.
I got to thinking about time…
I wrote this for you:
Tick Tock
An ever ticking clock.
Orbits like cupped hands filled with abounding treasure.
Each orb; a note within a symphony of inspired dedication,
Rotating in harmonious splendour.
Surely more than a series of chance encounters?
More than a haphazard mistake, that birthed an accidental perfection.
Within such an epic rendition; a union of minds,
A marriage of thoughts, within this ever blazing furnace of time.
But how this solace becomes superfluous,
In comparison to such enormity.
Just an echo of events past,
Rebounding off the invisible mirrors of fate.
For as I drown in moments of my own,
Great oceans shift and alternate worlds align.
An ever ticking clock, or never ending time!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2008.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2008.
At first there was silence, my body as still as the air. However one by one the thoughts marched in, polluting the calm and robbing me of the quite. With a Fagin taught, pick-pocketing perfection they came and they went. The thoughts; they marched like soldiers on a mission. I thought of flower beds and how much damage a booted foot can do! The air began to feel thick, like an invisible syrup pouring into lungs that are already full! The lights became bright and the frustration became whole! There was a storm gaining considerable momentum outside. The rain hit my paper thin windows, sounding as though it were doing so within my own head. The wind mocked me for even believing that silence can co exist with creativity. My mind began to spin with a thousand words shortly followed by a flood of questions. The questions then multiplied like bacteria, the concepts bred and fed them still. I leapt out of bed in a somewhat panicked fluster, only to find Parker already waiting at my desk. I furiously scribbled and blotted and sketched in an attempt to ease the chaos, to which I had now become so accustomed. This ritual had now become medicinal, working as a sleeping aid. The process inducing sleep far more adequately than valeriana officinalis ever could.
I got to thinking about time…
I wrote this for you:
Tick Tock
An ever ticking clock.
Orbits like cupped hands filled with abounding treasure.
Each orb; a note within a symphony of inspired dedication,
Rotating in harmonious splendour.
Surely more than a series of chance encounters?
More than a haphazard mistake, that birthed an accidental perfection.
Within such an epic rendition; a union of minds,
A marriage of thoughts, within this ever blazing furnace of time.
But how this solace becomes superfluous,
In comparison to such enormity.
Just an echo of events past,
Rebounding off the invisible mirrors of fate.
For as I drown in moments of my own,
Great oceans shift and alternate worlds align.
An ever ticking clock, or never ending time!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2008.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2008.
Above: A page showing Tick Tock in print.
Taken from a collection of poems called:
'Poetic Justice, Politics-Pride & Purgatory.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li'L Literati. London 2008.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2008.
Monday 9 August 2010
Paradise Found
Parker is my friend and trusty side kick, together we will change the world!
Once again Parker and I trudged the city streets, weaving through the living, tho' not one of them was alive. We ventured further afoot than we usually do, not that one area of London particularly differs from the other. A fevered repetition of aching hearts and sorry souls. We walked for miles, my soles nearly worn right down. Our journey had to be cut short, as walking bare foot would certainly have encouraged that well known heart ache to set in! On the way back to camp we were confronted by urban pirates with gold teeth and daggers. Parker and I knew what had to be done. I flickered my eyes in the direction of my worn down boots, my miniature copy of Paradise Lost just peering out from beneath a woollen sock! I could feel Parker trembling in my holster.
As swift as Oscar Wilde’s whit ;I plunged my hand straight down the side of my leg, grabbing my book with my writing hand. The Pirates stood in disbelief and confusion. Through his own words Milton was conjured and ready to assist. Armed with apostrophe and rhyme we were to fight these sorry creatures. I threw an apostrophe in their direction, as one would spin a boomerang. It very tidily knocked one greedy dagger from an angry hand. We threw rhyme and verse in a well rehearsed response to this madness but the pirates were standing strong. John now balancing on a crumbling wall to my right shouted in a slightly panicked tone:
“ L’Allegro “, L’Allegro.”
I knew instantly his train of thought. Both lovers of music as well as word, we hit hard the faces of misery with a melodic might. Gold teeth now resonating, the pirate’s hands lost grip. Blood hungry daggers forced to the floor, blinded by insight, as Milton himself was in his earthly life! Shocked and shaking like a tuning folk finding a vibration; the pirates ran for their lives and their supper. I turned to John and thanked him without words, as he then became them.
I wrote this for us:
London
Thrown into the pits of hell,
Ravished by flesh eating hounds,
Devoured by sorrow’s serpents,
A place called Lost and Found.
Putrid roads soaked in death,
Gold teeth and daggers but guns are best!
Blood filled waters sipped like wine,
Supposed freedom and rights divine.
A dancing temptress and lustful queens,
Dirty boys with dirtier dreams,
A people plagued solitude and tumored minds,
Death breeds death, as the blind lead the blind.
Dance with the minions, then laugh when they fall,
Make you punish yourself; the worst pun’shment of all.
Welcome to the pits of hell, even God can’t save you now.
Tread carefully my dear…
…in glorious London town!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009
Poem from 'Poetic Justice -Politics, Pride & Purgatory.
A selection of nursery rhymes for adults
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2009.
Once again Parker and I trudged the city streets, weaving through the living, tho' not one of them was alive. We ventured further afoot than we usually do, not that one area of London particularly differs from the other. A fevered repetition of aching hearts and sorry souls. We walked for miles, my soles nearly worn right down. Our journey had to be cut short, as walking bare foot would certainly have encouraged that well known heart ache to set in! On the way back to camp we were confronted by urban pirates with gold teeth and daggers. Parker and I knew what had to be done. I flickered my eyes in the direction of my worn down boots, my miniature copy of Paradise Lost just peering out from beneath a woollen sock! I could feel Parker trembling in my holster.
As swift as Oscar Wilde’s whit ;I plunged my hand straight down the side of my leg, grabbing my book with my writing hand. The Pirates stood in disbelief and confusion. Through his own words Milton was conjured and ready to assist. Armed with apostrophe and rhyme we were to fight these sorry creatures. I threw an apostrophe in their direction, as one would spin a boomerang. It very tidily knocked one greedy dagger from an angry hand. We threw rhyme and verse in a well rehearsed response to this madness but the pirates were standing strong. John now balancing on a crumbling wall to my right shouted in a slightly panicked tone:
“ L’Allegro “, L’Allegro.”
I knew instantly his train of thought. Both lovers of music as well as word, we hit hard the faces of misery with a melodic might. Gold teeth now resonating, the pirate’s hands lost grip. Blood hungry daggers forced to the floor, blinded by insight, as Milton himself was in his earthly life! Shocked and shaking like a tuning folk finding a vibration; the pirates ran for their lives and their supper. I turned to John and thanked him without words, as he then became them.
I wrote this for us:
London
Thrown into the pits of hell,
Ravished by flesh eating hounds,
Devoured by sorrow’s serpents,
A place called Lost and Found.
Putrid roads soaked in death,
Gold teeth and daggers but guns are best!
Blood filled waters sipped like wine,
Supposed freedom and rights divine.
A dancing temptress and lustful queens,
Dirty boys with dirtier dreams,
A people plagued solitude and tumored minds,
Death breeds death, as the blind lead the blind.
Dance with the minions, then laugh when they fall,
Make you punish yourself; the worst pun’shment of all.
Welcome to the pits of hell, even God can’t save you now.
Tread carefully my dear…
…in glorious London town!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009
Poem from 'Poetic Justice -Politics, Pride & Purgatory.
A selection of nursery rhymes for adults
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2009.
'Wait'
Photograph by Spirit de la Mare aka Li'l Literati.
C. Spirit de la mare 2009.
Friday 6 August 2010
Speaking of matters I will not give breath...
Parker is my pen and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
Parker and I were unable to sleep yet again. I wandered in and out of every room in the house. We rested in the library diving into books and through poetic verse. We ridiculed all the sleeping soldiers for missing out on the bliss that comes when the moon is this fat. We dabbled in Dickens and wandered through Shakespearean settings. Played with the imagination of Pullman and then finally we came to Blake. My Favourite of all the honoured masters. Parker and I spoke with Blake for many a moonlit moment. We discussed the future, the reality of emotion, the universe and our beliefs. We discussed love. He spoke of his wife Sophia and the drawings he made of her. We discussed how love can make a hero out of dust. Parker and I learned how important it is to take a chance.
I wrote this for you:
Note to a Lover
May forever this passion flare,
Even as Time himself, steels all but our last gasps of air.
‘tis for you and only you, this aching heart beats true.
May forever such an ache be whole,
Even if circumstance may take it’s toll.
May you know my love, ‘till your dying day.
Within your heart for eternity; this passion stay!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Parker and I were unable to sleep yet again. I wandered in and out of every room in the house. We rested in the library diving into books and through poetic verse. We ridiculed all the sleeping soldiers for missing out on the bliss that comes when the moon is this fat. We dabbled in Dickens and wandered through Shakespearean settings. Played with the imagination of Pullman and then finally we came to Blake. My Favourite of all the honoured masters. Parker and I spoke with Blake for many a moonlit moment. We discussed the future, the reality of emotion, the universe and our beliefs. We discussed love. He spoke of his wife Sophia and the drawings he made of her. We discussed how love can make a hero out of dust. Parker and I learned how important it is to take a chance.
I wrote this for you:
Note to a Lover
May forever this passion flare,
Even as Time himself, steels all but our last gasps of air.
‘tis for you and only you, this aching heart beats true.
May forever such an ache be whole,
Even if circumstance may take it’s toll.
May you know my love, ‘till your dying day.
Within your heart for eternity; this passion stay!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2009
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Above: Photograph of William Blake's stone at Bunhill burial ground in London. He is actually buried under a tree not far from this marker.
Photograph by Spirit de la Mare aka Li'L Literati.London 2009
One in a series called 'The Sickness'.
C. Spirit de la Mare 2010.
Thursday 5 August 2010
No rest for the wicked
Parker is my pen and trusty sidekick , together we will change the world!
The tide of rush hour traffic ensures silence is forever at bay. The noise comes to be in time with your heart beat. Or is it your heart that keeps in time with the city? The fury and the rush of the soldiers outside, pounding to the beat of the streets, and so the beat of my drum. Heart in tune and brain in gear. Parker and I ventured into the swamps of sorry drunks that use the park benches as their beds. Every day I pass the same group of fallen soldiers, repeating their actions day after day. For them the fact that another day has past seems irrelevant for next will be exactly the same. They never question why, or seem to wonder how it happened. They just do what they are told by this great city. The ghosts of who they once were now devoured by the war. The war that they just were not strong enough to win! The brightest flowers of all grow beside the benches they call home. It is as though Mother Nature herself places them there to commemorate the men they once were! Parker and I find it hard to watch. The poor souls devoured by their demons.
A key
There were 33 in the air that day,
7 more in the park.
There were 21 on the bus today,
And 20 more in the dark.
I met him twice before,
On a strip of gravel lit ground,
I knew others from the past,
And some from lost and found.
I’d seen most of the worst,
At the worst possible times.
I knew the best of the worst
And the worst of the best crimes.
I heard them chatter often.
Boils burned in midday hate,
They ridiculed love for names sake,
For there comrades they sit and wait.
For never do they come alone
But as a troop or army would.
Burn the mind’s land like fire.
Like only the demons could.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2010
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2010
(Please note the numbers are for use later!)
The tide of rush hour traffic ensures silence is forever at bay. The noise comes to be in time with your heart beat. Or is it your heart that keeps in time with the city? The fury and the rush of the soldiers outside, pounding to the beat of the streets, and so the beat of my drum. Heart in tune and brain in gear. Parker and I ventured into the swamps of sorry drunks that use the park benches as their beds. Every day I pass the same group of fallen soldiers, repeating their actions day after day. For them the fact that another day has past seems irrelevant for next will be exactly the same. They never question why, or seem to wonder how it happened. They just do what they are told by this great city. The ghosts of who they once were now devoured by the war. The war that they just were not strong enough to win! The brightest flowers of all grow beside the benches they call home. It is as though Mother Nature herself places them there to commemorate the men they once were! Parker and I find it hard to watch. The poor souls devoured by their demons.
A key
There were 33 in the air that day,
7 more in the park.
There were 21 on the bus today,
And 20 more in the dark.
I met him twice before,
On a strip of gravel lit ground,
I knew others from the past,
And some from lost and found.
I’d seen most of the worst,
At the worst possible times.
I knew the best of the worst
And the worst of the best crimes.
I heard them chatter often.
Boils burned in midday hate,
They ridiculed love for names sake,
For there comrades they sit and wait.
For never do they come alone
But as a troop or army would.
Burn the mind’s land like fire.
Like only the demons could.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. London 2010
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2010
(Please note the numbers are for use later!)
Above: A photograph by Spirit de la Mare aka Li'L Literati. London 2009
From a series: 'War in Allegro'.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Also of note:
www.bringontheink.com
www.spiritdelamare.blogspot.com
Wednesday 4 August 2010
The Missing
Parker is my pen and trusty side-kick, together we will change the world.
I was rudely awaken by those without morals or understanding. I was torn so furiously from the page of an epic dream and catapulted into reality with brute force. I was annoyed to say the least, for the dream could have become a story, and the story a legend. However I shall never know the ending, the story now lost into a spiritual plane of imaginings and wishful thoughts. The same place where all the ‘should have been’ moments hover, together with the ‘whish I had done’ actions. A place so riddled with regret and disappointment that even the most poignant of stories may wilt and die all together. In this case the dream did die. As I was torn from the world of pillow and ponder the remnants were thrown into another place altogether. Forever forgotten, lost in the place I call the Missing! Where the strongest of souls undergo a deep process of scarification, as sadness and loss are engraved into their skin. It is not right to miss someone or something this much. The Missing is always prepared for a new arrival, may your loved ones never be a guest within this domain.
So that we never forget the Missing, I wrote this for you:
Billet-doux
Without you, there is but barren land,
An arid desert of coarse dry sand,
A lost lake, the bed cracks with the strain.
A bird without feathers dies within the rain.
You are my truth, that never becomes lies,
And without you here…
Everything dies.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li'l Literati.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2009.
I was rudely awaken by those without morals or understanding. I was torn so furiously from the page of an epic dream and catapulted into reality with brute force. I was annoyed to say the least, for the dream could have become a story, and the story a legend. However I shall never know the ending, the story now lost into a spiritual plane of imaginings and wishful thoughts. The same place where all the ‘should have been’ moments hover, together with the ‘whish I had done’ actions. A place so riddled with regret and disappointment that even the most poignant of stories may wilt and die all together. In this case the dream did die. As I was torn from the world of pillow and ponder the remnants were thrown into another place altogether. Forever forgotten, lost in the place I call the Missing! Where the strongest of souls undergo a deep process of scarification, as sadness and loss are engraved into their skin. It is not right to miss someone or something this much. The Missing is always prepared for a new arrival, may your loved ones never be a guest within this domain.
So that we never forget the Missing, I wrote this for you:
Billet-doux
Without you, there is but barren land,
An arid desert of coarse dry sand,
A lost lake, the bed cracks with the strain.
A bird without feathers dies within the rain.
You are my truth, that never becomes lies,
And without you here…
Everything dies.
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li'l Literati.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2009.
Page taken from a book by Spirit de la Mare, aka Li'l Literati.
The book:
'Poetic Justice'
Politics- Pride- Purgatory.
A selection of nursery rhymes for adults.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2009.
Also note:
www.bringontheink.com
www.spiritdelamare.blogspot.com
Tuesday 3 August 2010
It is never Monday that hurts.
Parker is my Friend and trusty sidekick, together we will change the world.
After a weekend of passionate soul searching, mischief making and inspiration seeking; Parker and I are grateful to be home. By home I mean a state of mind. On occasion this beautiful city of London, as with any place can swallow you whole. It is relatively easy to disappear and even forget who you are yourself.
Mondays normally drift by, blanketed in a misty fog of questioning as you are thrown back into the work force with such intense brutality. This may sound a little dramatic to some but Parker and I fully plunge into our own secret world at the weekends. With no obligation to conform to routine or timetables, we are free to wander the city as poets in motion.
The state of mind I have called home, only comes with the clarity of another urban Tuesday. The city is back to being exhausted and the children are back to their friends. The warriors are back to fighting and the heroes are back to their myths. Parker and I are back to writing, back to drawing board…back home!
I wrote this for you:
The warrior philosopher
A warrior within a war of your own,
A philosopher but only when at home,
A hero within your own twisted myth,
An army lost within the thickest of mist.
Once upon a moment,
Life; he rushes by,
Memories of senseless madness,
No bed for you or I.
A warrior within a war of your own,
A philosopher but only when at home,
A hero within your own twisted myth,
An army lost within the thickest of mist.
Once upon a day dream.
I caged my heart in blame.
No more you and me.
Just loss in place of fame.
Bankrupt within a war of your own,
A philosopher without at home,
A tragedy within your own twisted myth,
Alone and lost within the thickest of mist.
By Spirit de la Mare. aka Li'l Literati. London 2010.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
After a weekend of passionate soul searching, mischief making and inspiration seeking; Parker and I are grateful to be home. By home I mean a state of mind. On occasion this beautiful city of London, as with any place can swallow you whole. It is relatively easy to disappear and even forget who you are yourself.
Mondays normally drift by, blanketed in a misty fog of questioning as you are thrown back into the work force with such intense brutality. This may sound a little dramatic to some but Parker and I fully plunge into our own secret world at the weekends. With no obligation to conform to routine or timetables, we are free to wander the city as poets in motion.
The state of mind I have called home, only comes with the clarity of another urban Tuesday. The city is back to being exhausted and the children are back to their friends. The warriors are back to fighting and the heroes are back to their myths. Parker and I are back to writing, back to drawing board…back home!
I wrote this for you:
The warrior philosopher
A warrior within a war of your own,
A philosopher but only when at home,
A hero within your own twisted myth,
An army lost within the thickest of mist.
Once upon a moment,
Life; he rushes by,
Memories of senseless madness,
No bed for you or I.
A warrior within a war of your own,
A philosopher but only when at home,
A hero within your own twisted myth,
An army lost within the thickest of mist.
Once upon a day dream.
I caged my heart in blame.
No more you and me.
Just loss in place of fame.
Bankrupt within a war of your own,
A philosopher without at home,
A tragedy within your own twisted myth,
Alone and lost within the thickest of mist.
By Spirit de la Mare. aka Li'l Literati. London 2010.
C. Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Above: My Desk where I work every day.
Photograph by Spirit de la Mare aka Li'l Literati
C. Spirit de la Mare London 2010.
Also of note:
Monday 2 August 2010
The Horseman of the apocalypse.
Parker is my pen and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
Like the horseman of the apocalypse they charged down the fire escape with blatant disregard for my heavy head and paper thin windows. The family that live next door do not speak a word of English, so there is very little point in trying to communicate with them. I have waved hand gestures, raised eyebrows and conjured words in about as many different accents as you can imagine! Fact is I do not speak Polish, and they do not speak English. I was also unaware that children these days could choose whether to go to school or not. Parker and I became firm friends whilst at boarding school on the coast! If it weren’t for all those intense English classes the Li’l literati that you know and love may never have made it onto your computer screens today. ( I giggle a scholarly giggle)
Parker and I had a chaotic weekend seeking inspiration in the city. After three days of adventure and mischief my inspiration came in the form of a cigarette! I inhaled a large sooty gasp and came out with this:
My Marlboro red
Inhale a Marlboro, always red.
Inhale a thought and keep it within your head!
Inhale the rage,
Keep it all contained.
Take in the trouble and the demands,
Take in the chaos, the noise and charm.
Take in the hatred and waste the time.
On the floor drunk, pretending your fine.
Inhale a Marlboro, always red.
Inhale a thought and keep it within your head.
Inhale the story and the page,
Close the book and keep it contained.
Take in the lust and wishful men,
Take in the rage, ‘cause they’ll do it again.
Take in the poison, and the lies.
Be surprised by nothing, but show your surprise.
Inhale a Marlboro, always red.
Inhale a thought and keep it within your head.
Violated by a world,
That assaults and demeans.
Inhale that Marlboro,
Inhale your dreams.
Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
C. Spirit de la Mare 2010.
Picture by Spirit de la Mare aka. Li'L Literati.
C.Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.
Also of note:
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