time without consequence

she stares at the mirror and a tired reflection, worn timely thin, stares back. the little lines haven't set deep yet, she knows they will soon but that's fine. she loves the little wrinkles, in fact they look dignified.

it's the lovely length of her hair that she truly despises. 'Honey Blonde', they'd call it. the shade, mellow and comfortable, that could slide around an angry face and give it softness or frame a plain one with plenty of character. the colour of salvation in a stack of pancakes piled ceiling high. the texture of straw that is dull, yet glossy and old, yet soft, fresh and clean. the length of pretty ribbons running through cities of gold, getting stuck in elevator shafts every now and then. the smell, warm and inviting, that her man loved having on his pillow.

with a smile, she picks up the scissors. in an instant her lovely hair is reduced to a messy pile of honey on the bathroom floor.

I haven't the time to put all these posts down,
but I will soon. Come back in 10 days for:

Imaginary Bees
Extreme Voyeurism
Powder puppies
Dead Butterflies

Faint

He wakes with silent screams
The world is swimming in blue black haze
The nightmare reaches up, fold him in
He wakes again at the end of days

Tiny Thoughts

Bathed in light, she sits
Lightly she sits, and bathes
Sitting, she bathes with lights

But the promises are too many to keep
And the keepings are too few to promise

Her eyes are decadent with sickly sweet coffee
Yet, caffe au late could be last thing on your mind

Faraway River

There is a furrow in her brow and its’ getting deeper by the second; she pretends not to notice the thoughts that make it grow. With one wrinkled palm, she smudges her waning, yet dignified grey hair into place and begins down the windy path that bends away from home.

A furrow is also growing in her brain but she never notices it, Cerebrospinal fluid pulses through the deepening ridge and she begins to feel calm for the first time in a while. The ridge on her forehead disappears and one appears on her face, in the form of a smile.

A room full of faceless people is laughing; not a jeering laughter but kind sweet words, but what are they saying? She wants to talk to them but the words are falling all around her, on the mud away from home. One particular woman bears a stark resemblance to… umm… what is it? That child that she once birthed, who? It must be a type of girl. But the word is running and laughing now, how can it easily do that? What strong bones it must have! She can’t catch it so she moves on and tries to tap a shoulder, it vanishes. Funny, she thinks, I was about to say… ? Another word is laughing at her from the floor. Suddenly a gust of wind knocks all the people in the… uh, box shaped place, oh yes room. The people and the room are nowhere around but there’s a cool, blue, transient substance flowing around her ankles. She can’t remember what it’s called and she doesn’t know where that place is uh… um… you know? The place with a warm bed and something to eat? She thinks it begins with an ‘h’. She doesn’t know where else to go, so she sits down in the river bed and waits. She thinks this must the first time her Mother let her out alone; she’s going to be mad when she comes to fetch me from the playground.

The white tufts of cotton disperse in the quickly fading daylight. And back at home, the family still waits patiently for her at the dining table.

Portrait of a Baby

At the age of 15, his bones thickened and his lankiness fleshed out. You could see from his jaw and the curve of his back that he had become a man. He lost the shy smile, it had always been a faint reflection; his mother's benign adoration. Instead his light eyes shone dark with the glow of turgid stirrings from deep with his soul. Still all the life he lives, there's one thing he'll never lose.

The swiftness of thought, the grinding of gears upon gears and chains pulling trains of thought, rushing fast, falling headfirst, tumbling ladders, dodging snakes, running up through fields of mental mind games. He never resists it. It never stops.

But, the clogs, they work fast and the machine, it moves slow. And the train, it runs on but, never in the right direction. He still wants candy, far too often and far too much. And without it, he's a loss. All the books, all the logic, all the knowledge, all the money; all useless as worn inner-wear at a garage sale. All useless if he can't have candy. And too many times a day he's on his knees, "Please Lord, let me always have Candy!"

This was never intended to be so much like Joyce's 'Portrait of  an Artist...', I wasn't even thinking of it when I wrote his but when I read it back I suddenly felt like a plagiarist; he must be a bigger influence on me than I know. If you liked this, please 'like' it below. Read the rest of the blog here.