I am always behind on the times. I wait until crazes become a little less carzed and then quietly slip into the crowd.

Crocs - once there was a time when I would happy snigger at the army of rainbow clad feet until the eventful day that I borrowed my mum's pair for work and proceeded to spend a day's ages on my own pair without a second thought. Suddenly I was a hypocrite but one with very comfortable feet. (and now very warm one having just purchase a pair with fluffy insides for 30% off at Covent Garden).

I made no comment and neither did anyone else.

And now comes blogging...

Blogs were a way to express my poetry from a world of cultureless imbeciles - the kind to whom you'd breath the word poetry and suddenly the warnings on their fag packs seem worth reading.

For now my poetry lays dormat, whipped into submission by university degree lecturers who weld closed the spontaneous emotional outlet and install arcahic detectors. One did manage to squeeze a finger through the outlet and waggle it around until it caught my attention but I'm over come by a cold so I pushed it back.

Every Sunday the 'Mail' whaps onto our front porch and I find myself inspired by the 'your life' sections. Even 'Liz Jones'Diary' has me gripped every week even though I find myself infuriated by the short-sightedness of the attention-seeking witch who writes it. I find myself thinking "but I still read it...what is she doing right?".

I like to call myself a writer yet recently find myself picking around the basics of my 'screenplay'. Why not blog? Why not express my thoguhts and feelings over this electric mediums. My life is interesting, my thoughts are not banal so why the hell not?

Won't somebody please stop

this pounding

in my head?

It's counting

out the miles

between us two.

Won't somebody please stop

the rain

pattering the leaves?

It's washing

out the green

to make me blue.

My gorgeous Grandpa died on the 16/05/08. His funeral is on Saturday and my grandma asked me to write a poem for the service. I'm already crying so who knows what I'll be like on the day.

It's pretty simple but it's not written for credit or some evoking a particular emotion... it's a shared memory of a wonderful man, sorely missed!

Any Old Man – to my Grandpa John

Some old men are grumpy

Some old men are sad

but my Grandpa was gentle

and gave all he had

to the people who loved him;

all those he loved back.

Some old men totter

along as they moan

but he plodded with purpose

around his bungalow home

while he doted on Peggie

with a patience of stone.

Some old men are selfish,

some nostalgic or cynics

but Grandpa would smile

and with a glint and a kiss

he'd lighten a burden,

with no opportunity missed.

Increasing numbers

are what make men old

but inside John's aging body

was a charmer with a young

fella's soul.

Metronome..:namespace prefix = o />

Keep your pace

as black velvet covers,

caresses your skin;

fingers of the wind.

Your hands stretch out;

searching, twisting,

desperately hoping…

The silence pounds.

Fantasies blur to grey,

as lights suddenly strobe,

head aches, ears reach out

to the pounding drum.

Stressing, straining

to peel back the black.

Is there anything worth seeing?

Bass reverberates

bringing a roar of sound

smell and the constant

longing;

hands stretch out…

If only she were closer

maybe you could catch her,

test the snare and measure

your beat to her rhythm.

All those hands are good for is stretching.

Walking Through the Woods..:namespace prefix = o />

These aspects:

blackberry brambles

choke

saplings and hawthorn

bushes; dense,

tripping

roots

of spiny trees

that poke

rain holes

in clouds,

stripped

by winter's

wandering

whip.

She cackles

'You can keep

your nest on.'

These aspects make

the roofless shed

seem washed

upon a tide

of tangles.

Ivy climbs

the clinging moss

and reaches

out

to the naked frame

of a tethered

vintage

Beetle.

Its bonnet gasps

in screaming shame,

faded primrose

curling

up in pain.

These aspects

illustrate

the state

of a long forgotten

wood.

Fungi fashion

patterns

the fallen

branches

that disintegrate

as I stumble

through the marsh.

The barbed wire fence

should have fallen

yet stands,

twisted

with more snares

than should be there.

These aspects

illustrate

the state

of my mind.

Hey guys, I really appreciate you checking out my work, especially as I've been away so long. I feel twice as bad as I have no time to check out all your blogs so it makesyou reading this twice as special. Cheers, it means a lot...

C x

Brown Paper

A brown

paper

roll

Don't rip

Tear

no holes

Wrap

tightly

Adhere

Paper

brown

Fold

Smooth

down

edges

Keep

precious

protected

Fold me

in brown

paper

Crimson Blasts..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Laughter

taps

my window

as a couple

scurries

past.

The distance

echoes

shrieks

with gold,

green, crimson

blasts.

Voices

rise with

rockets

crossing

the bleak

sky,

I hold

my breath,

lay back

and squeeze

closed

my eye.

The background

pops

and rat-tat-ats,

a boom,

it shakes

my bed.

The shrieks

turn

into screaming

of the injured,

lost,

and dead.

I rise

to tape

the windows,

to extinguish

treacherous

light.

I sleep

down

in the cellar

while fire

claims

the night .

Wonderful Love: to be intoned with a hint of melancholy

What a wonderful thing is love

You with fly and you will fight

You will defend with all your might

You will smile and you will sigh

But most of all you will cry

What a wonderful thing is love

Your heart will bend and it will break

Your heart will bleed until it aches

Your eyes will shine with tears of joy

For gracious girl, beloved boy

What a wonderful thing is love

To hug, to kiss, to caress and so to miss

To fall into their open arms

Or risk the trip into some harm

What a wonderful thing is love

Recently

I've been

Frozen

Like a flower

Within arthritic glacier

As silent

As the waves sound

To a fish

Within the crushing black

A turbulent bird

Tossed

Upon the ebb

Of my emotions

A raincloud

With a reason

To flood

On concrete scarring

Now words

Form a therapy

Brushed along

A silken sheet

Or dancing

On a new breeze

Formed by lips

Warmed by breath

Contained within a gesture

To release me

I went away for a while, but I didn't 'fit' so I came home. This poems away from my usual style but I think it reflects how I felt there, not only lyrically, but by using a jolted form and language.

I Went Away

This town talks of my friendship,

Of stolen teenage kisses,

Ice cream licks, sandcastles,

Seaside dreams and wishes.

I'd mould my friendships

Like the sand.

Emotions ebb and flow

As the turning tide

Seeps my youth deeper

Into the surrounding land.

And the wind embraced

Me freely during

A quest for independence,

Familiarity formed the granite rocks

As a change transcended.

Now the walls are hard and raw,

Cold and unfamiliar.

The road's uneven to my steps

As I search for a comfy crevice,

But faces are strange,

Something's changed

And it's pushing me away.

Shit on me / swear at me / spit on me blood

Mangle me / murder me / spray me with mud

Batter me / bludgeon me / beat me to death

Cry at me / kick at me / cum on my chest

Piss on me / painfully / pervert your play

Dice with me / dick in me / it's a deadly day

Fight with me / fuck with me / a fickle flirt

Who are you / how am I / Whore in the dirt

Love is the Kitchen

Love is the grease trap

Love is the spoon

Love is the system

That keeps the room cool

Love is the brush

Love is the crumbs

Love is the sucking

Of juice off our thumbs

Love is the freezer

Storing our food

Love is mashed potato

And the mountains we build

Love is the caress

Of the pastry I hold

Love is the kettle

Love is the scald

Love is the fork

Aiding the knife

Love is the poking

Love is the slice