Tag: love and marriage

What Remains

The legacy of a strong presence, it had been a long time since we had visited a cottage called Cold Place, mud and dust, global spider webs over objects abounded the key turned a faltering mechanism.

A soft creaky push opened the door so heavy it had momentum of it’s own we lit ancient scented candles as we weaved through a cobweb  menagerie of damp furniture toward two gentlemanly high back chairs that faced one another in gloom, with a black leaded fireplace we both sat cold in bold dampness but all the while a buzzing was a niggling away at our senses, profound as if some inevitable awakening was coming to greet us and it did, the fire combusted to life wind broke through, dry rot window frames all that was damp unfurled itself. Dry cobwebs blew sucked by a moving internal vortex the family wished us back.

HOWL

I am the wolf in the sky you’ll hear me when I howl at the moon, I am the supernatural a mother of the night, calling my clan over the mountain tops and echoing in the swoop of the valley below.  I’ll shiver your timbers in Turners Wood, I’ll smash your night with howls to remind you of my rule over you and the hidden kingdom of nature.

New Britain

So I wasn’t  wrong all along the line of thought, the new developments, the crammped spaces in designated areas. Self sufficiency had taken to new highs, we were becoming population heavy the undertakers  couldn’t cope in the middle of civil unrest, the council couldn’t cope to the reaction, to their planning, unfinished housing, shit spinning in empty cement mixers. Everyone now did smell and the dying were dead, so came to pass the small oblong buildings.

They were between the once bright flats they housed the dead where undertakers feared to tread,  this is new Britain, civil destruction society torn and burning a government in retreat MP had fled to hide this country in mutinous madness evil is the mistress
of the turgid toilet of a country where manners ( manners) is the name of a house.

We Don’t Do Love

We don’t do love we just do movements and potions, where once there were emotions, many of the drugs of our times in lines to keep us happy and horrid, the difficult deaths and passionless end, served up
in sensations, in news we do not know a bottom from a top as a cloud passes over at the wrong time, just twenty years inside and I’ll remember the mistake next week. When bringing life back will be too late. 

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