Wednesday 26 March 2014


My Bed by Tracey Emin
In utero, slumbering  
budding into fruitful blossom,
I awoke,    here,    in this place,
twixt linens pure, pristine & niveous,
now splattered haemochrome,
cast chaotic, torn of loves labours,
of earthly surrogate.

(She: accoucheuse, fat and hoary,
bites through umbilicus.)  

A birthing,
footling born of chaos
toe dipping into Mother Earth,
I sang of Satan, hailed his glory.

Women wailing 
cluttered into corners,
black in wretched robes of mourning,
mourning my deliverance,
freedom from confines of merest mortal,
accoucheuse bite   and worldly tether torn.

Oh you fools virid of envy,
minds icteritious of greed –
how well you do my work,
feed my lust my hunger 
my want of your destruction,
stoke fires of your eternal hell.

The devils spawn,
I am born of your desire,
you harbingers of the death,
destroyers of all tomorrows, 
how well you do my work!

Do my work,
rape your Earth,
bleed her dry.

I shall spread my wings
fly into your tomorrows,
suck sulphureous sun cerulean skies
into my atrous heart.

(Wings fluttering will cast a storm  
the like you’ve never known.)

Anna :o]

Ooh err – a bit grim innit?  Didn’t know where this was going when I scribbled the first few lines for Magpie Tales, and dVerses latest prompt – The Colour Festival - somehow got rolled in – but the result ended up totally inappropriate for the joyous message of said prompt.

So rolled into the innocence of birth is the chaos theory and global warming…  What are your thoughts on same?  Do you believe our actions today – in raping our planet – will leave an unthinkable legacy to our children and grandchildren – as in the chaos theory?  Do you think climate change is a natural cyclical event (I do) but are scared stiff that mans’ actions will exacerbate/accelerate these changes (I am)?

Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the initial inspiration and Abhra at dVerse (not entered there); also entered at Real Toads – thanks Kerry.

Also entered today (29.3.14) at Open Link Night at dVerse - with thanks to Claudia for hosting.

Images: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons    (1)   (2)
Authors: US Government. (1)     Commander Mark Moran, of the NOAA Aviation Weather Center, and Lt. Phil Eastman and Lt. Dave Demers,  of the NOAA Aircraft Operations Center. (2)

Thursday 13 March 2014


Oh, how he feels it hears it
ticking in his chest (his heart that is)
thumping away
and how he so wants
to ooze onto the floor
likes some greasy mess (he thinks he is),
give in to it as it gnarls into him,
and all he can do is respond to ‘it’
and hammers on the door (the inside of it).

They come those willing saviours –
offer to assist - and all he can do
(in the hell of it ) is scream:
f*ck off as he hammers on the door
(the inside of it).

there is summer in his bones
and his voices give into this…
accept the doves
and he (and they) is at peace with this…

there is naught but f*ck off
and he exists within the hell of it
as he hammers at the door
(the inside of it…).   

Anna :o]

Brian at dVerse has us writing as the blind poet, which is of engaging the senses other than sight.  Above is my offering.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Saturday 1 March 2014


Time is as long and cold as winter here,
bar clock stretching out
each clunking ticking second
as if it were life’s final hour,
There is eternities of silence;
a silence in which to contemplate,
be horrified, be puzzled by
why fate has dealt this cruel blow.

He lies there;
all eighteen stone plus of him,
lost beneath the sheets
as he tries to figure out the unfigurable,
his mind naught but a tangled mess.

Across there–
opposite our lonely frightened giant –
wheelchair accommodates another ragged doll,
left arm lolling over side as dead as hope. 
His right hand clicks on-off brake,
breaks silence,
giving rhythm to his ennui.

His son (who left oh he doesn’t know how long ago)
hears own footfalls splat on shiny floor,
wipes tears away from bleary reddened eyes,
wishes he could turn back that damn ticking clock; 
wishes he could erase his cruel jibes of yesterdays.

Our giant –
now so tiny as to be invisible
sinks into soothing nothings of inertia.

Across from the bay –
almost a million miles away –
the nurses/doctors write their notes,
chunter/chatter, live their lives
as their patients’ yearn, long for
welcome intimacy of spoon-fed slop
dribbling down their drooping mouths,
dream of friendly smiles and friendly words.

Until then,     invisible,
there is only the interminable ticking of the clock.

Anna :o]

Mary at dVerse has us writing of invisibility and my little effort is of observations made yesterday.

Of late I have been a bad girl and not visited, read or commented on everyone entries to dVerse’s excellent prompts, so in a sense I have been partly invisible... 

If I missed you - apologies – but sometimes real life gets in the way and must take priority.  Should be able to read all entries of this prompt – fingers crossed!

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons    
Author: Brakspear