vélo-boulot-do-do // other word vomit

vélo boulot do-do
boulot do-do vélo

do vélo do boulot
do boulot do vélo

boulot de vélo
vélo de boulot

boulot de do-do
do-do de boulot

do-do de vélo
vélo de do-do

do lot de boulot
do lot de vélo

love de vélo
love de boulot

love de do
do de love

love de lot
lot de love

do love
love do

love
love

love

lol


a girl around LSE
carries great quantities three
offensive boring dams to
the current of her fighting
walk a snail-trail of droplets
whilst the trees falling sorely
out her hands save the trees don’t
let them go she thought as he
asked to help the dam problem
don’t leave twigs behind don’t mix
leaves up as she searched for her
silent library card


Glowing laptop screen –
my thirsty eyes in search of
a fresh cigarette.


General trivia

It was a few weeks ago that I had the idea of mixing both English and French in a poem, and wowee last night it just appeared out of nowhere from the depths of my difficult slumber. And when I started reading over this patch of unexpected word vomit I broke into a laughing fit, which has also never ever happened to me with regards to my writing. I’ve rarely written something this strange, so please share your thoughts about it with the Noggin.

The events in the second poem did not happen to me personally.

I’m not very good at Haikus. That one there was a last minute addition.


Endnote

Look after yourself and one another.
Take some time on your balcony.

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Ode to Exams / The Balcony

Hello exams.

My old friends.

I know what you do now. You change us.

You grab the frogspawn of the cosy pond and chuck it onto the ground like a bunch of black marbles. You take our friends away with a click of the spiky latch of the door by sucking the air out of their bedrooms; the only syllable I’ll hear from them and not even uttered by a human mouth. Continue reading

I Am A Queen

I am a queen
in a scarlet nail varnish chariot
the shade of No. 168.

My people – mine
because they are seen
by me and are as mine as thine
own vision and curiosity –

do they see
me as an inquisitive
neck, or as a pair
of uncomfortable
wrists and glaring nostrils?

I am a queen off
to the King’s to spend my day
with his walls, lifeless
soldiers and servants

In his chambers. I pay
my courtesies and fulfil
my duties all
for some mere respect

In return. I am lonely
and awake; I must find a way to entertain
myself – play with toys on paper, bruise
my hands with ink – to remember that I am

The Queen
of the greasy crown
and sleepy eye curtains
hooked behind my ears,
of chapped heels
and spring onion
fingernails that hover over my lip

When I am waiting.
Obedient and secret,
like Hermione I am

brut on the face but
blushing. Since 16 years
no carver can slice out
the air singing through
my teeth, no painter can
try my life and sand down
the bones of my muffled interior.

I will wear the amethysts my mother gave me
and invent spells as wonderful as eating.


Also re-wrote Orange with some new line break ideas and extra words. Can’t seem to insert spaces between words on WordPress so here it is in PNG format.

Orange (II)


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The Ultimate Survival Guide for April 2017

Make sure you don’t go to the library.

Make sure you don’t eat your contact lenses.

Make sure your eyes are still watered.

Make sure your skin still flakes off.

Make sure your tongue is still slimy.

Make sure you’re not walking with your hands and elbows.

Make sure your fingernails are still firm and stuck on the tips.

Make sure your voice doesn’t sound like a duet between a stained tupperware box and a mouldy piece of bread.

Make sure your back isn’t bubble-wrap, but if it is make sure you don’t get addicted to popping it.

Make sure you are not petrified by humans.

Make sure you look left, right, up and down.

Make sure you try different costumes.

Make sure your daily alarm is called “Remember, you are not a dustbin nor are you a piece of broken tarmac.”

Make sure you know that the washing machine is not a bathtub.

Make sure your coughs exit the body.

Make sure you are not the fantasy and travel sections of a bookshop.

Make sure you’re not wearing the bathmat as a scarf.

Make sure you brush and floss in time to the music.

Make sure you recognise yourself in the mirror.

Orange

If I held your mind
in my hand
like an M&S orange

I’d press my thumb into the rind
push closer to the pulse
hear the gasp as
it broke and the baby
swirl of smoke coughs
out of the tiny eye

I’d smile at the smell
I knew I’d find

Wouldn’t it be nice
to dig my nails under the white

scoop out the weighty segments
golden and generous (like your laugh)
pull them apart (like tissue sheets)
and place them over my eyes.

Every morning
wake up

to fireflies

 


 

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20th October 2016 – Gloomy Sunday, All Days, Always

I am in a place where I congratulate myself for merely opening my violin case, tuning my strings and fumbling a scale on the fingerboard. If by some miracle I make it any further, my soul seems to shrivel with dissatisfaction and hopelessness into one of those slimy slaves in Ursula’s cave, the name of which is frustratingly hard to find even on such magnanimous search engine like Google.

photo-on-20-10-2016-at-21-22 Continue reading

A gift in Marylebone

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I wish people didn’t visit Oxford Street, for there is little to see that inspires and only stress to be felt under your skin. It is hard to really see any thing when you walk along the pavements because all things that could be seen are blurred by herds of people walking around aimlessly and stubbornly, smudging themselves and all surrounding elements into unnecessary chaos.

It is hard to see Paul at the bottom of the stairs at Bond Street Tube Station, around 17:15 on Friday. He is one tiny, unassuming pebble in the vicious current of rush hour and London shopping mania, easily brushed away and avoided, easily dodged. I walked past him and felt a click in my moral resources* that halted me before I touched in with my Oyster. I wanted to give him some change but I had none on me at the time. Then I remembered that I had organic cookies and chocolate and decided there could be worser alternatives to sweet treats.  Continue reading

April: Postcards from Edinburgh, Glasgow and Strasbourg

Edinburgh – 03.04.16

The clock reads 02:59AM and my train is at 07:33AM, but my mind continues to reel round between my temples the pages of music that I don’t know, and my heartbeat is running away. I have tried every corner of the bed. I’ve crooked my back into countless different angles, spread my arms out under the pillows, listened to the radio, gone to the toilet, drank water …

Processed with VSCO with acg presetGood-morning

Continue reading

The unconditional love of children and other elixirs

Zozo

The tiny doll in pink glasses and bubbly ringlets looked up at me from her chair, with eyes as bright as the light of summer waters. Her two dainty yet hasty hands fluttered at me. I obeyed and crouched down to face-level.
“Hm?” I said. Even closer! said her hands and eyes, so I leaned the side of my head towards her ready to receive the secret. A whispered gift. She moved forward to my ear and curled her hands into a hollow by my cheek. A few seconds of silence; I heard no whisper. Then, from the stillness came the quietest, softest, smallest kiss in the world.

A cherry-blossom petal had fallen and was floating on the water.

Continue reading

A Letter from Strasbourg

photo 5

I want to congeal in a glass case a piece of paralysed Time. In this Time, I will freeze more time, and continue diving into its heart to unearth more sparkling seconds. I want to keep all the milliseconds of taste, emotion and movement, to preserve textures, smells, the angles of the cobbled streets and to dance the rise and fall of the road ahead.

Looking at this glass, admiring it like my own little taxidermic creature, I’d also like to glitter it with something called Joy and Freedom, which I’d describe as a warm weightlessness that overcomes me when I grasp the rhythmic, tonal complexity of a perfectly pronounced French word, fluid and honest in its execution, watch it grace my mouth and tongue and transport a fragment of ‘me’ into the atmosphere that will, at last, be understood and appreciated. Or when the humour and sweetness of friends combines with the delights of French food, Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet and a fruity coffee. Or when, on the way to class, you suddenly can’t help but stand up on the pedals of your bike and sing to yourself, and imagine the old bicycle wheels spinning in a stereo like a cassette tape. Continue reading