Friday Fancies

The bookcase is still standing and with a bit of luck I'll post a pic later today..

On my to do list today:

1.Looking at bookcase.

2.Re-arranging dust particles from here to there. I'm becoming adept at this.

3.Diving into the laundry basket just for the hell of it. And because clean clothes are running low.

4.Marinating chicken legs for tomorrows feast. Probably whilst watching "Without A Trace" on Ch4. Will have elevated endorphin levels due to guns and handsome Americans so could get messy if the cleaver hits my thumb instead of the drumstick. But that's what being a housewife means. Sacrifice. I soldier on.

5.Will rustle up a few Rock Cakes for John's next week munchbox. Will freeze them of course. Mustn't allow husband's Rock cake collection to plummet. Could be catastrophic for all concerned.

6. Wonder about frocks. Mostly dance type ones on account of I might be going somewhere in June. Long way off, but I excite easily.

7. Rub "Moonflower" cream into my knees. Will no doubt go all the way up. Never know ya luck.

8. Have a Digestive biscuit with my tea at three. Tend to sink mid-afternoon and a little crunchy thing helps. Close eyes shortly after because after an intake of sugar I tend to feel sexually aroused.

9. Change bedding.

10. Look at bookcase.

On the menu today: Meatballs

Angela Through a Smudged Looking Glass

I'm in reflective mode and that isn't always a good sign with me.
But I won't stamp on my natural feelings, I'll just go with the flow or rather lose myself in the torrent and see where I wash up!
I'll write about what's going on in this troubled head of mine, I'll get it all laid down in black on white and then laugh at my middle aged ramblings. Being stroppy after 50 is not a pretty sight, I thought I'd seen the last of that when my final pimple burst in 1972. But no, I still get swallowed up with insecurities and fears, still manage to mess up every single thing I lay my gnarled hands on and still manage to piss off those that love me most. And I still get spots as well.
Life's a mean old cow sometimes.

The thing about being a 'writer' is that it gives you a way to express your feelings, a life jacket if you like, even a safety net in which to crawl, my writing buoy has saved me on many occasion, often turning to the blackest ink at two in the morning and the reddest felt tip pen at two in the afternoon.
Yes indeedy, penning it all out is a great relief.

So what calamity has brought me into my untidy office?
I'm not really sure.
Or am I?

It might be the after effects of doing half a days work on Monday, (yes I've got a little job) or it might be my empty heart and capacious mouth that yearn to be filled with tenderness and tongues. Of course it might just be hormones. But since I passed 50 I've felt strangely alive, not for me the signs of inbalance and or madness, I don't want to go trekking in Tibet neither do I want a young lover.
I prefer England and old men.

I'm not witnessing drastic alterations in my body either, in fact my body is almost as good today as it was at thirty. I don't see much decay. Of course my skin looks a bit thinner and my bulbous boobs are heading south but overall I could still pass for a gal much younger than my 52 years. And that's a comfort.
The physical changes that are occurring are something I can deal with and so they are not responsible for my bouts of depression.
So what is?
Could it be the start of the menopause?

Recently I've hungered for more of everything.
I not only want to burn my candle at both ends but I want to chew on it and swallow its hot liquid too, I need to feel the dripping wax scorch my lips.
Poetic huh?
I've felt like I could do things which previously scared me, not for me are afternoon tea dances in safe clothes, I want to drown in gin wearing my ruffled knickers.

Does gentle sweet love have a part to play in this messy pantomine?
Don't know. Don't know anything about love, never felt it, had it given to me in bucketloads by one young man. Now his long standing juvenile love is in the shadows.
Placed there by me.

But I desperately want to dance around dewy flowers with something clasped in my hands and heart, a grown up love.

Oh Yes!

There's a dent in my ceiling, a stain on my frilly blouse and I've lost a dozen radishes. No, I have not been having great sex, I was simply watching the greatest tennis match in the history of tennis matches.
When it started at two thirty my tummy was digesting a nice bit of roast lamb but it wasn't only gastric juices that were flooding me body, adrenaline was causing tumultuous waves too, because I do get so very excited over big sporting events and Sunday's men's singles final was no exception.

When Rafa took the first two sets I thought 'that's it, it's over for big Roger' but I was so so wrong. The match just got better and better, so good in fact that at one point I spilt tea all down my fabulous frontage and my mid evening snack of radishes and hummus got scattered all over my dismal sofa and all because Rafa had missed a couple of match points. I was getting the right hump.
What I called Federer is not suitable for publication on a public blog, suffice to say my language was rainbow coloured. When he kept coming back at Rafa I stared at my t.v. screen trying to put the heebie jeebies on him, my eyes went a bit crossed and smoke started coming out of my ears, I waved my arms about in a frightening manner and called up darkish forces just so the cute Spaniard could walk off court with a big gold cup.
And it worked! Because he did!

You know, I've been thinking, big tennis matches are rather like sex.
There's provocation in the build up, then enthusiastic manoeuvres all acted out with grace and seriousness, then a welcomed two minute respite after a particularly hard thirty minute set, then a further five hour flurry of activity and then a result.
Game Over.

Late Night Poetry

Like I was laying my best baby boy in his cot
I carefully set down small brave young flowers
into the moistness of my fertile garden
their weakness
their innocence
making my empty breasts
heave

I then watered them
from my love filled eyes
and fed them meat
from the angry plains between my fuck fine thighs.


********************************************************


I heard his voice
and sucked it in
like the dying gasping fish

His words
lay on my tongue
and then opening up
I swallowed them whole
one by one
Till I couldn't take no more
but I could
So here's my mouth
fill it.

**********************************************************

My Soldiers Are With Me

Someone has asked me how I write my poems.
I can't control my episodes as I call them. Brief blazing patches of time when an almost anarchic creativity sets up camp inside of me. The arty soldiers dressed in cobalt blue and rose storm my otherwise sane buttresses releasing every colourful feeling in my body. Whilst at the same time keeping a vigilant eye on the copious blackness of the other place.
In other words I have an imagination.


Shocking New Love

Mr Pennington heard the first crack and dismissed it as hearing problems
After the second crack he stood stock-still silenced by the thunder of new love
His heart was being handled
set free
Something was squeezing it
just to see how much life was still there
And old blood flooded his face
and steeped in this good red blood
Lonely out of date Mr Pennington wondered 'what'll I do now?'
***********************************************************************

Happy

Up with Monty and the pigeons.
A cold quick breakfast
Hot fast thoughts.
Dressed in red in seconds
Whoosh! I'm Gone!
**********************

Wasted Life

Forgotten Mr Worthy aged 72
spent all day searching for happiness
A dusty diary and all was revealed
Days and days of a loveless life pencilled tidily and without drama
a 2/6 book of misery.
************************

Regrets

When I got lost yesterday
I found a sun lighting up my path
and on it were strewn fragments of past maps and plans
pebbles from untaken holidays
photographs I should have snapped
sex I wanted to have
laughs that should have deafened me
and
love that should have rocked me.
**************************************

Hope

My room with its pallid death drapes
hems me in
this Abaddon, this Gehenna, this hell
But through breaks in the curtains
and through the cracks in my splintered mind
I see light.
************

Prostitute

The legless old lady steeped in heady perfume
weighed down by heavy pearls
twists her mouth into fantastical shapes,
bringing down onto the velvet table her translucent head awash with love dreams.
Clenching knotted fingers she bangs and bangs and bangs till she can bang no more.
Her reddened knuckles standing out like splattered blood against the cool white of her pavement hands.
******

Lone Sparrow

And one lone sparrow isn't being deterred from his natural actions by the blanket of frost which covers the grass in my front garden
His tawny head swoops down
then shoots up
then swoops down again
as he pecks and digs and drills through the ice on his very own lot
his very own plot
within the slab of my snow clothed green

Then a flutter
a sound
so he stops
head darts from here to there
a shake of feathers
a re-adjustment
seconds to sense
then still again

A pale grey pigeon is comfortable on the wall
The sparrow hops and springs
spindly legs taking him to the mossy cloaked bottom of a broken gate post
then off he flies to another lot and another plot to wile his time away.