Little boy blue

step inside the shoes of the child you outgrew
the naive nursery designs
in pretty pastel rhymes
bright blocks of colour
woke all the days

tickle your toddling thoughts

with clumsy scribbles

the shading of the pencil defines your ageing

tracing the war your years are waging

meet the taste of your fleeting future

docile teenage wandering

carve your chalky daydreams 

into gentle bubbles ready to burst

gliding along the water's mirror

underneath the kindest waves

gazing back from below the surface

there you are as you were

the infant of my imagination
with your duck egg blue eyes
that close on pale moon crescents

stream of consciousness v. woolf in sheep's clothing

Lucy lucid met the luxury of leisure after it leapt languid on her ligaments, after it ground her bones by lulling her into a worthless, workless weakening by want of hardship. She clawed imperfections into the mirror as this idyllic idleness began to wear thin, a cloak of curiosity that could not be satisfied on some token whim, or replaced by some colourful distraction paid for by old money in pampered accounts. 
        
         Corrupted company stained her and the clouds that were weighed down by heavy grey paint seeped through loosely locked doors, and engulfed the gentle stream of thought that she believed to have all but dried up in an emotional drought, parched by the dust gathering on her tear-ducts. 
          Thorns tiptoed along her pricked ears after navigating smooth islands of pooled skin. She was delicately dangerous and susceptible to the influence of brutally rude hallmarks so often carved in coarse conversation.
          The shadow of an honest promise bleeds like plastic pearls, two pretty people wearing wedding bands made of rust. Their date set and their decadence designed to dance like the ghost of a deity, to hide the rotten underbelly of the resignation they so readily wrote out their titles on. Their morals surrendered on the Monday, the Tuesday took their trust to tailor an armoured wickedness for Wednesday, which dies away as the week sneaks along the cascading cliff of an unsung pretty cheek. A kiss of firm fire that basks in the warmth of a slumber until it is weaved into waking by a web of feckless Friday’s abandon. 
           No small surprise then that the door swings, betrayed by decaying hinges that stare inwards; a greenhouse with broken windows sprouting plants through the gaps, grown from seeds of wealth and woe watered by droplets of malice. Ah wealth and woe, those fickle friends who sing heretic hymns and cry with smiles made of snow, their sounds and looks dictated by the trappings of freedom and directionless doom, a metallic taste that leaves a wanting in wandering, a longing in life and a consuming confusion that is all encompassed in lacking a compass. The lace that lies in a pretty lattice is stained, indulgent ivory that is soiled by soured grapes. 
          This is a disease that seduces the gentle windows of opportunity; it gifts them with a view of their own and curses them by withholding the words that would voice their opinion.

Moaning.

Laying sedate as the milky morning light washes through the windows as they bathe in the gentle residue of a night’s dreaming that kindly bids farewell before tiptoeing back along the sands of reality, clawed back by the beckoning waters of the endless tides of anonymity. Forgotten like ageless kings with rusted trinkets and great halls derelict and inhabited only by dusty ghosts that smile without cause. Gliding along pregnant memory that kicks from inside forgotten possessions, the possibility of being reclaimed and treasured like leisure as if its business. As meticulous detail begins to take hold and spill ink over silk and lay waste to the luxury of being cherished. To mean something to someone, or that something means someone to something. They highlight her in cinema blue and say forget what’s true.

The shards of reflection aren’t so easily pieced together when memory is embedded in bruises. To forget completely the pain of a wound the twisted instrument that tore at your flesh and bled your emotion must be removed.

 I’m not even that smart but I seem to have acquired a reputation for being this introverted troubled sensitive boy, all tortured and sad, with big blue buttons for eyes that look ready to spill tears at any moment like undercooked egg yoke. People often ask what the matter is when there isn’t anything wrong at all, anything that I think is wrong isn’t wrong and I’m just being melodramatic anyway, because I’m a sombre melancholy little rag doll of a boy, who annoys all the other toys.

I wish that I didn’t think that this was a pale imitation of someone I’ve never heard of because I am a pale imitation of smorgasbord of people that I haven’t got a half chance of even knowing about their existence. I am a absent minded daydreamer blowing bubbles out from a cage, and if my cage is rattled I’ll shiver and retreat behind my farce of a shell and write awful rhymes and do a stupid shuffling dance whilst lecturing deaf singletons on the crime of romance, but they won’t listen.