MAN RUNS LATE!

MAN RUNS LATE!

This miserable tepid morning a man, specifically a generally vague man by the name of Arnold Literally ran incredibly late rather than walking, such a calamity was caused by his jumping over rather than in the shower, stepping rather than hopping on the bus and the most severe delay was caused by a dreadful fright that made poor Arnold shit himself.

Cumulatively it took him ages (Ice, Dark and Stone ages to be precise) to get to work.

Upon arriving he enquired where his personal assistant was, to which the nonplussed secretary replied ‘He’s gone to grab lunch’ Furious with anger Arnold gave his assistant a bell. No literally, he left a bell on his desk; he’d bought it for his birthday the day before coincidentally. Not that it was Arnold’s assistant’s birthday to his knowledge, but better early than late, and if it had already passed this year better late than never!

When Stephen the Assistant had still not emerged at quarter to 2, Arnold had reached boiling point, and so after making himself a cup of tea He decided to actually give his Assistant a ring, and in the hope that he would finally surface left his own wedding band at his desk, inside the bell to ensure it was ringing.

After all methods of contact were exhausted (and some more than others, that lazy bugger of a messenger pigeon has been sleeping for hours) Arnold decided reluctantly to telephone Stephen, and the conversation went roughly (definitely not as smoothly) as follows;

Arnold: Hello, Stephen?

Stephen: Yes?

Arnold: Stephen, its Arnold. Get back to the office post-haste and remember the stamps!
Stephen: I’m on my lunch break!

Arnold:  Yes well, I was under the impression you were merely grabbing lunch.

Stephen: Yeah I am, I’ve been out of the office barely half hour, but if I must I’ll be back in a minute.

Arnold: It is absolutely mint imperial you are back in a minute, and that’s all well and gravy and turnips and roast pork and mm… and

Stephen: Arnold?

Arnold: Ah yes Stephen.

Stephen:  -hesitation-

Arnold: Ah yes! Stephen! You see if you wanted time to eat your lunch and enjoy a break from the office, then you should specifically ask for one!

Stephen: I bloody well did!

Arnold: No need for bloodshed Stephen, no matter how hungry we get. You only went to grab lunch! And that certainly takes less than a demi heure you troptret.

Stephen: but-

Arnold: No transatlantic bums, wilberts or ifs I’ll have you know! It’s been well over a minute and you had better scurry back here boy!

Stephen: I suppose I’ve shot myself in the foot there?

Stephen laughs falsely, which quickly turns to annoyed muttering after he’s hung up.

Arnold sits like a waiting duck (how exactly do ducks sit while they’re waiting? And what do they wait for anyway?) As he awaits Stephen’s return, can it even be called a return if Arnold is yet to see him that day? Despite knowing he’d been in the same place that day? Like Arnold’s following actions, it is debatable.

Stephen bursts through the door but fortunately pieces himself back together just in time to be on a first name basis with Arnold’s looming Rodney revolver

Rodney: ‘Y’alright?’

Stephen: ‘Yeh, not bad’

Arnold fires and sure enough, shoots Stephen right in the foot.

Stephen, groaning: ‘Ouch! What on earth! You shot me!’

Arnold: ‘Oh no, you said yourself; you’d be a minute and you shot yourself in the foot, and you were bloody well late’

Stephen: ‘Now, now Arnold no need for bloodshed no matter how hungry we g-‘

Arnold: ‘I’m fucking starving, Stephen.’

Arnold smiles distractedly

Rodney: Now folks, the moral of the story is that at the end of the day…. There’s the night.

Goodnight.                             

Amethyst

Amethyst was a beautiful girl. There really were no two ways about it, the autumn shades of her hair were radiant with the colours of a golden wood, the many shades documenting the dying days of summer. the sunset paled in comparison to the resplendent elegance in the reflection of her long tresses which were always immaculate and never a strand out of place. Her perfumed scent which met the nose of anyone fortunate enough to meet her was of rosemary and elder flowers. Amethyst was a whore crippled by debt, and she preferred sleep over the conscious world. 

For her, to dream was better than being alive.

The Tuxedoed Turtle and The Shabby Fox

Good evening I called out to the tuxedoed turtle whom in turn replied 'its wonderful to see blue eyes shed tears'
I was puzzled and bemused at this rebuke and wondered off to seek out my dear old fellow the shabby fox, I came across him after a trifle's wander beneath the evergreens to find him pegging out his white bloomers. 

'The secret of smiling' he whispered' is to never stop.'

Railway Roses

http://soundcloud.com/oldebluenothing/railway-rose

I tasted the flesh of your pretty mask

Like devil’s lust on a lonesome dusk
it was disgust disguised

And truly it lied – to 

Tired travellers tongue-tied

By the kohl of your eyes 

Smudged like scribbled skies

You were a railway rose
One might suppose 

We couldn’t expect you to appear meek

Whilst the nuns kissed vice on the cheek

You tried on sweetness and sleaze

But neither quite fit

Because this you’ll admit 

You’ve only been kissed by the breeze

On matchstick streets

Dressed in deceit 

You broke your step waiting for haste

and sullied your silk for a poorer taste 

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.