Love Everyday

The thought that if you are alone during this ‘festive, loving’ day there is something wrong with you. The Truth is, since my first Valentine when I was 13, I have not had one. Instead, I have spent this day with friends who love me, unconditionally, not just because it the 14 of February. Seeing a teddy bear mouth and mime those three little words, or a flower dressed in designer wrappers made your knee’s buckle and seductive sensual chocolates made your mouth smirk and water. The likely rationalization is the teddy bear, who is warm and fuzzy made you time travel back to that feeling you had as a child when you got things for free, the flower picked from the masses, dowsed in insecticide punctures your finger and you bleed, and the chocolates… simple… your mouth secrets salvia with the temptation of appetizing goodies and that makes your mouth water, not love.


Cave men dragged their lovers by their hair into a cave and had at them, we say animalistic, maybe that’s how they showed love, I mean they couldn’t mouth those three little words, so huffs, puffs and groans were adequate as expressionism of their affection for each other. Here I killed this Mammoth for you my dear, here is its left fibula bone, you like? Your cave or mine? Love?


Then time pasted on, we evolved into tactful, respectful human beings. Clothing dressed, lined and shaped us, therefore, a loop hole had to be created to get past materials, hidden depths, and into the heart. Would you like to go for coffee or dinner? A Date? Two nervous people sitting at a table, watching what they say, controlling how they eat and throwing subtle yet effective hints too find out more, the purpose, to get into each others head, finding out how they think, trying to pin point the physical attributes they like, the emotions they pick up on and they deepness of their mind. Finding mutual grounds to work on and move towards a path of happiness. When it’s easy between two people, those butterflies that were exploding and crashing into each other subside and its becomes comfortable, either that, or the fine wine and exquisite food trumped their anxiety. If there is a chance of more, the sparks connect the souls, the cosmic chemistry guides them in their endeavors, and if love bitch slapped lust and won, they would show each other affection in many ways, tokens of spontaneous love combustions, in hugs, kisses and smiles, not just, its that day that saint Valentine designated, here is a gift, take it!


Generation xoxo, hugs and kisses and I luv you’s. Media and television and music have made the word love as common as peeing in public. The lovelust love has conquered the young, blinded the youthful and baffled the ageing. Reading between the lines of love and luv, do u love me OE or U? Simple don’t say ‘it’ if you don’t mean it. Many single valentines’ days under my belt, the glorified heart shaped piss up is soon? Are you alone? Or, surrounded by pockets of happiness and love right now, in seven hours or even six days from now, you are not alone, ever! Proud, Happy and Loved, everyday-


So…

Here is a teddy, just because,
Here is a rose, just because it’s Tuesday,
Here is a chocolate, just because I thought of you,
Here is my heart, just because…

Paper For Life

Drunken bamboozled men crowded around the stage, their taste buds being tickled at the thought of a woman taking off her clothing and fulfilling their deepest fantasies. The smell of a dirty floor dipped in tequila and served with a side of beer rapes your tense nostrils. The inebriated faces stare loosely, as the lady of the night slides down the pole in glittering and shimmering garments that mask her scared bare skeletal skin, the primal mans face begins to distort as he howls out to the thought of her full moon, cat calls, whistles and lewd gestures rain down on her like acid stained rain. The pack of profanities glare with hungry eyes, they are ready for the show, she on the other hand, needs the money.

The music begins, the sound bellows and surrounds the dancer, pushing her perfect body up against the pole, playing her like a puppet, moving her around like a soulless, missing mannequin, she begins to dance. The madam looks on at her selected item, as she ascends the glamorous, cold piece of metal, gracefully moving her frame to the beats of the music. The exotic ballerina performs her artistry, long, slow sensual movements, she is gripped in the deep dark vocals of the voices of the speaker, she guides her body to the emotion of the song, making it real, making it heartfelt.  She and her acquaintance called the pole, help each other through the motions, becoming one. Her ensemble radiates, it glows as the spotlight shades on and off of her, making her seem like a mystified illusion. The shining sparkles fade as the courtesan prances and flits across the floor as is she was dancing on hot coals, burning money into her feet with every frisky twinkle of the hips.

Like soft velvet falling from the Queens chariots, her clothes seem to disrobe themselves, the bra that protected her fragility is now tied to the chair, the atmosphere in the room elevates as the many hungry, desperate wolves pine to rub the skin of the beauty, but, she would rather a skin eating bacteria engulf her before one of their porky fingers poked her vulnerability. The tension of egos has inflamed the ambience, like marking territory they all believe she is theirs for the taking, all they need is an engorged wallet. The highly aroused crowd watch as the half dressed scarlet ballerina displays her soft skin, as she darts with elegance and grace across the famed stage. She is alone in a room of horny misguided ghosts tanked on substance. The music changes pitch and range and she adjusts to the emotion ringing from the sound system.

The superficial glances and winks at the hounds makes them reach springtime in their trousers which are now laced with stains from the alcohol soaring through their excited veins. She whirls and twirls, sheepishly gyrating to the rhythmic sound explosions, the remaining lacy pink underwear, waves like a white flag admitting surrender, she has surrendered to the crowd at the madam’s accord, they fall to the ground like her morals and ethics. A huge boisterous applause and jeers boycott the once silent pack of under sexed beasts, the are elated she lost her dignity and show her their appreciation but tossing notes onto the stage, paper for sadness and the need to survive.

The final performance as she cools her body with hardened ice blocks, a cool glaciate feeling attends to her exposed emotional wounds, she has completed her immorality act, the body opera is over, and like that visionary red curtain falls, so does her glossed, seductive lips, her plastic grin fades. The music that moulded her physic to the mood of the beats has now been cancelled out by men being men and showing their dominance. The men are ecstatic they have seen what they paid for, they leased and hired out her body for a ten minute jumping castle in their boxer briefs, without ever giving a thought, maybe that is a someone's young daughter or a single mother making ends meet, if they remain blind to the truth, they wont have to feel guilty about making her jump and beg like a eager jack russell begging for a ball.

They make her non human, so they can remain human and return to their reality and back to their wife and families, while she packs up her clothes, counts her money and leaves the luminous flickering 501 club. She has to dance to survive, she lives from hand to mouth and in run down flats all the while raising a child, she has courage and has the strength to face the new day, what do they have, a missing poster in the hallway of their home.

The Crash and Burn

The flesh rips from the ducts that make acid tears, the burning of acid dissolves the skin, making an unidentifiable feature, a face that was loved, known and accepted as normal. Scared, disfigured he sits, staring into the world with the perfect sky, sun and moon. Wanting to be whole, together not a sewed up scarecrow, made from straw, old clothes of past and a hand sewed face that resembles a smile, a crooked smile.

Straw replaces the things that made him human, his organs, his skin, his heart. He sits, speechless, alone and silent, the being faces a live of scarcity, avoidance and awkwardness. He feels like the elephant man, a thing, an item to be laughed at, ridiculed and exploited. The crooked smile, lights up at the sight of people of resemblance, the people who knew him then, and the people who are trying to know him now, wanting his own pain to die, to burn that straw inside, that straw that makes him sad, but he cannot be selective in what he wants to burn, or he will completely go up in flames. Deciding if the full inflammation was acceptable and a viable choice, could he be selfish and let his existence and family tree burn. When he was whole and new, he was selfish, he looked to the pretty suicide, the internal war between blood and pills, the relax that ends a life rather that the dramatic exit of slits, ropes and bullets. Pulling at the strings that extrude from the straw embedded in his sadness, he tugs hard, trying his hardest to be whole again, to expel this pain that encapsulates his entire being, then he realises, it is him he is tugging and tearing apart, he is making himself less of what he was or what he could be. He stops. To deal or not to deal is what he says to himself internally. A new life is beginning, with or without his dry insides.

The crooked smile becomes straight, a glow from the teeth blinds all around him, making them see the new him, the burn in their eyes was like giving birth, and they have, to acceptance of a new him. Drawn into the energy and spirit that he beams out, filling their lives with a new view of life, a new sense of direction and understanding.

The scarecrow has risen from the ashes, like a fiery phoenix. His reinvention, his rejuvenation is still in process, moving swiftly to a higher place. A place where he is he, and she is she, complete and utter understanding for the mutations of normal life. The atmosphere and ambience that extrudes from the shape in front of them, the straw that once was the centre for a mass extinction of internal parts, the heart that ran dry, the tears that burnt, this dry straw that enveloped him, was mending itself, moving up and down the body with the acceptance as the string and the understanding as the needle, the two working together and sewing up the holes of regret, judgement and denial. The holes that made him bleed, were now whole again, the muscles and skin grew around the scars, but did not let them disappear or be repaired to the extent of the scars not having meaning or loosing their consequence to judgement and recklessness of the emotional battle within a mind. Those scars are what he keeps in remembrance of things lost and things gained.

The scarecrow was now fully formed into the new soldier of self actualisation and acceptance from within, it was a hard, painful journey, one the soldier will keep forever, he has the marks internally and externally to prove his path of self balance. He is ready. Walking out of the place he called home during his turmoil, he turns, faces the building, thanks it, looks at the chair we he sat and thought for hours on end, a place where he came to deal with himself, and try understand and help the pain and suffering of the ones closest to him. This place was one of great sacrifice and self loathing of him mentally, physically and emotionally, yet his new life was beginning again, his rebirth into society was now.

Turning from this building, his back facing past, he front facing future, he walks, head up right and unashamed.