**RANDOM RANT ALERT** On the 26th of October, my 6 foot Christmas tree was joyously decorated with baubles and erected in the window of my living room...much to the amazement of passers-by whose gaping maws mouthed incredulity more, I suspect, than they would have had I suctioned my naked form in a Garfield stance to that very pane.
Now then, there were several reasons for my doing this and each of those reasons comprises entirely of the words " because I f*****g can!" As for my being told by some "it's too early" well, maybe it could be deemed so had I erected it in THEIR living room...but I didn't...did I? No! So, I tell you what...how about YOU don't tell me when it's the right time to put my tree up and I won't tell all of you pyrotechnical premature ejaculates to stick your fireworks in an orifice of my choosing when you're frightening the shite out of my dog weeks before bonfire night, which is bad enough in itself! Ok? Excellent... Thank you for tuning into Lynn's Rant... Ps: No animals were harmed during the erecting of my Christmas tree! Pps: Merry Christmas!!
So then, life and its ever evolving madness has overwhelmed my senses recently and thus my presence, physically, mentally, emotionally, realistically, virtually....and in all other aspects of sentience has been rather jaded and spasmodic, to say the least. No need to bore you with the details of my fugue state, suffice to say that I am dealing with stuff in my own peculiar way and taking note of each diverse nuance of its mitherage for future writings of the crazy and the creepy! Speaking of 'future writings'...the third book in my poetry series is to be launched later this year, October 2017...*air punches*...I'll let you know more about that, including launch venue etc...nearer the time. As for now, well, currently I am poised to resume work on my debut novel (as yet untitled and very much a work in progress) the content of which will incorporate a fusion of mystery, macabre, malevolence, mirth and any other M words I find to be of appropriate usage. Now, whilst I don't want to give too much away regarding storyline, at this point, what I will reveal is the setting for my eerie tale... This is a place where my mother would take me for picnics when I was a little girl and, subsequently, where I would take my own children for similar moments of quietude and calm accompanied by a modest assortment of sandwiches and a hamper packed with thoughtful contemplation for the respected companions in our midst. It is a place where I would once run to, literally, for solace, day or night, when the vicious world of the living weighed heavily upon me. It is a place where I continue to walk each day and most evenings, finding the company of the residents therein both comforting and, indeed, inspiring. And it is a place where I myself will reside one day and, consequently, embark upon my journey to the Otherside guided, no doubt, by the very souls whose ethereal state has, I suspect, on many occasion lifted my spirits higher than their own! No! This is not to be a tale of Tesco Extra and its walking dread! This is a tale of grave and graveyard...particularly my graveyard, as I prefer to think of it, although the local council would be quick to challenge such thoughts. Set in the present a fleeting glimpse at one of the main characters would draw your attention towards the degraded shape of Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher (1582-1648) whose zeal as a Witchfinder is as rampant in death as it was in life. In their, as yet, raw state a couple of excerpts from the opening chapter of my book read thusly... "Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher peered over the crumbling, graveyard wall through sharp, narrowed eyes. The events unfolding before his scrutinous gaze were a source of much interest to him as he witnessed the solemn interment of yet another sinner.
Death had done nothing to alter Nathaniel’s sour nature nor dull his devious manner. Indeed, he remained to be the bitter, disgruntled man he had been in life, fiercely suspicious of everyone and everything, particularly that which lay beyond the walled confines of what he considered to be his exclusive property, the Chantry..............
..............Yes, Nathaniel’s demise in 1648 in his 66th year, had not quashed his passion for Witch-hunting, if anything Nathaniel believed his present state was testament to God's will that he remain Witchfinder and continue with his noble quest to defeat the Devil and his minions, ultimately purging the wicked influences which sought to possess mankind".
And that's as much of the narrative I'm sharing at the moment, however, I will share with you a few photographs, taken a day or so ago whilst on my walk, of the very graveyard from where Nathanial's prying eyes are boring into the souls of the sinfully deceased. As for now, what more is there to say but...."Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" cue menacing laughter....
Another tangent poem of mine that's a work in progress best suited, I feel, to song rather than word, but until such time I find the melody....I shall share with you the piece in its VERY raw state! NO TEARS
I won't cry now you are leaving
I swore you'd never see me cry.
I'll wear this smile that's so deceiving
But the pretence helps me get by. I won't walk into our bedroom
And see us lying there
I'll close my eyes on all the good times And let you think that I don't care. I won't listen to our old songs I'll find new ones of my own Even though the music we made Plays in my mind when I'm alone I won't linger over old photographs Reliving how we used to be You don't need to know those images Are etched in my memory I won't see you both together And die some more inside I'll be stronger now than ever Just too weak to lift that lie
Here Where I wait Beneath your bed Dust lies thick and heavy A luxuriously Perverse carpet Of your desquamated flesh. Each foul flake Of your body's detritus Sits well upon my tongue A tasty reminder Of your ever decaying state. Delicious. A groan And your shape shifts above me As troubled slumbers scurry To warn you of my presence. An impotent gesture For already The sinuous tendrils Of my unholy appetite Hasten to hold fast And devour Your squirming soul. Exquisite . A whimper As the seeds of your discomfort Bury themselves deeper Into the fetid treacle Of your prickly dreams Allowing a restless foot Escape from its weighted trappings To dangle tauntingly Above my eager maw And through this offering Foul ecstasies are reached As I pull your feeble form asunder Dragging it greedily to my septic lair Towards the ever-festering purgatory Of Hells banquet.
But feel not bruised nor bitter By Mrs Chitter Chatters chitter 'Cos it's pity That she needs above all else As she'll never know true friendship Her ways undone all pals will exit And she'll end her days In the company of herself.
And let me Bake you a cake And when I do Be sure to chew Slowly On all the mistakes To savour what real mums Are made of 'Cos they're not Just sugar and spice They're little nuggets Of worry Mixed up with some Misplaced advice But that's because all mums Are human And sometimes They think they know best So they do what they do And place guidelines for you Which you, in turn Try to resist And sometimes Mums make wrong decisions But not out of malice Nor mood But because life does not Make it easy To do the right thing For ones brood So when next You spend time disgruntled Wishing mum had Given you a break Take time to appreciate The flavours Of the love She whisked into Your cake.
(I wrote this piece as a song but my art lies in writing words not music so, until such time as I come across a someone who can write the music to accompany this...I shall at least share the lyrics with you) OUR SONG
I held his hand
As to me he sang
A song for my ears alone
In the melody
As to make my spirit mourn
For all the things
That could have been
But will never now come to pass For tomorrow he visits the gallows And his song will be our last He held me near And wiped my tears As I looked in his eyes The sadness there Was hard to bear And a hurt burned deep inside A longing for What was before Tyburn's rope hung fast For tomorrow he visits the gallows
And his song will be our last He'd killed a man Who'd done me harm So I would no more dread The violent swish Of a madman's fist Nor his angry, drunken tread To save me from A terrible fate My true loves life would pass For tomorrow he visits the gallows
And his song will be our last As moonlight rests Its silver threads Upon his raven-black hair I take his hand And place it On my belly Wherein there stirs The child blessed by our union But cursed by his poor father's past For tomorrow he visits the gallows
And his song will be our last The jailer stands
With keys in hand Now my love And I must part A candle flickers restlessly As does my fretful heart Through Newgates walls My cries now fall To meet others in their dirge For loved ones soon lost to the gallows And whose song will no more be heard.
Bedevilled is the night And I must feed 'Fore morning's light My cursed state impedes. Moon's silver fingers Point me to the path Where best my urgent need Will fulfil its bloody task. Once there my hungry eyes See her young shape I falter at my choice Her life to take But then the fiend within Insists I must Appease the gluttonous rage Of my infernal lust And so I softly glide Towards the vein That will rescue me From conscience Blocking pain Which lingers still In my dark and cold, dead heart A remnant from my mortal days Long past.