Motorway Skies

Pastel acrylics thicken like makeup

On a sweating sky;

Whose lucid beauty shines

In smothered peeks, behind

Cloud-smeared tide lines,

Oozing back, to bare that

Glistening pate of oily blues.

Evening forces whip the

Gathered masses, into furrowed shapes;

That crepe, so tenderly

Where tremulous tension

Triggers smoky migraine pain,

And siren bright spots

Accentuate strain.

Now the fickle hint of lowlight drains

Away; from shivering wisps of unshaken rain;

So only dirty fingerprints remain --

Dragged out, across their ghosts of backlit predecessors.

White-crested sky folds

Lap at the sun like thirst-crazed minions;

Cracked, into wire-wool bundles,

They scour lingering trickles of daytime

From froth laced lips.

Wedged horizons wax and wane,

Stretched taught-and-loose in ludicrous diversity

Across the ivory frames

Of infinite

Topskies,

Moulded into one azure-white-streaked ceiling,

Arched lethargically above whatever remnant radiance

Is squeezed, in viscous squiggles --

From top-heavy heavens

And sewn, like smuggled hellfire

Into the silver linings

Of the wide,

De-lighted

World. 

Open Day Blues,

I have to confess; this morning's personalised leaflet through the letterbox from a wannabe Russel Group Reject did not trigger the surprise and pleasure that letters addressed to me usually inspire.

Two trustworthy faces grin academically up at me from the doormat, imploring me to make the right decision, BethCalverley. I respond with mild self-loathing at my own premature pickiness; I haven't yet received those shakily-awaited AS results, my Personal Statement is in its overly-pretentious infancy, and already I'm cocky enough to consider leaving the leaflet to zealous shredding by my overexcited labrador, still in the late stages of Postman-traumatic-stress.

However, it is true that I'm beginning to view myself as somewhat of a UCAS pro. My open-day cohort and I have been on several successful road-trip excursions. We strolled the boutique-adorned streets of Leeds and graced the pavements of Manchester with our conversed step... We scuttled, Beetles-like, down to the Cavern haunt of Liverpool's famous mop-topped quartet (and sharpie-d our names on its already well-scrawled wall.)

Yet as excited as I am to delve into the delights of higher education, the open-day blues have got to me. Nodding awkwardly against the car window after a five-o'clock start I couldn't help but feel that the stretch of blurry-eyed moterway was sweeping me irrevocably towards Independence. Piles of self-laundered underwear and indiscernible bills blinked ominously  in my peripheral vision.

I do feel a little nostalgic, from time to time, at the thought that borrowed ID, scattered empty bottles and reams of drunken rememberings now toast a brilliant party, where the joys of left-over caterpillar-cake and party-popper debris once held their innocent thrones.

Went to Foo Fighters at the National Bowl on Sunday. Fucking amazing...

Thoughts, in poem form.

The lights glow

Amber.

And a column of traffic muscles across

His last, nonchalant wave -

An engulfing tidal panic,

Crashing home, and 

In its wake, a crest of

White horses; tripping, trailing froth, and

Straining on the aching chains 

Of Loss.

It hits like a shattered sequin.

As abstract melancholy leaks in;

Concentric ripples

or loops of time, sliding onwards and outwards with the edges of the universe.

They say that water turns to concrete when you

drop -

A fall from love is endless, Draining.

With no rock-hard stop.

Just silence, on repeat, and

Wish you were here,

Strumming gently, at the heart-strings

- A butterfly kiss -

With percussion of tears.

Metaphors flow...

Past raindrops on a window,

Tracing erratic paths

across the glass,
they hitch-hike lifts on scattered orbs - trembling
To touch, then tenderly absorb
Their waiting Rome-os.

He trickles out of sight, but leaves a watermark

In mind, a print.

That fuck off and let me miss you

Tousled grin,

Phone-in-hand, arm raised,

To trigger tsunamis

With a single wave.

The traffic lights blush, red-cheeked, and

Look away, as we spring apart; apart,

now, until the raindrops meet,

To surge as One,

And the next

breathless

joyride

of our

Love

shall

start.

back to the real world with a bang.

It feels as if i've been inhaling happy-gas for a week and suddenly the canister's burst.

A week's intense revision looms ahead, like a cold pool swimming with essay questions and mind-maps and whatnot. The dismal metaphorical waves lap over dreaded French tenses and seep into the dull ins-and-outs of British political history. Until now I've been sunning on Slacker's Deckchair by the palmtrees, but now im gripping the edge of the diving-board with my toes, and there's nothing for it but to hold my breath, biro poised, and take the plunge.

On the bright side,, it was an awesome week. Really lovely. "Folks and Smokes" resulted in an emboldened Fellowship of the Ring-of-Fire, several trigger-hole-happy individuals, swaying to "The dub-side of the moon", and the inevitable finale; a medley of Vodka-Challenge victims face down on the floor while I waded in elbow-deep in rubber gloves to Clean up their Act.

PS. Happy Birthday Mum xx

Sunny morning

Day of gardening and shopping ahead. Still feel like shit, but will power through!

    Music to my ears. 

Journeying

"If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad"

- (Jane Austen)

"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams"

- (Dr Seuss)




I never usually bother to search for a seat on the train. I like sitting in the little compartment between carriages. No bustle. No passing victims of obesity to squeeze back against the window in respect of. No reproachful stares when "Gloria" loudly and unexpectedly drum-rolls into climax, and you hastily lower the volume feeling like a martyr to musical fulfillment. Plus it's fun painting nails in solitary, crouching unobtrusively in the rumbling joints of the train, watching the world flash by like milestones to placate my impatience. There's a certain satisfaction in letting open pots of varnish fumigate my own little plot while my speakers set to work dispersing invisible double-quaver symbols over the click-clack-crash of the wheels&tracks mash-up.

Of course,when seatlessness is complusory due to an overly full quota of irritated passengers, it is a less enjoyable experience. Especially when you're pressed up against the toilet doors opposite a balding businessman spread-eagled against the wall and a grubby-fingered youth playing packman by your left elbow. Especially when you don't really want to be going home at all.

But it'll be a whole week of GP next time. And this weekend i've got a fair few things to keep me distracted; shopping, mother's (aka being a good daughter) day, and coursework with a capital C. Holly and I are planning an end-of-term gathering/break-up bash. We're writing proper invitations, for keepsakes, no frivolous fast-forgotten facebook groups for us!... I've been writing letters to people recently too, for the same reason. When I'm old - say, 40, eh mother?;) - I want to leaf through bundles of envelopes, addresses and inkstains that stamp the journey of my life. Not browse through briefly-typed sentiments long faded into the virtual landfill site of ancient e-debris. I want my now-nearest-and-dearest to chuckle, giggle, smile or grin to their kids as they bore them with my clumsy stream-of-consciousness correspondence...
Oh how pretentious of me!
It's acceptable now and then...