She never knew whether she should protest. More strongly. Against all the exclamations and protestations at the mention of her age. She was, afterall, bloody 45. She was 45. She wasn't kidding. Nor were these years suddenly going to reverse. One morning she was not going to wake up be 27, 35, not a day over 40! However much people protested. It was beginning to get on her nerves. In fact it was bloody rude. As a 45 year old woman, what was wrong with being a 45 year old woman . For chrissakes. The way people dismissed the idea as preposterous. She might well have been admitting to murder, or larceny, or indecent assault. No Never. You can't be!

She had no real idea what larceny was by the way.

She looked into the mirror and contemplated.

You look blasted 45 to me, she muttered.

and you weigh nearly 45 effing stone, you great cow.

She doesn't weigh 45 stone. But she is much heavier than she wants to be and its been recently exhausting and debillitating and men old enough to sleep with her, just didn't have the power required to cope with her all. And the young ones. They were too busy wasting their vigour on women to young to appreciate them.

The western world is misfitted. The Eastern world is just at crap when it came to appreciating the beauty of a woman of her age and stature and Africa was falling very quickly under the spell of the western media machine. Hey ho, welcome anorexia. Welcome to Accra!

She could have bitten something in vexation. Her lip. Her nails. She didn't.

She was a combination of confused and pissed off.

She noticed that she too was beginning to fancy young men on a far too regular basis. She blamed others. Other men. The older ones were stupid. Far worse than the younger ones for running screaming from her size, her intellect, her self reliance and her unbecoming wit.

I am not an appropriate heroine for your book , you dunce. Money does not flow from these thighs or portraying the world throuh these eyes.

And the story is too convulated. Like my bleeping sentences.

Hows about a short story? you can exist in a short story. Surely.

I wont rush into the drama though, be warned, dark reader, this rambling tale may have nowhere to go.

its the end of her working day.
time to put the thinking away and
slip into the gentle cushion of her writing

she needed a protagonist
and thus her writing stalled
she didn't trust her blog at all.

her sub conscious, unconscious
was okay for floaty poems and trifling desires,
but her novel needed a heavy moderator

or surely her dubious politics
and suseptability might
slip into the pages
and
the world would be ruined anew.

her head was full up with fantasy. like a running commentary. It filled up so much of her head space that she just couldn't think. about the stuff in the day to day.

his eyes were paler than green,

she had expected to recognize him. His head was shaved and he looked about twelve in real life. Every time he said ....about seven or eight years ago, I.... she wanted to chuckle and say..like when you were two!

she grasped the fact that this was rude. she kept the giggling thought to herself. his constant eye contact was distracting. if this child hadn't just mentioned his recent marriage, damn, she would have ..........

she bought him a coffee and herself a hot chocolate. Half drunken , holding the softening paper cups in one hand, negotiating luggage and trolleys with the other.

The flight had arrived and cleared quickly and easily.

She noticed , almost in the moment of the doing that she had greeted the young man instinctively, warm and tactile like an old friend, unusual for her, and Baba she could also hold in that refreshing of acquaintance. His wife , she smiled and held her hand for a moment.

Within seconds the three were discussing the joy of Primark..she laughed at them...are you really talking shopping, a moments pause ...and yes..check it out, this was 8 euros, pounds , thats like less than 16 dollars...

they moved together as they chatted, sweeping themselves up and out of the airport and into the carpark

3 things she noted...1)that they didn't buy their footwear from Primark ..2)you cannot stand up in front of my kids wearing trainers from Primark (she laughed.) 3)that there is never anywhere to put your soggy paper cup after you have finished drinking your hot chocolate in an airport.

she liked his eye contact. It was sexy. Short, round and shorn he was and recently married and she found him sexy! she laughed at herself and knew she'd get over it!

they were vibing, laid back and easy, she knew she hadn't washed cause she had woken at 6 am with a banging headache and had stayed in bed until the last moment possible before dashing the contents of the boot and all the rubbish that gathered under the seats from the car. giving herself 12 minutes to get to the airport.

leaving them in their digs she went home to shower, promising to come back in half an hour to take them to the golden mile. She'd liked that. the Golden mile. Isn't that what you call it? I dunno, maybe, I've never heard it before, curry mile...yes..hey I like golden mile...I like it too...

Admiring humanity, includes all her insanity
the sweat and curses as she strives
against a reel of bitter lives

I love you
and I am sorry

loving humanity, include her corruptability
the hidden sneers
the sneaking veers
collapsing her agenda without trace, as we
disregard impossible the contradiction of the race

desiring humanity to sit at gods right hand
the greed and sloth, the ceaseless wrath
the unending indiscriminate demand.

I love you
and I am sorry

being human
requesting your respect
my motive maybe hidden and surely is suspect?

I love you
and I am sorry

to judge me
to judge yourself
is futile
and uneasy
and I have found enough of it to make my soul feel queasy.

the joke is spent
its time I went
I'm ribald
and I trifle.

My heart stands naked in your palm
My thoughts begin to stifle

beyond this song
a cuckoocalls
in recognition of her offspring
beyond your walls
where nights time falls
the day begins her offering.

loves me,
wants me,
badly

of course
if the press
were to hear about this

or the existence of our
love child

my blog would become famous

and

he'd have to marry me!

She wanted his touch. From long strong finger tips across the nape of her neck. She wished for his smell. On a breath, slipping from between his firm full lips. As he whispers her name. The melody accompanying his touch.

She spent her hours of many days. Searching the faces of strangers. Trying uncomfortably to catch his eyes. Searching for the light of acknowledgment.

It made her heart ache.

It filled the aloneness into lonliness. Each hour of each day that she waited. She felt things slipping away from her. Little bits of her self esteem. Imperceptible at first like a single flake of dead skin shredding.

Some other time. A whole limb of self confidence could clatter from her.

Some other time, an internal organ of self love squeezed into a slow and painful death.

She never sat and waited for these moments. Hadn't learnt to give up hope. She stayed alive and vibrant. Sought out new experiences . New people. Kept talking and sharing.

Talking and sharing

Talking and sharing to the back of his head as he disappeared into the distance of her imagination.

Leaving her full up with the last imagined stroke of his flesh. Her flesh.

Her lips would pout involuntarily to catch a trace of his kiss.

Her nipples jump into a welcome.

Her knees weaken and part.

Her heart.

Closing her eyes against the words spelling out her lonliness. A breaker against the swelling. She shook her head, wanting to explode the images she could feel herself creating.

She tried to encourage the laughter to bubble up. To spill like a soft and fluffy armour about her again.

Her smile was legendary. The last defence. As her tears came sweeping up her throat. She smiled and the power of her smile muscles caught the roar of sadness.

Sometimes she knew he felt it. Knew the moment when, appalled by her pain, he turned away from her. He was forever willing her to shut it back down. She was forever acquiescing.

She would wait. She would believe. He would stop hiding from her in the soft tone of a young mans greeting. Disguised amongst the many. He would step forward. He would step up.

He would take her by surprise. Lean his chin into the well between her shoulder and her neck. Let his eyelashes caress her. Kiss her. Turn her into him. Wordless and knowing. Slip his hands beneath her layers.

Her spirit and body would stand naked before him.

Her eyes would shine and different tears run down her face. Down her neck and between her breasts. Over the rich round swelling of her belly. Dip in and out and in and out of her belly button, running a rythmn toward the mound of her womanhood.

And here, where he, with joy, drank deeply of her juices, flicked the salt tears, blending his own sweet cocktail. Here, where she trembled, her tears would meet his.

in the moment that stretches for eternity, whilst the blood trickled backward beneath the short sleeve of her teeshirt and filled the well at her armpit, she found herself contemplating him. The sharp tuft of jet black hair at his nostril, the cheap dental work with the gap between his yellowing bridge and his gum filled with the remains of the pastrami and rye sub , she had made for her lunch. The odd uneveness in the piercings in both his earlobes and at his lip, the very expensive collar of the shirt at his neck which was thickened and beginning to rot with a month of sweat and shedding skin. In that moment as the blood began to coalesce beneath her and the fore finger of her left hand began to curl around the trigger of her gun, whilst her index flicked neatly at the safety catch, she felt the familiar tug of love and disgust. Her father, strong and unbent, even at 70, was an unchanging icon. Unchanged, that is, until the 42 calibre bullet from her pistol caught him square bewteen the eyes and carried the contents of his skull with it, out of the back of his head and spread it across the hilltop with the same random force that you might blow the seedhead of a dandelion.

its too complex to translate
so will my muse let me
leave it be

its too tardy to restate
my need will strangle
the debate

I wish I could be far from here
and keep my words flute flutter near

I wish contentment
bore the brunt
as all the crazy feelings lurch

I am wishing on all the rainbows in my power
and all the stars and quadropetalled flower

I am hoping, which is making me quite vex
for love , romance and delicious sex

and I have just 10 mins to get to the opening curtain
after that nothing is certain

Its too wet
and my desire is to sweat
hate when the desire to have
my womanhood beseiged by fire
overwhelms my sanity and control
have to keep myself
safely tucked away at home
not tonight
going to go out and party and maybe
Will
power
Will
love me, just like in my dreams

Who should write of love
with only whispers and caresses
when love burns with anger and with pain
as terror pours its self righteous anguish
on the heads of children once again

burning bodies, hands and feet, faces blackened and ripped red and pouring
in the arms of mothers and fathers
adoring

love wracked through the dishonesty of western cries
beguiling indignation through the media of shallow lies

love twins my anger and disgust
more surely than its fans the flames of lust
my sorrow deepens soaking up my core
love and hatred coalesce once more

oh Israel and both the vicious bullies clutching at your skirts
to scuffle ruckus with you in your dirt
dishonest and cowardly you bleat
forever victims of your own deceit.

I am not lost in love or rage
for my sisters and brothers either side of the Zionist cage 
human to human within us reaching
through prayer, chanting, dialogue or teaching
to those so lonely with your wars.
Humanity will settle up the scores.

I'll not ever cut the strings
the ones that are gently tugging at the back of my neck and at the curve of my shoulder.

something lyrical is pulling me to stay and the desire stands matchsticks at my eyes and forgets the aching numbnes of weary limbs or my maximus gluteus.

gifts like this are not strangers
that consort to keep me company and
I have fulfillment and fantasy because perhaps my god is here wth me again.

whistle the wind of my heart and wish upon the star of my humanity
and yours.

But bid farewell when well deserved and take the longing cloak and cover both your legs and then your eyes.

abide in the timing
and soon
we'll be dining
like good souls on the love of the witness

your fear cannot keep you from me.
listen to your name upon the wind and answer me

I will be waiting.

1976
darkness should overcome the longing
as each picture reveals something less beautiful
in convention
than my heart desires
that is not my mirror
reflecting darkly

2006
can't you reflect my genius and skill
in an effort to make myself still
beneath whose quiet gaze
I cannot be judged and be found wonting.
girlish charm has not raised her alarm and
this matronly form is unknowing
in a blink of an eye
has that dream passed you by
ola?
quiero?

Lost Decades
Losing out to the pain
catch any train north or south and wait, pause
moisten the lips and
pout
catch his eye as it glides on by passing like butter
may that I never utter
more words of regret and
regression forms
stones that fuel the emptiness of arms
cold and hanging

2007
by the way
its time to raise the banner
urbane and banal
like the shelf life of my womanhood
mispent like so much toffee
homemade and slightly bitter.

My mother did not wait
she escaped and left me here
fulfilling her ambition.
She will let me cry now
and kiss me sweetly.
Has she cheated me or sacrificed to
lead by example and
ensure I will reflect and make choices?
put my head in the noose but not unthinking.
Do you hear the thunderous flatter
of my eyelashes?

1960
stand back, she's unblinking again
in the sun, a cloudless life.

soft ripe red tomatoes, rich dark green olive oil, anchovies and boiled eggs, un vino rojo y una cervaza por favor....curried calamares tapas and time for bed..

the Sierra Nevada mountains backdrop the city, the highest in Spain and we have driven 3 hours round roads that narrow and twist into the sky, crawling each millimetre across the map, with my sisters stomache in her mouth as she feels I am driving just a little too close to the edge and she wonders if we will ever get there. I wonder nothing , just keep focussing on the road and hope she'll begin to enjoy the view. There is one, a great one I'm assuming, but right now, I keep focus on the road, twist and turn, give way.... Lanjaron, Ortiva, Mecina Bombaron, atlast

the last little vertical drive past the church and ignoring the road on the right that drops away into the ravine, no? yes?turn in the road using forward and reverse gears...there are no edges to these roads, damn ,...yes,it is that crazy drop, if she can do it, so can I, follow the Fiat and release my breath..made it
Altas Vistas...

Imagine the next 30 minutes of your life, i rarely do, time is taken up with living and trying to plan so If I can make my dreams come true, Can you?

Imagine climbing the stairs to a life of calm, a loving husband, children not yet grown or flown, gentleness, teasing, enough to eat and pay the bills and wear the clothes of choice rather than the best fit.

Am I full of regret? When would it start this regret? when my father boarded the ship which carried him from Africa, he flew you fool, how do you know? When his charm and smile, his good intention and strenghth wooed a woman into his arms and who took who to create a new life squalling in her arms?

oh i think I'll leave this one , no need for

If enough of you are determined to define what is normal
does it
become
normal?

have contemplated doing one of these....

Mood (s): obvious
Outfit: jeans, brown vest,
Shoes: white
Hair style: under control.

LAST THING YOU...

Ate: banana
Drank: water
Sang: waterloo
Heard: the click of the mouse

RANDOM QUESTIONS...

Do you collect anything? problems
Is your room forever messy? mmmmmm
What's one of your talents? living
Are you violent? no
How many pushups can you do? no
Do you read for fun? yes
Do you act your age? yes
Can you dance? Of course

will not be doing one again, promise.

risking business
my enterprise is in my boots

urges should be tallied
countered and buried

sleep seems the safest option
turn away from hope

smile

bright like the morning
star, its all in the toothpaste and the genes

same as the waiting
the weighty
oh are you still

here?
hear that
hearts beat, in unison,
means nothing just
a universal human greed
to share the same
air
and witness
the short span
together

contact, so warm, so human
the voice of some-one other
he's smiling at his dreams much as you smile at yours
he's hoping for the lover

you want anticipation
not to cool or fearly run
but its begun
and candour rather than ardour
can I be frank and

confess
you'll not want who I am

Damn,
I'm suppoosed not to feel this way
I am supposed to carry confidence and charm
self belief and humour
not this rising tide alarm
this stinking rotting fear
of rejection

how ugly is the truth,
on close inspection
and I want to hide behind the lie of flirtation made
from some broadsheets lonley heart online

for heavens sake
I pine

and
now
your blog is better than mine!

we came so late last night, knocking at the door, ringing the bell we chose was theirs and ringing all the phones numbers we had.

when you hear footsteps heavy on heavy gravel, we're drawn to the side of the house and here Ola appeared, massive and grunting...ah! you made it oh, come on every one was expecting you....

the garden is not well lit and grateful as I am for the warning about the pond , more lights would have been appreciated.

houses on underhill road in dulwich are lush with their own elegannce and self importance.

at the back of the garden in a light more gloomy than gloaming, the barbecue embers are still bright enough to give heat and the potato salad is good. fish and lamb and shrivelled but tasty corn on the cob washed down with rose. Little lagos chatters loudly in the darkness, 3 men can make any party loud and busy, we eat and chat, slap at the midges and listen without comprehension in the dark.

She sits between both groups. I am curious. is she? She interacts with them easily and relaxed, with us a little more forced and nervous....well she began the affair whlst he was still with my sister...perhaps she carries some guilt. I cant care. Ola is Ola.

She has done a better job of finding something worthwhile in him and i wish them both luck, i'm only here for the child.

he's mansized but only 13, his ADHD has ricocheted him early from his home and I want to hold him and convince him all will be ok.

We stay for 2 hours and I hug him , I'll see him before `I travel' i promise.

I have no idea what he thinks or feels, I think perhaps he does not either. In the car after chastising his sister for her lack of warmth, (it'll take time for her to recover from the last 13 years of his hell I know), eventually we begin to comment on our surroundings , the sizes of the houses , the lack of parking restrictions and then suddenly we are back in the 'ends' passing through Loughborough junction...London is madness and Madness is London!

anticipate nothing but hurt and disappointment
where are your dreams?

inside your head?
where acceptance and love reside with respect and confidence
how should you live?

pretending fearlessness on
ground that is as shaky as ever?
pretended hope curdling inside a stomach flutter?

inside your heart,
the capacity to love, forgive, understand grows
but stagnates
how not to cry?

and still, its unlikely. there will be a reward as lonliness escalates into neediness
and the fear permeates us like a rancid perfume
sending each and every lost soul hurtling by
determined not to acknowledge the sheer lustful beauty
hidden in her eyes
as he turns my head
again.

Oh the city, sunshine and rain

where are the gentle kisses to wash away my pain
tough behind this cooled exterior
vinyl smooth and spinning
watching out for just one love
to find my sweet ways winning

oh beneath the heat of cloudless sky and eye
self steemed is lowered
and bewildered
gentle brave heart lowered
time to watch

deeper still and deeper still
uncovered by the reaching
a sisters word
a friends advice
a fellow bloggers teaching.

and release and go again
reminders and remembers
if only one secret is spilled
to cool the painful embers

so long without a song
so time returns to time
and I am greeted by my muse
give thanks and love the rhyme.