Ariera

I find myself lying still in this lattice of thorns, the prickly tethers of what feels like worn rope press into my thick skin. I cannot feel my limbs, only the mass of my torso – I feel taller than before, as if some magical sculptor has stretched me thin, elongating my spine and flesh. The sky flickers – golden yellow fireworks! Oh, but they fail to melt back into the prior gloom, silent and comforting with its masking grimace of unknowingness. This 'Sun' shifts about tentatively, like a glowing ball on a rope swing, suspended above a jungle of apes, threateningly swiping with their great arms. The tapping of faraway footsteps pulses through me and my spiny bed. Perhaps it is some god, coming to rescue me from this dark doom? I shall call out to them – never have I felt more relieved to be in so light a presence when in this crushing black cave of disorientated souls.

My words seem to be muffled by a doughy matter smothering my mouth and airways.

Oh god, what is happening? My sad life will end prematurely after all. Yet, I can still follow my scattered thoughts, disturbed by this awful happening. Perhaps, if I endure my suffering and retain my mind, I can find a way of esca--

My thoughts, ubiquitous and brimming with fear are cut short by the instant dimming of the bright Sun above – a shadow of ill-fate steals my worst notions of terror from my screaming psyche and clasps its dark, deathly fingers (surprisingly fat and fleshy) around my soft frame. My curved chest tightens, my innards twist in the compression, but still am I unable to emit a scream of ashen agony from this inexplicable torture!

‘Ariera*! I have been looking forward to devouring your feathery flesh all day!’ booms a voice, piercing and peeling the air of silence.

Even before panic can diffuse into my veiny body, I immediately feel a sharp stinging on the crown of my head; the shadow’s claws have sunken into my case, like a farmer digging his spade into the hard ground during winter’s defiant months of chill. My head, rife with pain, throbs with heat. The stinging persists and stretches further down my body, my skin, peeling away, leaving my newly exposed flesh raw, white and burning.

I have no teeth to clench together, no eyes to squeeze shut, no hope to desperately cling to. Yet my external senses remain intact, and pulse the excruciating soreness through my nerves which glow threateningly from the sickening pain of this affliction.

Just after a thousand pinpricks stab at my mutilated exterior, inverted and bare, a foul feeling of moist ensnarement rasps through me; doughy bile in my spongy stomach arises; it pulps inside me, for it is unable to surface. Sharp knives rip into my flesh, scraping at my neck, my chest, my pelvis, until I feel a sudden lightness in the midst of this chilling disfigurement of my shredded body. My top half, now mashed into puréed carnage, has been ripped from me by the jaws of a monster!

I cannot resist, I cannot refute. All I can do is lie here, rolling away from the blood-thirsty chambers of an atrocious demon.







…and so is the fate of a banana.

* Ariera is the Latin name for the English word banana (a long, crescent shaped fruit that grows in bunches and has a soft, pulpy texture and yellow external skin when ripe)

Copyright © JRFB 2012

What are you afraid of?

Demons and monsters? Dark secrets from the corners of your mind leaking out into deathly exposure? Judgement?

Writing is almost too sacred for me to work on regularly. I mean, I adore exhaling my thoughts and imaginations through words with infinite interpretations, I really do, but when it comes down to the actual willingness to do it, I often find myself apprehensive. I think it has something to do with the trepidation of coming out with something horrifying, in the sense that I am ashamed to have written such crap and that if read by other human eyes they are sure to reach desperately for the holy water.

I want to develop my writing skills. Unfortunately, I am prone to start with promising ideas and then give up after only a few lines of creativity, not allowing enough time for the ol’ steam train to get moving. This is probably due to laziness and lack of concentration, so I will need to find a way to stick with things, I guess.

Also, a common feature of my writing style is abstract thoughts and first person narrative, but not generally containing a plot. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as the deity Virginia Woolf disagrees with the idea that ‘to provide a plot, to provide comedy, tragedy, love interest’[1] is required to create a story, depicted exquisitely in her masterpiece Mrs Dalloway.

Indeed, I intend to use my knowledge of describing and bringing to life the emotions of the speaker (or should I say my own emotions, as I have lazily not bothered to create characters) and devise a plot in a free indirect narrative for my own satisfaction. I will just write whatever drifts in and out of my mind, reflecting this narrative style and hope for the best. I can always edit and remove the ‘fat’ of globular nonsense when I finally lose steam and force myself to come to an abrupt and exasperated finish to my story.


Wish me luck!



Jaguar

---

[1] V Woolf 'The Common Reader' via http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/woolf/virginia/w91c/chapter1.html#chapter1

Skydark

The clouds painted with hints of heaven cast deep, sinister shadows on the beating surf below, slapping at the rocks with the aquatic wrath of a god. The soft arms of nirvana, where glinting gates of gold peep out, allow the Sky god to offer himself as a host, and to dramatize the celestial love from above. The ridges of the nebulae turn from blue to pink as the Sun closes her weary eyes and drifts along to the edge of darkness, shepherding oranges and reds into her sacred field of sleep.

 As my dark pools are torn from the fantastic realm above, I see fields of rusted fronds fluttering in the wind. Strands of cobwebbed hair determined to distract my vision cannot mar this delight: the silver spray from the waves; the pink bonfire of beaming divinity; the teasing light from across the bay. The latter entices my interests with its bitter brightness – a sparkling jewel amongst the lurid colours of sunset. My heart urges me to edge nearer to this furtive radiance and so my legs amble over rocks encrusted with crackling salt crystals, and spiked grasses bleached blue by the Earth’s malice, until the night engulfs my clouded mind and the swirls hanging above.

Chills lace my body as dribbles of icy water seep into my sink; the light draws me closer still. I find myself at the end of the shore.

Before me – nothing but the dark perils of a wintry sea, behind me – the echoes of rusted tufts of deathly shrubs, melting and fragmenting into the curling wind. Below, the hungry waves kiss my feet, waiting for the final plunge; above, the light screams for me, bellowing my name.

The yellow glare penetrates my shivering bones, extracting my soul, my will. So brilliant, so intense – I must join you at the core. My essence, slipped from my hollow shell skips from the shore onto each swirling wave, like the gold flecks from the fountain above, dancing in the bubbling sea.

*

Closer and closer our hearts collide. I release a howl, you discharge a sigh. The rain ceases; the wind croaks; our spirit surges; we are one.

Copyright © JRFB 2012 

'I love you according to my bond'

It kills me when I think like this, but the only reason you're still in my life is because you have to be. Over the past few years you've been slipping away from my heart, and the cord of familiarity is shrinking and shriveling.
After you rouse my boiling frustrations, my heart is heated, aggravated by the flames of searing guilt as I know that such thoughts are against my bonds. But why are you so purposefully spiteful to me?
Do you care? Do you want to help?
We are one, in a sense - I am you and you are me - so have some respect for a part of yourself. Despite my precautions, you still push me further and further away and soon I won't come back. It's exhausting knowing you. Stop wounding me. But each time I prolong our meetings, I prolong confrontation; one last stand is in order - but will I ever come to face it?

Fear overshadows my vexation; fear devours my bleeding heart.

Let me breathe. Let me heal.



Copyright © JRFB 2012 

Loving Through Lies

"What use is there in saying 'I love you' when almost instantly preceding this I think,      'I despise you. Burn'?

For you and I, there is no distinction. Whatever is conjured within my torn soul - shredded by your malice - punctures my enflamed heart, now swollen from your toxins. It is no use resisting, for you return, uninvited - a phantasm gently reaching for my spine, splicing my soul from within.

Freezing fires kill me; revive me; hold me.
Screaming with echoes of euphoric horror as I 
watch your scythe draw near.

My lungs, drowning in your cruelty, draw no air,
My breath evaporates - my blood dies - 
Eyes remain - petrified, molten:

'I mean no harm, I have come to love you'.

Every    
             word    
                           scolds      
each twisted hair on my corpse
scratching deep into my soul.

Air abandons me;
- I do not blame you -
now the fires steam as they
die
All that remains is my broken soul
                                                        - it reeks of death
scathed, black, putrid 

                                     by your simple touch -



Let me out. Don't come back to me, you keep me from my dreams. I do not want you; Love does not want you.

 But love cannot simply be brushed onto empty pages".








Copyright © JRFB 2012 

Words I wish I could speak

I am writing this for you because I am tired of not being able to express how grateful I am. These words are the best I can come up with for now, but still don't do you justice...


Before I knew you, my life was epitomised by a vacant nothingness, an ill-fitting vision of trying to be like everybody else. I felt misunderstood and oppressed; depressed; like nothing I did was good enough, like my whole life was a mistake - frightened, outcasted, alone.

But my soul became blazed with illuminated passions when your influence stole into my heart, when perpetual flames of elation ignited in my veins. You made me realise that I am not just 'weird', a 'misfit', an 'alien' - I am merely myself, Jaguar, and my thoughts and actions are what comprise me, make me special.

Your tender love and ardent cares for humanity astonish me; I can honestly say that I have never felt more comfortable and ready to accept myself than when I think of your valiant and admirable outlook on life. Your words, your aura, are so pure; a light in a once dark world, where phantoms chased me, now soothes away the pain of being different and encourages innovativeness and self-expression.

This has never happened to me before, and at times, it overwhelms me; but know this: your soul - celestial, radiant, opalescent - is the most beautiful presence I have ever felt. You are everything I could ever hope for. I can only thank the Fates for leading me to you.

You really have changed my life.

Now I am much more poised and content with my inner-self, and I owe it all to you; your Phoenix love, burning incandescent over me gives me strength, honour, elation.

Jessica to me, you are truly exquisite. I hope that one day I can meet you and experience your ethereal beauty first hand.


Jaguar



Copyright © JRFB 2012 

The Storm

Your words unspoken have drained
me - soaked me
with remorse and hatred of
those things left to melt away;
fade; drip; through a meaningless
pool of regret.

Seeing into your soul so clearly -a tumultuous river
relentlessly blaming its watery veins - striving to be understood -
appreciated - loved -

My heart quakes. My petrified soul allegedly withstood the pain;
now
the sharp pangs of Chaos pulsate through my mind
torn, ripping,
extracting
every detail - into the maelstrom unleashed.

Distress is my companion -
Anarchy, my aid -

You, however remain
a dull cave
                   of guilt:
Strangely, the artery proceeding

my dying    soul is here; etched,  carved in
lies
within You, my Saviour.



Copyright © JRFB 2012

Fever

you are an illness
just as I get better - at pretending I don't
care - you make me - love - sick again





Copyright © JRFB 2013

I'm still learning.

THIS SUMMER has been hopeless in terms of enhancing my academic skills, but I think now with August coming to a close, and the warm colours and autumnal shades of September falling upon us, I am one step closer to "finding myself".

A friend and I set this task as our number one priority this summer - and I think I may have (somehow) unconsciously accomplished this. Although I have been intoxicated for a good 4 weeks and I must have drunk about ten times my body weight in alcoholic beverages (spirits to let my spirits soar), I think that over the past few months I have learnt a thing or two...

This summer I realise that I am more comfortable and confident as a person. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm trying to live as I am and not as someone may think I should live.

I'm odd, but not a misfit but when caged up with tame canaries, I become the wild finch: solitary, outcast, frozen in apprehension. I like to form my own opinions about entities in life, and not to have my mind poisoned before being given a chance to speculate. What good is it to be human, to possess free will, only to have that privilege oppressed, wasted?

To be short, I am Jaguar: nothing more, nothing less. I believe that true identity lies deep within the soul; I was born to grow into myself, not into this person or that person; what good is it to try and 'guide' someone through life when in reality this only results in a twisted map and a desolate soul?





Copyright © JRFB 2012

Mirror

The swirling, circling shrouds of smokey death
pervade the specks of mystery surrounding this abyss -
Bottomless
                 Soulless
                              Gloom.

Twisting and writhing, the central orbs turn serenely:
a children's carousel
Reversed -
               Decelerated -
                                   Perpetual -

When I see them, fear clots in my blood
Fear of being lost.
Fear of dying
Fear of denying all chances of bliss to myself.

Two dark pools of hell stare through
my vanquished soul
My own deep wells shrink in horror.


I am lost -




Copyright © JRFB 2012

distance

i wish you'd try to understand
although perhaps it is I who am incoherent
and You speak my own language more fluently.
i won't sleep soundly knowing that waves of trouble are rippling our glass bonds
only to shatter all dreams of perfection, cutting my heart with fate's cruel blade.
                                                 *
i'm too addicted to stop knowing You,
absence feels like death - vexing and always longing for the untouchable.
i can't watch this happen, we're even closer to the disaster -
perhaps everything is a mistake; a mistake so real, so rewarding, so worth the pain of

distance.


No, I won't let you go.


Copyright © JRFB 2012

THE VERONICAS - 'LOLITA' OUT NOW

 http://www.theveronicas.com/splash/ (LISTEN HERE)

Life of a ‘Veronica’

From reading any of my other posts, it could be said that Life is a prominent theme within my thoughts. But I am often vague and spiritual in my posts, never specifying what it is exactly that captivates me so. Well today, dear readers, I will reveal what it is that transfixes me in my Life.

There are only two people in my Life who inspire and excite me to such an extent that I cry tears of exquisite elation when they do something I deem fantastic; under their influence I have discovered a myriad of previously conceals traits about myself and my true identity. They have taught me not to be afraid of being who I truly am and doubt that I would have the courage to be the person I am now without this reassurance, this power, that they inspire within me.

From the moment I saw the two dark yet pale, minute yet glorious, obscure yet pure women aptly placed in a gothic church conveying their experiences of being unable to be physically present with loved ones, my eyes amplified, my ears pricked and my skin grew cold. This opened the window to my soul leaving me defenceless, infatuated, and asphyxiated with pure intrigue and alacrity.

I could have watched the two angelic figures on my television screen for hours, and the 4 minute song seemed perpetual, and the unknown force of ardour was growing more potent with each second as it drew me into a new world.

When the song’s intricate melodies had died away from reality, the unthwarted echoes of what I believe to be absolute ecstasy began to orbit the halls of my mind. The pure light which I had just heard, perceived, felt was the most exquisite moment of my life. Nothing has ever captivated me so.

 To this day, I cannot describe what it feels like to be constantly attached to people you have never physically met by silver ties of immeasurable, terrifying, magical Faith. Thin and wispy like a spider’s web, Faith is what connects all of us. Subconsciously, I rely on my Faith of 'The Veronicas' to guide me in reality and to inspire my dreams.

This Friday, after a three year interval of not hearing any new music, 'The Veronicas' will release their first single from their new album. My zeal leads me to believe that ‘Lolita’ will indeed entrance and entice me as much as ‘Untouched’ did on first hearing it. This feeling is novel, unique, fascinating and totally unexplainable. Whenever I feel weak, 'The Veronicas' give me vigour, I feel charged whenever I listen to their music and utterly at peace.

Being a 'Veronica' is unbelievable, the energy received from a song, a tweet, a video is beautiful; the friends I have made, wonderful; the hope of one day meeting my idols and telling them how much I admire, rely on, and cherish them, infinite.

                                                                             **

All that I can gather from this is that from all earnestness, from the pits of my soul, I am perpetually grateful for everything you have done for not only me but for others too. Prior to my knowledge of you, I often felt a pang of vacancy, void of any hope and indeed Faith; my Life, barren of a reason for my tangible being. This love gives me purpose, gives me light! My passions will never cease, with disregard to my sentiments, it is not something which can be controlled, but that is the splendour of being a 'Veronica'. Every day is different, each day unsystematically brings with it an opportunity to be myself and to discover the secrets of dreaming. 

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Soup: A thought on categorising Life...

Labels are supposed to create a sense of order and a sense of categorisation in order to avoid any chance of chaos arising. Yet, think about how traumatic it can be for someone who identifies themselves as a Tomato Soup, but really they have doubts about their 'soupability' and perhaps would prefer to be a Minestrone.

We all share similar ingredients, but each is an individual because of the secret substance within; we are all cans of different flavours.

Finding yourself consuming Asian Prawn Soup without knowing it is Asian Prawn Soup because the label has fallen off is far more exciting, daring and intriguing than having specific knowledge of the ingredients, as it leaves more scope for one to interpret it in different ways, therefore appealing to a wider range of customers. 

I, for example could be less vague with this topic and pinpoint that I am of course referring to teenage fashion and how it is arguably less individual and more of an social stigma for one to say
 'I'm Indie, I don't follow rules and that's why I bought this red snapback...'
 - the fact that one needs to brand oneself is a labeling statement in itself. But this is not purely about trends and fashion (although it may be interpreted in this way by all means), this soup metaphor is about YOU, about individuality, about not having to complicate things by ironically trying to categorise them. 

As soon as you say 'I am this' or 'I am that', the walls around the statement cement together, encasing you in a make-shift prison, disallowing any departure of something which does not befit the label. 

To summarise, my advice is this: be free, be fluid and for God's sake, be something that you feel comfortable being... Be simply yourself, and leave the labeling to cans.





Copyright © JRFB 2012

'Review' of an abstract beauty; common, yet an overlooked symbol of Nature's enticement...

[I recently published this via my friend Floraidh's blog - http://floraidhsuncensoredpen.blogspot.de/ but figured I should post it here too.... so here's a repost, enjoy!]

The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in my lifetime. I did have to travel to some distant field and queue for about three hours, but I can confirm that the discomfort and agitation stirred beforehand was totally worth it.

I had never heard of this event until the very night before. A rogue dressed in khaki bed sheets knocked on my door and offered me a pamphlet for the next day’s happenings. Well I say pamphlet, but it was actually a dried Horse Chestnut Leaf with faint words inked on (presumably this was done by organic means as later, the nomad tried to convert me to Veganism and I hadn’t the heart to point out that the leather jacket on my back and beef steak in the oven would forbid me to do so). I was rather intrigued, to say the least, and since this man seemed trustworthy - if you omitted the stench of horse manure and bare feet which were muddy like a Woodland’s floor and stumpy like a Hobbit’s - I gratefully thanked the rogue and delightfully decided to attend this fantastic affair the following day.

The map on the Leaf was rather peculiar; instead of showing roads and houses, it depicted footsteps, paddocks and cornfields. I know you may think that I am insane for accepting and attending such an obscure invitation to an event so unknown and so eccentric on my own, but I’ll have you know that the neighbour’s Springer Spaniel, Odysseus, barked at the chance to come with me (for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity). Whatever, we set off late that night or early the next morning, (depending on your own perception of Time) and bounded to the field in a state of dreamlike euphoria.

The invitation suggested that fancy dress was appreciated, for the theme was Mythical Beasts, and so I decided Woodland Sprite would be appropriate. I harnessed Odysseus into a dog-sized purple, scaly dragon bonnet, allowing his sun-tainted brown ears to flop around his elated face and I slotted an equally scaly tail over his own. It was dark when we set out, and so I used my luminous wand, crafted from the Stars, to guide the way and to allow my straining eyes to read the Leaf-invitation. I never lost sight of Odysseus, as his scales shone back the glow of magical exuberance from the wand.

We came across a multitude of Mythical Beasts all lined up in an urbane manner, which did not befit their costumes. I could see the licks of Flame of a bright Fire at the very front of the queue, the distant Smoke billowing and curling like the stems of the Wheat heads at my feet. Enriched by the magnificent spectres ahead and those which were still to come, I eagerly took my place in the queue and waited.

I got chatting to a few witches and they told me that they came every year to what they referred to as ‘The Illumination’ and that it was absolutely spectacular. One let out an exhausted sigh as she’d been forced into making small talk with vexing relatives whom one only hopes to see at Christmas parties where the occurrence is somewhat bearable as one tends to be intoxicated off Christmas ‘Spirits’. Sadly, just as she was going into explicit detail about how her Great Aunty Johanna has the niggling habit of exclaiming ‘Esmeralda you’ve grown so much since we last saw one another’, (albeit Esmeralda is in fact thirty-three and has had the same height, width and weight since she was fifteen), an anomalous bugle-like noise jangled through the air, vibrating in and out of our shivering skin.

It had begun. The crowd started heading towards the heavenly light of Flames and swirling grey Air ahead. Although this Smoke was engulfing my blue lungs, I felt as if I had inhaled an air of magic; I marched on with the crowd.

***

When I entered the field with Odysseus, I saw it. There it was: the texture so exquisite, so enchanting, so impeccable that I could hardly believe that I was laying my transfixed eyes on it!

The green tufts were twisting and spiralling upwards like a new-born child’s soft fuzz of hair; the green rinds, so bright, so crystalline, so breath-taking seemed to glint at me coaxingly; it was sublime, surreal. The deep hue of the thick strands was mesmerising, elegant; yet it looked as sharp as a knife, mercilessly slicing the frigid air as it climbed into the Skies.

The warm Loam beneath effortlessly pulsed the opulent curls out from its depths, sighing with each collective movement, as if the Earth was smiling as it tensed and relaxed, the light tufts unwinding as they are nurtured by kisses from the velvet Air…

This event was not a manifestation of humanity’s ‘Creativity’, nor was it a vulgar display of Man’s skill in technology or cinematics; it was an illumination of Nature’s simplistic beauty, which charms those who take the time to value its magnificence. There was I, watching Grass bloom from Nature’s loving bosom: the mane of the Earth.

   



Copyright © JRFB 2012

MY FIRST POST ON 'THE UNCENSORED PEN' BLOG: The Uncensored Pen: Can You Guess What I'm Reviewing?

The Uncensored Pen: Can You Guess What I'm Reviewing?: By Jaguar Bingham ( http://www.beautybehindapaneofglass.blogspot.com ) The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in ...

The Minons

While TV's blare ~ mindnumbing

While the students study ~ boring

While the second hand emigrates back to 12 ~ tick

tick.

While the night moves on ~ slowly

*

The Minons glide past – carefree -

Their purple cloaks shift and quiver as the night unravels,

Yet the air is still.

*

While the cold night shivers in echoes of the last night

and the night before...

The Minons go to where we are not, do not know, and never

shall be.

For the Minons, their flight has just begun.

hearts screaming; minds pulsing; eyes fixed:

They know all that is Unknown to us.

*

Beyond the superficial cosmic din that we call space

Beyond the immortals

Beyond Mars, Neptune and Jupiter -

Lies the People of Minacia.

*

There, the fruit grows bigger – fuller - juicier.

and the corn.

and Their minds.

*

While late night programs seem to be entertaining...

At Minacia, such a thought is trivial. Foolish. Unthinkable.

It is beyond enlightenment.

Beyond life

Beyond love -

Ropes of tires and

Strings of fires.

*

The Minons compel us to cease

like a downhill rally, We must

decline.

To us, colour is merely colour -

but at Minacia, colour is not seen, nor heard...

It is felt; they thrive off sensations.

Love – is - simple, shapeless -

like a cold shadow under the afternoon's sun.

*

The Minons marry the day and disturb the night.

The Minons seduce the day.

The Minons rape the night

- tearing at the still air - groping

the darkness till it

bleeds and grows yet

darker. They inhale the stench of self-pity; smothering

Their lungs, as the essence trickles into Their soul.

*

*

*

They are indelible, infallible, perpetual.

*

*

I would know.

*

*

Because they came for me.

While Life's disruptions blared

While heaven's fires blazed,

They came.

-Jaguar **Disclaimer: 'The Minons' are imaginary beings who shun humanity and believe that their own way of existence is a far more substantial way of living**

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Discrimination

Throughout my entire life I have been brought up to perceive other Human beings as equals and that it is wrong  to judge by one’s shade of melanin, or by one’s size of feet and certainly not by one’s preferred Church clothes. Of course these are perhaps peculiar features which one could judge a person on, but I’d just like to point out that prejudging someone on their race is just as ridiculous are prejudging someone because they are wearing a rather unflattering brown jacket which does not indeed match their skin in any way and so they definitely do not have a sense of taste or style in any way.

It is very well for one to say ‘I do not judge, I love everyone’, because that is obviously heinous blasphemy to the laws of discrimination. Everybody hates someone. This is not meant to be an indirect attack on the conduct of which we, as humans live our lives, but is merely a statement relatable to us all, even if we fail to admit it. Everyone hates someone, be it because once someone asked to borrow your blue gel pen in pre-school and then never returned it, conjuring up a livid fire of hatred and causing you to make a personal vendetta against that person; or perhaps whilst in your public library, you simply saw someone who you preferred to show distain for, rather than gentle indifference. Indeed, distain can cause pleasure (for the conjuror anyway). Sometimes it is simply nice to not like a person; it shows variety within your range of emotions and human interaction.

However, I am in no way encouraging a rebellion within humanity, sparked by a few controversial words by a nomadic misanthropist who loathes her very existence and that of everyone around her. I am highlighting how it is perhaps worse to pretend that we all get along like bees in an beehive (exclude the episodes when the drone bees gang-rape the Queen and then brutally force her to lay eggs for the remainder of her short life…..) and that we should get off our do-gooder’s high-horse and just admit that there are some entities in Life that we cannot control: our abilities to hate.

Hopefully we are all mature enough not to actually show our hatred, but to at least show a sense of civility and false affections. Yes, here I am accusing humanity to be superficial and that behind every smile there is a pernicious abhorrence for just about anything that dares to show even a glimpse of nuisance. So what? Hate is hate, and like deathly fire, once sparked, it will intensify as time goes on, with only [holy] water to threaten its nefarious glow.

Disclaimer: After reading this prose you will perhaps hate me, the creator of such monstrous and disreputable thoughts. Good. I hate you too. Now get out of my yard.

Only Daria understands me...

Copyright © JRFB 2012

The Uncensored Pen: Do YOU Want To Write Here?

The Uncensored Pen: Do YOU Want To Write Here?: When she's not getting carried away with lofty visions of global success, Floraidh is actually plotting her climb towards global success. Th...

Rouge

I gaze at the fruit as she pulls at its soft skin, tearing it with her teeth which appear to glow a luminous white in contrast to the unforgettable bright reds and oranges as they ooze out.

What was once a pristine, spherical lump of softness is now a misshapen, ugly, mangled mess. She sucks at it - the innards being absorbed from one organism into another. But no matter how natural the process, this image before my eyes disturbs me. For nothing so lovely should be treated in such a dishonourable way. The fruit, (barely recognisable) seems to bleed small fragments of life in its desperate attempt not to prolong its own, but to begin the life of others. Only one escapes, as it glides down the chin of the oppressor, in one long slippery movement.

The others were not so lucky.

The fruit breathes its last breath and collapses in on itself, exhaling a sigh as juices protrude - from ripe, tender skin to a wrinkled, shrivelled husk; thus mirroring the lives of our own species. It is a very strange spectre; like watching a plump, new born baby with skin as soft and smooth as a pearl of the sea suddenly merge into the archaic, crippled old man it is destined to become after a lifetime of memories, wither away into the darkness from whence it came.

*

It no longer resists. The oppressor has won and celebratorily wipes her mouth with a handkerchief of the same white as her teeth. Horrified, she is taken aback when she catches sight of a dark red, clotting like blood as it seeps into the open pores of the handkerchief; the blood of her victim.

As she frantically rushes to the nearest pale of water, to inspect the damage done to her mouth - where the danger had begun - the one and only spawn of life from the fruit lies still on the damp earth. Silent; waiting. Waiting for Light to come, to appear from hiding and nurture its growth. The girl screams with hysteria as her blood-shot eyes spark after fearfully gazing at her mouth in the pale.

Dripping with cold, dark, sparkling blood, its smell is repulsive - like decrepit jagged metal rusting on the side of a deserted road. Although no one is around, the smell lingers, adding a weight to the air, hoping to intoxicate the next living man, woman, child, or fruit that has the misfortune to come across it.

The seed of life listens, but does no hear; it breathes but does not inhale; it grows, it flourishes, it lives. For it comes - even the darkness and dreariness of the commotion and horror cannot obstruct the pureness of nature's gift to our troubled world: Light.

Comforted by the warmth of Light, as if by instinct, the seed of Life stretches its roots down passed the screams of death and into the cool earth, embracing a chance for new life to begin.

The sounds of the girl are lost. Only nature can be heard now. The inculpable, pure shoots sprout from the spawn of the fruit, slowly curling and uncurling in euphoric replenishment. Energy is re-released back into the soil, the earth quivers with excitement as it soaks up the new Life. 

Much time may pass, yet still in the garden of men, although nature seems to be lost, the strong, tall steams; the broad thick leaves; the glorious, ripe red fruits all remain on the tomato plant - spawned from death. And not a single fruit from this plant of righteousness is to be harmed.

Copyright © JRFB 2012

The Chill

Good Gentleman, Good Lady, oh I wish that you could see – 

There’s sincere truth that comes with Civility, 

A certain charm lies in my heart 

Begging for yours to stay 

Until tomorrow, for just another day. 

Having parched my heart with burning scorn 

Drier still like the Sahel, the Corn 

Of my love cannot flourish, 

In an Empty garden – fruitless 

Are my efforts – unless collaborated with your prowess 

For your secret utterance so sweet 

Yet Devious, fell from the ivy tree 

Strangling your ability 

To love a soul (minus your own) 

Hearing the magnitude of the fall - 

For Hours I perched, alone; afraid

For your echoing Voice haunts me, above my grave

Slipping               out            and              in

Those weak and crumbling shelves of terror

Heavily Stowed away  – my mind is a Mirror

Crushed, shattered, splintered, broken –

Nothing can fill space left -  the words unspoken

Misery ubiquitous, hopelessness lost

The Frosty whispers chill

Our Flame, hardened, brittle – still.

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Walking In The Snow

.

These pale flecks of frosted emotion sting

my skin (bare) when I walk

with you.

A seething so sudden, that

at first, it is unnoticeable: purely snow.

Then Cold turns to cinders - turns to

Ash; scoring, cutting, infecting

my Body with your Curse

.

I blame the snow, but I should blame

You.

The numbness in my fingers

stings from your cold spite -

.

Yet I continue, persisting on our voyage across this icy road:

My heart, once again replenished with flaming desires - childish yet

visible; today, after your bitter touch

Falls to the ground... Cracking,

Splintering with an essence of you

.

The warm face of the sun, distant and rare

Shines no more -

Not in winter, at least, whilst

.

Walking in the snow
.

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Home.

She came home last week. Her soul, delayed for six years, dragged back here by her weary, wandering, impoverished feet having already deserted their own helpless body; floating aimlessly in the abyss of day dreams and night time terrors, she landed here, on sandy shores, sprinkled with prickled bushes and beach shrubs..


Her body, though encrusted with seaweed and bitter brine from the waters, glimmers like the crystals of water running free down her body, as if they were enjoying their freedom for the dark sea. She is not shipwrecked, nor lost, nor washed ashore on some heavenly bay of the gods, she is home; but she is unaware of how much significance the lapping waves, tainted by milky white tips have.


The sun is up high, it must be nearing midday, but nothing of time or reality can really be felt, only the ecstatic giggling of waves as they gently glide down on the hard, cool sand, before softly retreating home, back into Neptune's cave. Those sparkling waters, the serenity, yet brutality of the waves, the high sun's rays brightening everything in sight; it was all so sublime, so exquisite. Despite her awe of the enticing landscape, Cherry failed to notice the way the Wind, mindful and gentle, charmingly motored a light breeze mirroring how a mighty hand might nudge someone on their way from the sloping hard sand onto the paler, more inviting grains with gentle caresses of his invisible forces. Cherry, on reaching the top of the slope, faintly collapsed in the way that weary bodies keel over after utter exhaustion. The chalky sand began gently soothing her grubby feet, prickled and pinched bythe dune plants which peeped among the fragments of the warm silk beneath her. Cushioning her raw soles, Cherry could not help but allow the delightful massages from the rippling grains and softkisses from the sun to overcome her, and soon those soporific lids yielded to the warm breezes.


A deep mist invaded her psyche, objecting light's admittance into the corridors of her brain. Her eyes flicker from empty room to empty room. Her legs mechanically run, never conquered by fatigue, but fueled by horror. Her chest pulses rapidly. However, like a grandfather clock being launched out a five story window, no time at all seems to pass whilst she darts around the empty chambers, frantic, searching, lost in her own mind; on her own soil.

A tumultuous clap of thunderclouds shakes her from the internal darkness of her mind, but now the hellish gloom pervades reality. The rain beats down. The sand is ripped apart. The grains which were once as soft as velvet are flung up and hammer into the concrete ground. All forces focus on their victim: vicious and merciless, the razor-shards of sand tear at Cherry's salty arms and back as she leaves them exposes having recoiled into a less vulnerable position. She cries out a devastating scream when the relentless stony jabbing now draws blood on her shoulders, but her shouts for mercy do not seem to inspire any sympathy on those who control the weather. Weak, dehydrated and now with her body covered in blood and sand, Cherry seeks refuge by slowly, but productively heaving herself back into the monstrosity that brought her to this doom in the beginning: the Ocean.


Never in her life had anything been as refreshing than the instant Cherry dived into the stirring waves. The violence above the surface softened abruptly and an air of tranquility arose. Cherry descended deeper and deeper into her liquid garrison of still numbness, frantically trying to shake the raucous sound of the splattering pebbles of rain. With her eyes shut and her breath held, she waited. The mist was seeping back into her thoughts; that awful darkness. But the storm, the precipitation, it would rip her limb from limb, shredding her bones, heart and body; she must remain under the refuge of the compassionate sea. The oxygen gathered when inland was depleting, Cherry thought that if she did not surface now her body may collapse and just one sharp intake of salt water may drown her lungs and destroy her. Yet the rain was like icicles plummeting from the dark sky, shivering, waiting to kill. Either way, Cherry was against some force of nature (the Water offered only temperamental relief, she was not expected to stay under forever).

With the light fading, and her head soaring away from consciousness, away from survival, Cherry dragged her now weighty arms through the thick water towards what she believed to be ultimate death directly above her.

The water parted for her struggling head and neck when she came up, vehemently spluttering and coughing out the significant volume of water which had begun to pervade her organs during her dive. Her eyes, kept shut due to the brine burned when she pried them open; the light trickled down from the heavenly sky.

She opened them wide. The rain had stopped. There was the high Sun, smiling, coaxing, as if it had never experienced a storm in its entire existence. The sand hugged onto her body, as if each grain had absorbed the golden elation emitted from the inviting rays of the Sun and wanted to share their joy.

Cherry Reason, perched knee deep in the shallow, lukewarm water scanned the shore: the glowing sand, the deep greens and purples of the vegetation on the banks, the smooth, crystalline sky, free from any clouds.

Here she sat; she is Home.

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Free Indirect Narrative (practice..): To be revised

I am an aboriginal being. I come from quitea distance, actually. My mother brought me here in her automobile. It’s big,this city, a labyrinth of leaden streets, winding this way and that.

The elderly man, sitting opposite the brownboy noted these odd utterances, shaking his head, admiring the fluidity of thechild’s speaking (for one does not tend to speak English in The Saway);glittering rays smile over the huts, the stream trickles on, nothing bites atthe soul more than the hard antithesis between two worlds: the status struggleof the city and the tranquil serenity of the countryside. For that, Gregorycould account for.

I want to help. I can change things – stalewords. Stale, cold, undeniably false words. I know where the power lies, whatreally lies beneath the silt of the world; but they had after all brought thisupon themselves, it was their transgressions, their obstinacy which evoked thetar of the soul, the Maelstrom. Twisting and untwisting, the pale blue smoke,inhaled by the darkbeaters palpitates around the room. Mr Clark seems to beunaware and continuous looking on with admiration at the wonderfully rare,bronzed child in front of him.

Of course, of course, Gregory. His eyes,mismatching, both light brown, but the left, spiced with yellow flecks, staredahead, statuary and determined; this is the Son of the Souls, thought Mr Clark,scribbling a conclusion conveying the maturity and conscientiousness of theboy.  He was glad that the youthappreciated the severity of the situation, for he was their only hope.

They stood, exchanging handshakes, theyoungster managing a smile through the air of hefty silence, tentativelyretrieved the satchel and left. 


Copyright © JRFB 2012

You Can Never Be Mine

As you clasp my Heart it crumbles into

Nothing.

When I breathe in your beauty -

It chokes me inside;

Every time I leave you

it's like half of my Life has gone,

the flames of existence brutally diminished -

Ghosts of sorrow remain -

But I know I'll only hurt you.

Seeing what I have done to you

Breaks my Heart;

it was never my intention to see you

Fall -

Hearing the very words I dreaded; ones I made you speak

engulfs my parched Soul with seething ruin.

But eventually, I wish to be

Free

         of the horrifying Truth.

I know now that things may never be the same:

every time I see your Face

the wounds in my Heart sting

and your own Heart - splintered -

With my own Selfishness.

                      Self-forgiveness for how I've made you feel is

Unthinkable.

I would choose you over my own Dead body

Always - Love leads to ruin,

Friendship leads to yet more pain.

Because of Me, it now hurts us both

to look at one another.

Because of Me, our whole lives may be shattered

and rebuilt with missing and ill-fitting fragments. 

Because of Me, this agonizing cycle of love

            Will never end - 


Copyright © JRFB 2011