Milton

The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.


From Paradise Lost- Milton

What Wilde Said

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth- 

Oscar Wilde 

-

The overwhelming sensation that I should be somewhere else rather than sat here waiting is getting to me.   Trying to write why reputation management through crises is important but my mind keeps wondering off.

Hell Yes!

Me, my dear chums and these chaps- 30th of May, St David's Hall. 

I have waited a long time to see them so I hope I get tickets now! 

Paranoia

-For T. Stewart-

Don't leave me.
Fears, irrational thoughts,
paranoia
converge.
I try to rationalize
one at time
only to find
several
more
pushing their way
viciously to the front of my cranium.
High-speed motorway crashes.
Unfasted roller-coaster harnesses.
Unseen falling objects.
Wet hands near sockets.
I hear the begging cries
of the what if's
and the screams of
terror.
Watching friends and family
being slaughtered.
Knifes push though layers of skin.
Plane crashes.
Violent house-destroying fires
started by leaving the switch on...
did I leave the switch on?
Slipping on rocks
falling off cliffs
still falling.
Don't leave me with
myself.

In Paris With You- James Fenton

In Paris With You

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you. 

James Fenton

You

came in,
strolled around in your muddy boots.
I made you coffee at your request, you
dropped the cup.
The shards of my late mother's china cut me as I clear up,
You told me not to be so clumsy.
You scowled as I produced dinner,
You don't like mashed potato,
I should have remembered.
I let you push me upstairs,
your arms holding me tight,
whispering filthy things, slapping my arse and thighs,
too hard.
Your shed your dirty work
clothes on my floor
before ripping my pale lace dress.
I tell you what you want to hear
as you grab and squeeze, marking my body.
You purposely come on the sheets,
on my side of the bed
and collapse on me.
Heavy,
sweaty.
You bite my neck before you slide away,
satisfied.
I remain where you left me,
waiting to hear the door slam.
I look in the mirror at my face,
drained of colour, black trails from my eyes.
Where you bit me a dark angry bruise
resides.

As you leave
you tred on the colourful flowers
breaking their slender necks.