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Ode to sheepYes, I'm wearing dad's old t-shirt,
Which, I can see, is covered in dirt
And has a smear of paint
That I can't get out but I ain't
In the slightest bit bothered.
This because I am at home
Where I am be alone
Not seen by the outside
But yet, you with your so called pride
Over your appearance, means that you
Stand in front of me with a look that is all to
Normal, your best Jeans and checked
Shirt, with your hair perfect
And yet you stay indoors.
But you did in to me with your claws
Because I'm wear clothes to paint in
And That I don't want to ruin.
Don't even start on me about music
Just because I listen to music that you consider Jurassic
Does not mean you can moan at me.
I like it, it makes me happy
Just because you go along with your friends
Which I can see ends
With you wanting to skip the first Friday of college
To see a band which I cannot acknowledge
As being in the slightest bit musical
And you are all
Hyped up about it, yet a week later you
Are into a different band and cannot c
I zipped up my coat against the cold wind and battled on down the road. Why anyone would want to be out in this weather I don't know. The rain beat down like daggers on the road. I sped up, feeling the cold rain trickle down my back. I opened the shop door. The bell tinkled a melancholy sound. The sound of the bell startled Detective Jack.
He turned round and greeted me with a sigh. I edged towards the side of the little shop and looked around. Detective Jack pointed to the till. I took out my wallet and gave the shop keeper a note. The shop keeper sighed and pinned the note to the notice board, next to the rest of the IOU notes the police department had given her. She handed me the bottle of gin and a packet of cigarettes with an angry look at Jack. He smiled a sarcastic smile and walked out of the shop.
"I'm sorry about him" I said, sheepishly, "We will pay, eventually." I added
"Sure you will" she said hopelessly.
I turned and walked to the door.
"You know the drill, right?" I
Can you change the lightbulb?"Honey!"
"Can you change the lightbulb for me please?"
"Agh, I have homework to do!"
"Well, I have ironing to do! Stepladder is under the stairs"
"Where are the lightblubs?"
"Under the Sink, where they always are"
Trudge down the stairs. So much effort. Into the kitchen. Light's too bright. One stepladder and one light bulb. Back up the stairs to the bathroom. Stepladder down.
"Can you open the front door please"
"But I'm changing the lightbulb"
"Yes and I'm ironing your uniform"
Oh. For. God's. Sake. Back down the stairs. To the front door. Open door. Help Dad carry the shopping. Put back down. Go back for another.
"Can you put the dinner on?"
"erm, I'm helping Dad"
"yes and I'm ironing your football kit."
"Why do you need to iron my football kit?"
Into the kitchen. Light too bright. Put potatoes in the oven. Turn the oven on. Open can of beans. Pour into bowl.
"Have you changed the lightbulb yet!"
The Darkness of the NightIt's the middle of the night
And you stumble towards the light,
Completely drunk and yet
The voice in your head makes a bet
That it is nowhere near drunk
Enough to stop the thunk
And thud pounding in your head.
You make it to the light and now it is time for bed.
You sleep and you dream
But you seem
to be being invaded by a noise
so you wake and step over the toys
that litter the floor,
which your niece left by your door.
You carefully undergo
An operation to avoid the lego
Which is scattered about the room
And you know your feet are doomed
And you feel the pain as the brick
Enters your feet and so you pick
It out and hop in silent agony,
Across the floor to safety.
It's pitch black and you edge towards
The stairs, care full not to tread on the board
Too late! The squeak that seems
Louder than is deemed
To be humanly possible
But yet it does the impossible
And wakes the cat from its slumber
So it scratches your leg in a number
Of places and you sigh a little
As the blood begins
The tale of a TheatreThe door closed with a satisfying click behind me, and the dust swirled into the air, settling on the tattered sheets that hung over old pieces of sets, like skin on a corpse. Red velvet chairs stood sombrely to attention, looking almost like gravestones, a reminder of the audience that once was. A mouse scurries out of one of the many cracks in the wall, and runs under the pile of old clothes, costumes from long ago.
A thin beam of light streams down from a gap in the roof. A spotlight, waiting for a star to shine onto. This place used to home to the music halls, Ol' Crazy Tom says, when it re-opened, before that it was an old theatre, home to the Duke's company.
"been here since 1660ish and that be a long time. At night, as I sit here, you can see the ghost of old actors and actresses on the stage, you can hear the organ play, you can hear the words of the past. It's like they never left. "
I have always been told to ignore the words of strangers, and equally of urban myth and folklo
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More