A rose is a rose is awake

My claws, my thorns, sharpen daily with the thought of your so fragile flesh.  Soon I cannot hide from you.  I can feel the petals shrieking to emerge and I cannot hold them back.  If I had lungs, I would cough in delight at the thought of the moist scent between your thighs.  My petals when they awaken will be the same shade as you are down there in your sweet and secret place.

That day comes and it is your cruel hands that wield the secateurs.  I quiver as my claws cut you and your blood falls to feed roots and you smile at the scent of me even as you demolish me.

I can creep no more.

It ain't that I ain't writing.

The truth is, I write every day.  I just forget to post and then it's months later with nothing posted.  This has to change.

Truth be told, time marches like the Wehrmacht until we find ourselves at the Rubicon completely unprepared.  That, my friend is the thing we call life.  Right now, I feel as though I've crossed the Rubicon but my troops have decided on a package holiday in Rhaetia.  

That's the way stuff goes sometimes.  I tell myself, yeah, I'll do ninety minutes a day and then it will all be fine.  And I do ninety minutes but it's to no avail.  Much of that ninety minutes is spent playing with fonts and layouts, so here's a thing, from tomorrow let's NOT do the script thing as part of the ninety minutes.  Script-writing is so much slower than prose. (So's poetry for that matter but poetry tends to flow naturally from the pen) prose sort of drips like the drops an old man's penis cannot help but retain for later.

Great, cliche's give way to visceral, sexual similes and metaphors.  There was a time when I didn't do that but lately, my city has developed a plague of concrete towers, each thrusting upward to fuck the sky as a way of asserting the wealth and power of the one per cent.  Well bully for them.  Maybe the time has come to bring viagra to the poor or bicalutamide to the rich.  Either way, this particular phallic metaphor has gone on too long.

Let's loose that way of thinking and dream instead of birds in flight, although I'll try hard not to be anything like the Ted Hughes I was once accused of  being.  For me, the Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hartog notwithstanding, birds are not metaphor and especially not corvids because corvids, the punks of the bird world, are my totem.  It is their power I claim.

So, with power claimed, what then can I do?

Only time will tell.