Littlelifebird

Rakehell, Romance

Small clutches crab on my coat shoulders
Ringing sound chirp singing round
My bleeding ear
Your little stories smiling
Tired
At my red-stained lips
Dribble bottle patch on the tree fall
Big bottle in my hand honey
Pink fingertips from blackberries
Quivering bottle glass
Drip drip
Pencil on the paper Perubird
Glass digging the mouth soft
Swallowing hard the honey chirp
Fluttery leaf wings crab clutch my nose
Knead my eyelids with your beak
Pretty Perubird
Sweet song in my dusk heralding sleep
Tell me your little stories
So I can scribble and not weep.

Quest for Threads

Rakehell

You know back in olden times I’m pretty sure you could get a decent suit tailored for…what? Less than £800 of our modern money. Why not now? I mean I know there are websites that claim to custom make suits based on what you tell them, and they’re based all over the world. But I’m not entirely convinced. Not too bad a deal. Not a tailor near home I can chat to and get to know though. Not the service that used to be and, yes, has run heart in hand to people with more money than…well, maybe dress sense.

Folks, call me crazy but I think there’s still a good tailor out there. One who could make up something nice for, let’s say £600. Make it a challenge. I want to go out and find this person. I’m going to scour London town, then spread out into the sticks if I have to, but this person will be found. And we will all be able to make use of his/her fine services in having two beautiful suits made for what probably would’ve been the price of one.

As I head out on this task however, I’m not going to step on the toes of sweet tailoring folk just trying to make a living. If I can, I’ll write up a detailed and good review for every one I pass, which, until I find THE ONE, will conclude with “But their prices are still pretty steep.” The rest is good honest advertising. Another thing you don’t see every day. I’ll also compose some tailoring tips if I can. Now, don’t go thinking I’m buying a suit from every one of them. I’m not that flush. But I’ll investigate and get answers.

Check out the first post in this chain for the beginning: Favourbrook. The people who did me a three-piece white suit for a birthday a while back.

Edit: Also, definitely going to look for anyone who tailors for women. I know that exists but I hear about it even less than tailoring for men. Stay tuned.

To Muse

Fiction, Rakehell, Romance

My poem is you on that hill in France, and their breaths mingling with those of ancient Cathars that drift on the breeze like so many wizards on magic carpets, spreading unknown secrets to unknown passers-by searching for mountains.
My poem is Peruvian crags, broken sheepfolds, dusty books whose pages turn at ghostly hands, responding to the stare of unseen eyes. Their dead dedications living eternally.
Lips on coffee cups forgetting sticky soft reflections on the enamel, rose dreams of romance in a dark and waking world. Eyes that explore faces to avoid eyes and eyes to avoid faces and eyes with souls like velvet cushions.
My poem is two people lazing on a jungle bough with sunglasses and vests. An isolated day on a beach, in a dream city, where lives are made and broken and seen and ignored.
My poem is an English teacher. Sam Feathers crying lascivious tears at Arcadian shepherds, the regency chair at the front of the class talking of its myriad masters, novel man dancing round disruptions and a doctor talking tearaways with the vegan lioness whilst the sun kisses their garden table and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit.
My poem is untold stories is walls of words and loving sentiments is decisions made in stone to be despaired, is comfortable shoes beneath the viewing plane. The stars of night and the shades of day, the couple who cannot help but hold hands. The moment of union forgotten.
My poem is trees and trees and trees You. Sit. And. See. Me. Out. Of. The. Corner. Of. Your. Eye. My poem is the silence that speaks. That licks the wild honey pie. Chalk figures masking silhouettes, bass beats of bloody red purple hearts sucking and pumping. Caves of memorial emotion and fleeting feelings flying succour across seas to rougher shores. Fleshy warmth. Head that opens and rays out. Born from a tree imprisoned in ice, travelled through time and exuding life. My poem is a will to you of a nightime moment of pondering songs
It is
I’m gonna sleep now.