Broadway Night Blues – Dead Deer

Broadway Night Blues

Lost, high, lost highs beckon,
Adulation over, low and lost.
Shoes leak, socks wrecked
On feet, filthy, sodden, lost.

Found, low, lowly floundering,
Muttering ‘I was adored once, too’
Lines learnt, lines surround her,
Sing high, lost song low, too.

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Today I wrote  between 12:07 and 12:17.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site. NEW PAPERBACK COMING SOON

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here

Her Name Was Elle – Dead Deer

Her Name Was Elle

I saw her, she fell.
An elegant ankle, turned
Black skirt, black tights, black shoes.
Standing there, I too fell.
Her name was Elle.

I rushed, where she fell,
She whimpered, I asked,
You hurt? You need? You want?
Helping there, I too fell.
Her name was Elle.
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Today I wrote  between 11:35 and 11:45.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here.

Illuminating Illustrations – Dead Deer

Illuminating Illustrations

Illuminating rides through the shadows,

Flicking in and out of the sharp light

The unsettling dark, brought to fore

meadowfuls of fundamental insight.

 

Cranial cavity holds more than is able,

pulsing, aching with overflowing urtications,

unsoothed, still, yet, still – less stable,

filled, full, flowed-over with cicatrix illustrations

 

 

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Today I wrote  between 23:38 and 23:48.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here.

Whispers of Wonder – Dead Deer

Whispers of Wonder

As soft winds caress

tired, silky sands,

a heart whispers less

forlorn its failed rise.

 

At once lost, it cries,

and finds to address

anew, ready it flies

and once more, careless.

 

Today I wrote  between 19:07 and 19:17.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here.

 

April Blushes – Dead Deer

I enjoyed doing this one a lot, a real lot. But it must be noted straight away that most of the words, and most of the ideas are not my own. Influence? Adaptation? Theft? You decide. 

April Blushes
openly copied and mildly adapted from a piece by Amelia Fletcher

Every day she wakes up
Her life will be a movie
All the things she does, written in her diary
But when the day is done, she cannot tell the truth

Pretend her life’s exciting
Pretend she’ll never lose

April Blush was a present story day
April Blush was a pop celebrity
You can lie to everyone
But please, please don’t lie to me

Now she is a popstar
With her own TV show
Tells them all her stories
And hopes they’ll never know

Now her life’s exciting
Now she’ll never lose

Don’t be anybody else
Forget about the rest
You’ll always be April
You’ll always be yourself

April runs every day
Her life runs by too fast
All the things she hides, written in the papers
April blushes to read them, she cannot tell the truth

April Blush is a present story day
April Blush is a pop celebrity
She lied to everyone
But why, why did you lie to me?

Now April lies for all time
Her life was like a movie
All the things she did, written in a billion words
And now her star has sunk, who can tell the truth?

Was her life exciting?
Did she win or lose?

 

Today I ‘wrote’  between 12:32 and 12:42. I was prompted by an idea here. This may seem an extremely brazen attempt to pass off someone else’s work as my own, but it immediately entered my head upon seeing the prompt. I have always felt the story of the song might be useful to continue, and although I don’t claim I have done as good a job as Fletcher (et al?) would have, it does, at least, give my own words a place in it. 

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here.

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Evidence of Greatness – Dead Deer

Evidence of Greatness

Often in the never-lost lanes of the Old Town
A cat is happened upon, a feral feline
At once at home, and without a home
Lost, found, sin hogar, sin casa, sin nada.

Casi siempre en las calles (always lost), of esta
Pinche cuidad, puedes ver un hombre,
Perdido. Yes, you can find this man, and
He cannot know, what it is to be home elsewhere.

Is he lost? This is home, to him.
Anda, duerme, come (casi nada) aquí, always,
Underneath these stars, the electric lights
That illuminate his once-loved face, una cara
Que tiene, somewhere, escondido, evidencia de su grandeza.

Today I wrote between 16:14  and 16:24. I was propted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

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If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

Jan 29th – Slipping between the seams, there was no turning back

January 29thSlipping between the seams, there was no turning back

22.56-23.06

She had drawn their life
on an old piece of sailcloth;
a map, of sorts, of them.

On it, she had charted
the turns they made, moves
from one side of there to
the other. At first, it was seamless,
literally: one piece of cloth
was enough for all that they were.

Then the wind changed;
and they turned left, then
right, following the sun, or the stars,
or something. Anything. Sometimes
they led, and the something anything
followed, catching up, scrawling
its lines across the canvas map
of them.

After years, one piece was not
enough, so she stitched another strip
across the side, another
on the lower edge, joined by threads,
pulled through by a curved needle.

She could follow their journey
across years, marking time
in stitches. But time marked itself
in stitches, and tempers frayed
the edges. They hemmed themselves
in, as best they could. Edging

closer to the edge of the map
of themselves. And then one
dewbright morning, she ran her finger
across five years ago, and found
the joins giving way. Slipping
her finger between the seams
of then and before then,
she was caught in nowhere,
between time, and the thread that
held time together was wrapped
wire tight around her finger.
To pull it out was to break
the thread. There was no turning back.

 

 

Inspired by a prompt from here

Yorkshire Pudding People – Dead Deer

Yorkshire Pudding People

Norfolk Dumplings, atop a warm rich stew
Lancashire Hotpot, for cold rainy nights.
Cumberland Sausage, curled like a screw,
Chelsea Buns, rich cinnamon bites.

Cornish Pasty, handy to carry,
Bedfordshire Clanger, almost its equal.
Staffordshire Oat Cakes, lovely with cherry,
Yorkshire Pudding, lets eat, come on people.

 

 

Today I wrote from 10:26 to 10:36. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

 

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He Needed to Find a Way Out – Dead Deer

As They Chatted Away, He Needed to Find a Way Out (Maastricht Bound)

The over-heated railway carriage
Lends credence to the sapphire skies,
With the Golden Sun within, on this
Deceitful mid-morning.

Frost lingering, still, in the shadows
Is the reveal – behind the curtain – that
Unmasks the true unperfect day.

For it is now the depths of
Winter; ‘Wanter’, a word that is
At once more comforting yet
More honest than the flinty ‘winter’.

Through the angled beauties of the old town,
Deep crevices around. On through
Industry and into the wide verdant
Crescent valley.

Young people fuss carefully over their
Yet-younger people
For one an eye-patch, the other minute enough
To be the very essence of ‘person’
Here, now, unknowing, fully-formed,
Unformed, knowing more than we can know.

Trees cling to their last vestige
Of browned-green, the sun beats
On fields in shade
Yet the earth is dead, is resting?

Why such greenery and why such new life
Mocking me anew?
As here I am,
I sit, I live,
Alive. Cold. Decayed, devastated, destroyed.

 

Today I wrote from 13:57 to 14:07. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Time was running out and his watch had stopped dead – Dead Deer

Time Was Running Out

The last time he came
Through this grey door
He found the thing that
Is now trying to elude.

So slowly had he entered
that troubled moment
when the sky, the moon,
the clouds, the stars, fell

Yet all is well this blue
And yellow evening
So good it is that
He rushes in without

Time has come, the time
Went well, his song
Not the singer was
All that urges now

Even as his very being
Speeded onward toward
That fateful day he knew
His watch, his time had gone.

 

Today I wrote from 15:08 to 15:18. I was prompted by the idea   here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here