beauty, love, poetry, Uncategorized, women

rain of my attention

Beneath the actions,

The calm authority with which

I conduct myself,

The supple confidence

Which comes from being

Unencumbered by restlessness

Some part of me reveals itself

Rough hands made delicate

Deep, gruff voice softened

Into chuckles

Trained but not domesticated

My words are cool sips

Smoothing out into bursts of warmth

And each time I enter the room,

It becomes the first time,

And a rush of adolescence

Returns

Like the building of static

Before a storm

And you dance in the rain of my attention

The ribald peals of laughter

Ringing like church bells

And this, the closest

I’ve come to knowing faith

Makes me feel

As close to salvation

As I’m likely

To

Get

 

Advertisements
Standard
beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, Uncategorized, women

to skip into the garden and play.

The dominant current of my weather,

Somewhere between a storm

And a bright, cloudless day

Dancing beneath the light,

Giggling at the rumble of thunder

You skip into the garden to play

Draw my attention so I’m

Watching from the doorway,

Enchanted by the joy of your face

All the small pieces matter,

But sometimes I take a pure,

Child like delight

Basking in you for a moment.

You are free to be small

The guilt of need gone

Like a bad dream upon waking

I sit, in stoic observation

Or focused purpose

But some part of you

Calls to me

Across space

Across time.

Framed in sunshine

Cloaked in dusk

It’s almost too much to bear

But not quite

More likely

It’s never enough,

But we deserve to love

And be loved like that

Forever

If not for a moment.

Standard
Uncategorized

Update

So I am 116 pages into the first draft of my science fiction adventure novel in longhand, and I am writing short stories for submissions to anthologies, which means I can’t share them until they’re rejected so forgive the odd lapse in content but there’s only so many hours in the day to achieve everything and being published is part of my overall purpose.

There will be episodes of The Transformation coming soon and I’ve also made notes towards wrapping up The Wild Man and The Bridge series, both of which were curtailed by personal circumstances but will be completed as I hate leaving things unfinished. Once I’ve finished the first draft of the science fiction novel, then I will be editing a completed first draft of an earlier book (possibly my English Religious Cult Thriller or Police Corruption Thriller, which aren’t their titles by the way) for submission to my agent and then publishers.

I love what I do. When someone points out I am a little too prolific, I have a moment of cognitive dissonance because I love my process, but sometimes I wonder if I’m frightened of any degree of success on a level I

*shakes hat after performance*

If you enjoy my writing and poetry, and feel so inclined, here’s a way you can show your appreciation.

http://ko-fi.com/mbblissett

Click on the link and buy me a cup of coffee.

Thank you for reading my work, it means a great deal to me. If something I’ve written has cheered you up or even passed some time, that’s the reason I got into this in the first place.

Standard
beauty, love, poetry, sex, Uncategorized, women

King Bear Returns To His Cave

I return to my cave,

Wallowing in silence,

Full and empty at the same time,

The sticky sweetness of honey

Still on my claws,

Small enough

To fit into the space I call

An invisible kingdom

And you, my queen,

Rest there without cause to fear,

We part with understanding,

Aficionados of solitude,

Yet the swell of your hip

Calls my hand between pages,

Not maudlin but resting,

Replenished in the quiet, warm twilight,

Yet I raise my nose to the air,

Breathe you in

From so far away.

Standard
fiction, grief, short fiction, Uncategorized

Exposure

 

My life was bare walls, no surprises in the laundry hamper, the disappointed relief when you watch porn in the standard browser without worrying if anyone else will check. The sharp relief and then the slow entropic ebb of disappointment afterwards. I’d let go of salon visits and gym sessions without care for the impact.

 

My phone rang.

‘Please don’t hang up.’

‘What reason is there to talk to you?’ I said.

Rage was pointless. She deployed her final tactic and my dull tone masked the contempt.

She breathed in. I remembered the sounds when we made love, all the neglected nerve endings stirred into life by my touch. Now it tasted of dust and raw meat.

My affair left me with a concrete block of guilt which sat on my chest with each breath. My anger towards her was a hammer swung into it.

 

‘I don’t know.’ she said.

 

We did things with one another we had never dared ask our partners. 

‘You are fucking dead.’ I said.

There was a choked whisper.

‘Why are you being like this?’ she said.

She came to the house whilst I was out. I imagined her, flushed with righteous indignation, telling my wife every detail of our relationship. On the drive home, I wondered if there were tears, but that’s something I chose for easing my feelings. Tossing a little compassion in her direction to mitigate my guilt is a child’s motif but panic shaves a good few years off your faculties.

Begging is distasteful when you’re an adult. It is worse when it fails to make anything better. No one showed up to make my case for me, how the comfort becomes ennui. You’re supposed to forget how they fucked you when you were an exciting proposition to them and accept tired, half hearted intercourse where they use your tongue or fingers as a sleeping pill.  The grey miasmal guilt became useful as I navigated the remains of my life.

 

Irritation choked my libido as I looked at myself in the mirror. Sallow and unshaven, dark smudges of fatigue jammed into the skin under my eyes.

 

She told me I was beautiful once. No one had done that before. The memory stung and I shoved it away.

 

‘Are you always this fucking stupid?’ I said.

 

Sobbing.  

 

‘Do you feel better for what you’ve done?’ I said.

 

My faded, ugly face forced itself into a mask of contempt. It fitted so well.

 

‘No.’ she said.

 

Her voice was small and soft.

 

‘Does it help you sleep at night? Hurting my wife and kids for something I did?’

 

She wept, but I felt nothing. It was a glass being dropped in an adjacent room for the impact it had on my emotions.

 

‘Never call me again. You’re fucking dead.’ I said.

 

I measured the time in cups of coffee and cigarettes. Blue afternoons nestling a sick misery alternating with harsh, sobbing conversations hearing my family spit their bile and pain at me.

 

I never thought about involving her family. We made our choices. We blocked one another on social media but I still nursed revenge fantasies but they all felt so small after what she had done. She knew where I was weakest and stuck the knife in where it would bleed the most.

 

Love does that better than anything. We open ourselves up to one another and alternate between ignored or derided so we go back to hiding within our lives but it doesn’t fucking stop the pressure, the skin hunger which requires novelty like a vampire needs blood. When she emailed me, Nostalgia made me weak and she promised it wouldn’t get aggressive.

 

She came with a bottle. Red wine, which she knew I liked.

 

A peace offering. It was difficult to hold in the anger so I drank the wine and walked the tightrope between civil and honest.

 

A wave of dizziness washed over me in tidal brushes of blackness. I tried to laugh but the muscles in my face didn’t move. I had forgotten about her work in the pharmacy. She was always industrious, a way to compensate for the lack of belief in her intelligence and with each sip she watched me succumb..

 

I tried to stand up but my legs went out from under me. She got out a second bottle from her handbag and straddled me as I laid there on the floor. I wondered why she was wearing gloves.

 

My face burned where the liquid splashed down. She aimed for my mouth but I turned my head and she caught my right cheek, burning it away to the bone. It stunk of sweet pork and the bitter chemical bouquet of the acid.

 

She stepped backwards, slipped on the laminate flooring and caught her head on the back of the dining room table, under the chin which snapped her neck before she laid there. I tried to scream but my tongue melted and I was choking on the sludgy remains, feeling the lights go out in my brain due to lack of oxygen and shock trauma.

 

My flatmate found me and called an ambulance. Quilted grafts rebuilt my cheek and tongue, but I had false teeth and it was afterwards, I decided dating wasn’t in my future.

 

It made the papers and the internet. People knew me on sight, and the reconstructed cheek was a mark of Cain, a scarlet A and it inspired equal parts disgust and pity. Children cried when they saw me and their parents pulled them away, scowling and muttering under their breath as they shot me with withering looks.

 

I had a room in a small flat and I spent the time writing.

 

The horror of the story made media rights profitable. An act of literary purging brought my family to a place where they could forgive but not forget. The money was welcome, but I had no use for it, not with the sense of place my disfigurement provided me with.

 

There was love for myself, a reason to be alone and a relinquishment of the burden of performance. I received offers, but they faded in time. My gratitude lent a clarity which allowed me to make one final decision regarding my life.

 

I dedicated the book to my children. I’d arranged my affairs, given them and my former wife control over the media rights. I finished the last draft and sent it to the publisher. There were pills and good brandy, a fat joint of a good, powerful weed which made swallowing the pills a slow and delicate affair.

There were good moments, slow and replayed from different angles.

 

The first date with my wife. Her face flushed with excitement, the awful shirt I wore, a boy pretending to be a man.

Children. The exhausted delirium of imposing order on beautiful bundles of chaos.

Her face, when we met for the first time. Being seen and wanting it, despite knowing it was destructive.

Single moments, alone when the light would look a particular way, and there was quiet.

My children’s future was secured and it felt like a good point to stop pretending I had a life beyond being a horrible warning.

 

Letting go was like taking off a tight pair of shoes after a long walk.

 

The light faded, and I went along with it.

 

She told me I was beautiful once.

 

In dying, I felt it.

 

Standard