whenilastspoke

Glittering shards of luminosity.

Mad Dogs

Coffee cup

I kind of enjoy
The silence of the night,
While still-warm coffee cups
Mark up the days.

Like the fit of old shoes,
I’m used to you–
Just animals walking,
Two by two.
Primal instincts
Notwithstanding,
The distinct feel
Of your hand in mine
Is fading–

But perhaps
It’s not too late.

The weight of
Romance lessens,
Teaching us
A sleight of hand,
But mad dogs make sure
We reach for stars

(Scared of what
Tomorrow brings,
We’ll hide our sorrow).

Crying, grasping–
Everybody goes through
Their own pain.

Here we are,
Again,
And so it goes,
The pose of people,
Playing games.
All we ever get
Are famous lines,
And divine lies
Brought a surprise–

But counter-attacks
Of council tax
Brought us down to earth.

I don’t know
How you feel,
Though, that doesn’t mean
This isn’t real.

Field

Yellow petals
On pavements
Stave off the guilt,
While strong winds blow
On fields of mud.
The harder
It is to go,
The harder we’ll try
To show our colours.

Dogged by
A feeling of dread,
The distant sound
Of sheep and cows
Is more profound

(A little longer now).

Searching for the answers,
Jumping over streams
Of mud and stones–
So far from home.
We’re locked in our own kingdoms,
Though I’ll let you in
Some time.

The tattered clink of rhyme;
Recurring themes of life
Capture fragments
Of surreal existence,

Making sense of
Indifference.

Stars

Cold, lonely stars–
Fireballs and clouds of dust
Abandoned us.
Odd tales of mighty gods,
Now fodder for the
Debating chair.

The vacant stare
Of heathens breathing,
(But not living),
Scared of our misgivings–
A brilliant wonderland of
Horrifying tales,
A living corpse.

Hormones are quicksand,
A dirty sleight of hand,
And we’re afraid of hurting–
Averting our own crises
As we fight our basic urges–
Diverging and distracted

(And emerging from a taxi,
Just a short way from home).

Creation and destruction,
Hanging on to lifebelts,
Melting into rivers
Of old bone and cold meat.

The feet that trod this towpath
Were rather faster than our pace,
In a race to beat our morals,
While feral beasts of innocence
Slaver at our backs.

Distracted by the cracks of logic,
We’ll fumble and decide
To ride the wave,
Until it dies–

Then, either cry,
Or laugh with triumph
(It hardly matters which).

We’re itching to caress,
Undress,
And make a secret
Pact or two,
But the act is merely whimsy,

(Lasting for eternity).

Preserving youth in glass–
Proof,
We once were vast.

Field

Read more poetry by Catherine Julianne. 

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My life in boxes.

IMG_1101My life in boxes. That’s the funny thing about living in London, you’re always on the move. Or so I’ve found. Having chosen to live in Elephant and Castle upon my arrival in the city for my Masters, I’ve spent the last couple of years regretting it. The area is noise, unreasonably dirty, loud, full of drunks and people shouting, and with little beauty to speak of. I don’t know if I’ve been judgmental, but I’ve found little to love in the intersection between Bermondsey and Kennington.

Is it bad that I just can’t wait to leave? My new flat is in Kentish Town, five minutes away from Camden. I can’t wait to be near the market, the lock, and the trendy pubs and bars just begging me to spend my wages there. Soon, I’ll be an authentic goth-hipster, full of metal and tattoos. Somehow I think my one nose piercing, one belly piercing and smattering of ear piercings just won’t be enough.

My life in boxes. I’ve been packing for days and somehow feel I’ve still made no headway. I rage at myself for buying so many books and clothes, curse my DVD and CD collection in this age of internet and digitisation. It’s not like anything I own is cool or PC anyway; I have a stuffed Golliwog, a psychedelic animal cushion named Crack Cat (ex-boyfriend story), and an ancient bear (very originally named Bear Bear), which I don’t think has ever been washed.

Packing up all your things is like dredging up all the memories you’ve ever wanted (or not wanted) to keep. I find heaps of old journals, the chronicler that I am. My aim one day is to be like Samuel Pepys, except maybe I will digitise all of my diaries to minimise their getting lost in a fire. It’s a bit sad finding old diaries, because I’ve recorded the exact day when my heart broke for the first time. It’s simple and sweet, I’d been so full of hope… I write merely, “I think today was the worst day of my life,” in characteristically understated teenage-Catherine style.

It’s only in my old age (mid-twenties) that I’ve become flamboyantly emotional. It’s finding the first true love of my life that opened the feeling-floodgates so that now I cry on cue, get worked up over everything and patently believe that my life is doomed over the slightest setback. And yet I wouldn’t trade it, I wouldn’t trade this open heart for the bastion of severity that I was. London has also done this to me, with its kaleidoscopic (grey) colours and siren wails, its monolithic buildings and city slums. There are beggars and millionaires, French and Turks, sinners and saints, all jostling for space in these centuries-old streets.

My life in boxes. I don’t know what I’ll find in Kentish Town; perhaps I’ll hate it even more than SE1. But it’s my life to do with as I choose, and if I want to haul around dozens of boxes full of trinkets and tat, that is my choice as well. One day, I’ll stop beating myself up about it. And protect the china in bubble-wrap, this time.