Wednesday 8 February 2012

Still Water

    Leanne Bridgewater

          Alas. A bellowing. To the bragged, bridgend sends the river rushing blood flows
          Comes to surface, a shard of glass, cribbed between the ribs. One more right in the heart.

The centre of attention. Only the echo of a hollow expression can take up the offer. There's a rumbling sensation. Tries to shift from centerpiece but the ornamental may be instituted, into broken pieces. In downward motion, a collision. The heart splatters bats like cave(wo)men out of caves. For the breast shivers in sight, like a moth being attacked.
Move forth through rocky sands. These sands were all rocks once. Now, a mixture of elements. What's beneath is a blur. A movie picture. Tones of low, self esteem, motion, light beams into chemical pits. Strips of glass tease the body. Tear away in the skin. Mark a territory. Alas, a map. Yet no way home.

Sincere greed and needs to deal with. One may feel alone, and be washed ashore, naked and cold. Still, has a warm heart that is eager to have a whole world. Then, dangers it could all be put out. Some one or thing, whether wind or oral, of the sky or being may blow it out. Like a candle. Yet the wish may not be taken. The celebration is not equal. Does not come close. May not take up the offer of a dance? Might not we move and sway like sea creatures, but a'float dead bodied in a bracket trap - only to be caught in the sentence yet easily taken out as, not being a necessity. Scattered brain collapse, into amore. Pick up not the bad pieces, but bad apples.

Juice of life: is a cause for concern. Move further away from the addiction. To place a placebo in the emotion, which is thrown around the bends. Bruises be the water brigade. Any fire to put out?
When the wind blows, over drout. Thirst seizes, more yawns = a radical unwakening. No sense gallops into evolution, without succesion of a sad business occupator. Whether that be the accounts worker or the funeral direction.

Direction of the river is non-understandable, somewhat interesting. Having only lungs to breath in the rapid air. Gasping... for a brew. Sugar is the option. Is life sweet enough, or even the person in the shoes we can see if we look down. Or no shoes, may be the case. Came across two people in life that wear nothing on feet. They be a poet and a musician. Admirance goes out to them like a radio receiving signal. No fuzz on the TV.

Harvest's the bad thoughts. An acorn for every one upon the head. An abashment, laid the lumps upon the skull and skin. They will be the sugar.

When hyperventilating, the life lived so far flashes, with sweat that drips as if the memory's leaking out of you. By now, forth the saddest drown. It's as if your body's beat the guts out of a gymnasium. As we know, it is the unmechanical manual everyday that is the exercise.

Peers the ees lids and singe the lashes. Memories go in flashes. All are imagined as single boats. Which one to get upon. May one take self to a happy place? If not, combined thoughts soon run like steam out of kettle. The sound of a rocket, forcing you to choose. If not a rocket, then as piece, item be a timer. Time is running out. The alert has struck. They have called battleship.

Time lapse. Laser quests don't impress the stark that strikes. Flood lights.

Leanne Bridgewater is 22  and is currently studying for her MA in Creative Writing. Her  work is very poetic, passionate about visuals and sounds.

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