Showing posts with label Petra Whiteley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Petra Whiteley. Show all posts
Café In The Edge of The Evening
By Petra Whiteley
The window of the café is smeared with misty prints, their odour is nauseating like a half shrunk birthday balloon, but here on the white red soft tablecloth is vinegar to clear the view. It only takes one moment to know that it only stinks from the outside, so as long as one is sitting here, the nausea is out there and the vinegar stays unused where it is.
Behind the glass is the black river of coffee that marks this city as an uneventful facefull sea. Unbreathable and sticky.
Patterns of gnarled branches, stamped by the God-the-Coin Machine, change in antish, liquid lines under the thick foam, surfacing stripped off the omens and marching samewise.
It's a day of all somes, when all the churches' wonderful dears bare it all in Vanity Fair.
On the edge of the High Street there are some beggars, they have no shoes for their taloned feet, but they have enough to get a little bit of something else. The beefed roast of crack. They are buying the delusions that mongrels with the ships pull out of their dirty ass-on pockets, their stinking shit matted tails with a great deal of bombast swing like guillotine's swish. It is of no wonder that they had to glue hard the labels on their chimeric wares - 'I am the chosen One. The Masses love me, me, the Star of no sky', between their few yellowed fangs howling incomprehensibly that old Bros song as a lucky charm. For today, their profit is made and the beggars chose their air. Then they place their short, fat fingers on the bricks, gather the audience, their own shouts and shrieks will have them believe it's Beethoven's Ninth. Although the audience knows that Lady Gaga sounds better than their asinine notes, they politely clap. What else can they do? Some acts of kindness survive
still.
White rose petals fall one inch an hour.
T and I burst out laughing. There surely is a classless society parading in front of our eyes. We look away from the spectacles behind the windows and settle on careful examination of silence and sound, sipping minimally, watching the colours imprinted on the skin of our eyes.
Let the beggars do their bitching, their shrunken passion clocking the paltry minutes between their awkward vainglorious legs.
- - -
Petra Whiteley was born in Czech and lives in UK since 1993 and is the author of 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press, 2009) and 'The Nomad's Trail' (Ettrick Forest Press, 2008), she is a regular writer for The Glasgow Review and Osprey, poetry and prose published in many print and online magazines.
By Petra Whiteley
The window of the café is smeared with misty prints, their odour is nauseating like a half shrunk birthday balloon, but here on the white red soft tablecloth is vinegar to clear the view. It only takes one moment to know that it only stinks from the outside, so as long as one is sitting here, the nausea is out there and the vinegar stays unused where it is.
Behind the glass is the black river of coffee that marks this city as an uneventful facefull sea. Unbreathable and sticky.
Patterns of gnarled branches, stamped by the God-the-Coin Machine, change in antish, liquid lines under the thick foam, surfacing stripped off the omens and marching samewise.
It's a day of all somes, when all the churches' wonderful dears bare it all in Vanity Fair.
On the edge of the High Street there are some beggars, they have no shoes for their taloned feet, but they have enough to get a little bit of something else. The beefed roast of crack. They are buying the delusions that mongrels with the ships pull out of their dirty ass-on pockets, their stinking shit matted tails with a great deal of bombast swing like guillotine's swish. It is of no wonder that they had to glue hard the labels on their chimeric wares - 'I am the chosen One. The Masses love me, me, the Star of no sky', between their few yellowed fangs howling incomprehensibly that old Bros song as a lucky charm. For today, their profit is made and the beggars chose their air. Then they place their short, fat fingers on the bricks, gather the audience, their own shouts and shrieks will have them believe it's Beethoven's Ninth. Although the audience knows that Lady Gaga sounds better than their asinine notes, they politely clap. What else can they do? Some acts of kindness survive
still.
White rose petals fall one inch an hour.
T and I burst out laughing. There surely is a classless society parading in front of our eyes. We look away from the spectacles behind the windows and settle on careful examination of silence and sound, sipping minimally, watching the colours imprinted on the skin of our eyes.
Let the beggars do their bitching, their shrunken passion clocking the paltry minutes between their awkward vainglorious legs.
- - -
Petra Whiteley was born in Czech and lives in UK since 1993 and is the author of 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press, 2009) and 'The Nomad's Trail' (Ettrick Forest Press, 2008), she is a regular writer for The Glasgow Review and Osprey, poetry and prose published in many print and online magazines.
A Scarcity of Lazarus, who is she?
By Petra Whiteley
H'Anna K floats in the translucent green glass of the bottle, carefully placed on the dressing table. She is as beautiful as ever. Her skin is whiter than my first day at school, whiter than the dentist's chair, whiter than scalpel of a surgeon cutting my legs to separate the red Orinoco from the dirt of wounds, the crucifixion of childhood; although H-Anna whispers "We were Never Never children! You and I!” she winks at me, her eyes swallow the Sun; they swallow the cats from all over London.
We go to her garden, it is overgrown like mine should be, the rain comes down at it hard, but as for us, it does not touch our skin at all, the polluted water avoids us like the plague. Before we dripped into the jungle of the city, she sunk her bazooka right into her fragile air. I felt the vapours, it was enough for everything to remain bitten by the colours that it was born in before the Eden fuck up. She folds and straightens her skirt carefully, sits delicately on the lilac painted bench. I cut some flowers for magic show later, now they bite my nails, the tendrils of the flowers grip on vowels of broken languages in the high pitch, their French manicure will cost me ten of my lives, but I don't care. The machine in a hat and an elegantly woven rope around the thick neck, the machine with the set of blazing teeth in a wide grin, the giant of ten stun grenade arms is at work in the City of London, it's counting the hair of the slaves, who will not remember their names, or their children, they'll only move their arms up and down in a slow mesmerizing motion. It will not bother us here. We talk of careful slicing of silences, those that no tongue has dared to shape.
It grows dark; H'Anna K takes the umbrella folded underneath the decaying wood, upon that tight rope we walk back to the house. That customized house with amnesia of elephants in its belly, it belches with acid of putting food into the mouth steadily over the years, synthetic fabrication of cranked up minutes, droning scales of hours chewing on the vital functions, which are now the size of mashed up peas.
Nevertheless she ignores this dust gathered so, throws it like a dishcloth into the dustbin from where it will crawl out in the morning. I follow her, trying hard not to trip over the small abandoned porcelain tidbits on the floor. I know this is never going to repeat. She invites me for a cup of tea, and then we enter her paintings. There are the grey empty wombs of death, with her twisted hungering fingers of pain. We dive into its terrors, its layers of breakdown. There are also her dreams, the soothing paws of tigers. I have their amber eyes in my sockets. We emerge from the asylum for the girls unadjusted, unadjusted still but in one piece. We are two small points bobbing up and down on the cold summer sea under the colossal chair with a giant skeleton of Buddha, his decomposing skin loosely hanging on the skull, blown out of his bones, bones corroded, he sits there, laughing and laughing into the eternity, that withered jaw, spelling out the joke of existence. The ice of words reaches further, we find it right on the stairs that lead out, somewhere. Out. But step there, regardless.
- - -
'All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your 'reality'. Thus Spake Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
Petra Whiteley was born in Czech and lives in UK since 1993 and is the author of 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press, 2009) and 'The Nomad's Trail' (Ettrick Forest Press, 2008), she is a regular writer for The Glasgow Review and Osprey, poetry and prose published in many print and online magazines.
By Petra Whiteley
H'Anna K floats in the translucent green glass of the bottle, carefully placed on the dressing table. She is as beautiful as ever. Her skin is whiter than my first day at school, whiter than the dentist's chair, whiter than scalpel of a surgeon cutting my legs to separate the red Orinoco from the dirt of wounds, the crucifixion of childhood; although H-Anna whispers "We were Never Never children! You and I!” she winks at me, her eyes swallow the Sun; they swallow the cats from all over London.
We go to her garden, it is overgrown like mine should be, the rain comes down at it hard, but as for us, it does not touch our skin at all, the polluted water avoids us like the plague. Before we dripped into the jungle of the city, she sunk her bazooka right into her fragile air. I felt the vapours, it was enough for everything to remain bitten by the colours that it was born in before the Eden fuck up. She folds and straightens her skirt carefully, sits delicately on the lilac painted bench. I cut some flowers for magic show later, now they bite my nails, the tendrils of the flowers grip on vowels of broken languages in the high pitch, their French manicure will cost me ten of my lives, but I don't care. The machine in a hat and an elegantly woven rope around the thick neck, the machine with the set of blazing teeth in a wide grin, the giant of ten stun grenade arms is at work in the City of London, it's counting the hair of the slaves, who will not remember their names, or their children, they'll only move their arms up and down in a slow mesmerizing motion. It will not bother us here. We talk of careful slicing of silences, those that no tongue has dared to shape.
It grows dark; H'Anna K takes the umbrella folded underneath the decaying wood, upon that tight rope we walk back to the house. That customized house with amnesia of elephants in its belly, it belches with acid of putting food into the mouth steadily over the years, synthetic fabrication of cranked up minutes, droning scales of hours chewing on the vital functions, which are now the size of mashed up peas.
Nevertheless she ignores this dust gathered so, throws it like a dishcloth into the dustbin from where it will crawl out in the morning. I follow her, trying hard not to trip over the small abandoned porcelain tidbits on the floor. I know this is never going to repeat. She invites me for a cup of tea, and then we enter her paintings. There are the grey empty wombs of death, with her twisted hungering fingers of pain. We dive into its terrors, its layers of breakdown. There are also her dreams, the soothing paws of tigers. I have their amber eyes in my sockets. We emerge from the asylum for the girls unadjusted, unadjusted still but in one piece. We are two small points bobbing up and down on the cold summer sea under the colossal chair with a giant skeleton of Buddha, his decomposing skin loosely hanging on the skull, blown out of his bones, bones corroded, he sits there, laughing and laughing into the eternity, that withered jaw, spelling out the joke of existence. The ice of words reaches further, we find it right on the stairs that lead out, somewhere. Out. But step there, regardless.
- - -
'All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your 'reality'. Thus Spake Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
Petra Whiteley was born in Czech and lives in UK since 1993 and is the author of 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press, 2009) and 'The Nomad's Trail' (Ettrick Forest Press, 2008), she is a regular writer for The Glasgow Review and Osprey, poetry and prose published in many print and online magazines.
The Silence Manual - Diagram of the parts included.
By Petra Whiteley
'A bondman is always subject to a free man.'
- - The Trial, Franz Kafka
I have hunted, I have brought the hunter home with all his rabbits, stuffed deep into his many pockets. How gently he whacked those small necks with the back of the hand!
The next rabbit already twitching to be touching those hands, to be skinned human, that tingling call of grass in Eden (or something like that). Truly that twitch was for the sake of their ears, the delicate deliciously impaled soft flesh welcoming earrings - all they ever wanted is to belong, now they were chosen to feel so. Those big hands held the promise of those cruciation garden pleasures to be given so graciously, so freely, so lovingly.
I'd like to say I was never one of those rabbits...
Yet I knew the smell in his pockets, the exciting sound of the swish of the hands and the soft hairs, the skin, trembling beneath, expecting. Yes, I was mesmerised too.
Only I couldn't wait for that beautiful moment of the ultimate intoxication of life blasting my veins through and for the majestic explosion echoing and swirling the major notes, taste it on my tongue as wordless I would be blissfully left with the final swell.
Only little does one realise what obsession the escaped rabbit can be to the hunter. He's still out there searching his house, all its nooks and crannies, and throwing the chairs around, pulling out the draws, dirty cupboards with precisely placed spicy objects, cursing the absentee with all the roar he can muster. When they come knocking on the door, he carefully positions the hard pressed clothes, they are red because he's oh so passionate. Light is his way. The rabbit is propped by the wire into proportion of towering Baphomet, slowly de-rabbitised in the tradition, give it number 13, day of Friday. Soon fading into the fairy tales where everyone becomes (eventually) clearly given the right place in the alphabet.
Let the rabbits boil their silvery echoes for their wondrous huntsman so he sets back to the softly killings, his palms the gift of the moss. I shall ponder why I've brought my home into his hands to begin with. That is the guilt to carry along in the necklace of them.
I dream of Thames at midnight, where at least a rabbit can choose the softness of one's own never ever after and push hard towards the dawn in the city.
- - -
Petra Whiteley is an author of poetry books 'The Nomad's Trail' and 'The Moulding of Seers', she is writing regularly for Osprey, Eleutheria and The Glasgow Review on variety of issues and literary movements, her poetry and fiction has appeared in various online and print magazines. She's in the process of hunting down a publisher for a book that crosses several genders, dystopia and fantasy to name a few.
By Petra Whiteley
'A bondman is always subject to a free man.'
- - The Trial, Franz Kafka
I have hunted, I have brought the hunter home with all his rabbits, stuffed deep into his many pockets. How gently he whacked those small necks with the back of the hand!
The next rabbit already twitching to be touching those hands, to be skinned human, that tingling call of grass in Eden (or something like that). Truly that twitch was for the sake of their ears, the delicate deliciously impaled soft flesh welcoming earrings - all they ever wanted is to belong, now they were chosen to feel so. Those big hands held the promise of those cruciation garden pleasures to be given so graciously, so freely, so lovingly.
I'd like to say I was never one of those rabbits...
Yet I knew the smell in his pockets, the exciting sound of the swish of the hands and the soft hairs, the skin, trembling beneath, expecting. Yes, I was mesmerised too.
Only I couldn't wait for that beautiful moment of the ultimate intoxication of life blasting my veins through and for the majestic explosion echoing and swirling the major notes, taste it on my tongue as wordless I would be blissfully left with the final swell.
Only little does one realise what obsession the escaped rabbit can be to the hunter. He's still out there searching his house, all its nooks and crannies, and throwing the chairs around, pulling out the draws, dirty cupboards with precisely placed spicy objects, cursing the absentee with all the roar he can muster. When they come knocking on the door, he carefully positions the hard pressed clothes, they are red because he's oh so passionate. Light is his way. The rabbit is propped by the wire into proportion of towering Baphomet, slowly de-rabbitised in the tradition, give it number 13, day of Friday. Soon fading into the fairy tales where everyone becomes (eventually) clearly given the right place in the alphabet.
Let the rabbits boil their silvery echoes for their wondrous huntsman so he sets back to the softly killings, his palms the gift of the moss. I shall ponder why I've brought my home into his hands to begin with. That is the guilt to carry along in the necklace of them.
I dream of Thames at midnight, where at least a rabbit can choose the softness of one's own never ever after and push hard towards the dawn in the city.
- - -
Petra Whiteley is an author of poetry books 'The Nomad's Trail' and 'The Moulding of Seers', she is writing regularly for Osprey, Eleutheria and The Glasgow Review on variety of issues and literary movements, her poetry and fiction has appeared in various online and print magazines. She's in the process of hunting down a publisher for a book that crosses several genders, dystopia and fantasy to name a few.
