Barefoot.

mylefttesticle

Barefoot she felt the morning mist on her feet as she looked at her reflection in the water. 6.45 am to be precise this was a reflection of her life today, yesterday and tomorrow. Slowly bending her knees so her hands feel the mist and grasping wild leaves she scrapes away eighteen years of other peoples perceptions from her face and slowly blossoms into the cold hard truth of just her skin. Her eyes not soulful like others but not vacant like some see within herself the pain and destruction life has portrayed and like veins purple and blue running like electric currents through her nimble frame she removes another layer of deep breaths that never take way her lightness but heavy is what she knows and how she lifts. Her heart thumping and big exposed through nettles that manifest big and red like juicy strawberries growing in fields of overly trodden less interested fields that stay in perpetual darkness.

Her clothes flimsy cling to her carpark like body, cars park and leave hourly rate paid, displayed and check, tickets inserted & time ticking down in hours, minutes and finally seconds her clock ticking tic tok exploding silently within a radius of deep dark matter as her legs shoot straight over her head and she lays silently wishing it was something else until fountains clean and spray away senses of any self worth that lingered accidentally in her forest of overgrown thoughts and inhibitions.

Night is day and day is night both dark both velvet red caking shadows that follow her mind down staircases lonely in balance and stature. She trips but never falls just the feeling and actions and the never ending squabble like a room is a mess until cleaned but no one ever cleans and overgrown thoughts like weeds around her ankles never feeling the ease of slight but never feeling the unnatural feelings of ecstatic she read once never to read again always blind to her reflection in other peoples mirrors.

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mylefttesticle

Eyeliner applied, coat on, earphones in, ceiling left idle, coat with fur trimming and door is locked and stairs are crept down to street one side industrial and one side residential nineteen yellow trains on one side lined up in ridged form and to look forward to a cold chair in a cold environment and in mind a cafe with flowers and bakery smells intoxicate her nostrils and she lets out a weep and someone notices and her head goes down and her ear phones rise up she waits on metal to bring her coldness and wood the feel touches her cold hands, her hands are cold but are they not always as her scarf clings and strangles her very mundane thoughts.

The fabric on this chair smells of alien things to that of another person one she has not felt as she imagined lying naked between warmth and smell entrapped in what must be like rather than what is like her hair will linger over his naked torso but its never there and she just imagines until the coldness of her fingers trespasses on to her imaginary life.

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mylefttesticle

Delia. She sat there was eight long years waiting to be trapped and to be free to sit down again and she stared always in his direction didn't matter who he was but he had a key and that key had an image and the image would set her free. barefoot under a desk of sadness everything ridged in form and screen colours so beautiful you won't even notice them but Delia is gone and replaced by air that goes through ventilation and out into life of cars and noise and bicycles with beards and strong smelling aftershave that fuels the airways rather than linger and continues as the bike needs a chain like a chain needs a wheel and with out air its rough and uncomfortable and a saddle is hard work as it dents the pain into a landscape that is a field in a place that is in my purse in my bag that is under my desk right beside the weeds and my bare feet.


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mylefttesticle

Its always the same this lack of breathing, its dark its middle of night its sweat and panic and light goes on and she jumps up and she puts cold water onto her face to breathe again this panic and destruction that causes mayhem in her cardigan the one that clings and keeps safe the breasts beneath her chest.

A gooseberry with a small heart beating and pumping with bitterness and sugar saturates but still acidic in taste in water in a glass with a crack on a shelf painted badly stained with teeth marks and loose hair that catches fire that produces smoke up a chimney on to roofs with life underneath and voices in clouds that travel in rainbows in deep grey victorian skies which cling to aeroplanes that she once sat on but left before departure as sun is just not her thing as she basques in a glow of sterile needles that inject pure black oil into her eyes that seep out sewage in worldly forms that make no sense as she sips poison through a flowery mug that she bought in a market twelve tears ago in happier times when people smiled and phones were shy.

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mylefttesticle

At her window the smell of petrol and the two big cocks in front of her eyes standing between Howth and east wall and a outstretched hand she never sees just feels a faint breeze touching her thighs like soft dancing midget flies that have purple wings and yellow ribbons and dance in light with sounds of footsteps and flickering fire that is a small hole in her stomach that digests beauty and inflames a pancreas that is pink and sunburned from too much love un-noticed as she flickers through a page of fat with bikinis just to confirm what she already knows.


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mylefttesticle

She bought croissants and she laid them down with back tea on a table that is walnut bought in forest by mischief makers who howl fire through throats scarred with petrol and oxygen and she eats one and the crumbs stick to her jumper that she found in a mountain while walking in fields that was a stadium full of thousands of eyes and she sat in the middle her hair defying gravity and walking the clouds like a dog on a leash barking orders as she speaks through a watch on her wrist her face white with dark shadows on a mouth, eyes and ears blonde hair and deep piercing features that someone put down on canvas and people came to a museum to pay money and sit and stare and now a stadium waits in anticipation while she adjusts her shoulders and disappears into a funnel and into a bottle and into the sea sailing away across continents while the wind propels her thoughts into air into an exhaust pipe that drives this fear down to her dirty barefoot.

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mylefttesticle

She hasn't changed they said but she did, yesterday in fact she took garments from a draw that is in a press that she got made from leathery folk who live in bungalows but grow tomatoes in pots in buildings that match airplanes and music rings in her ears as she lies away imagining sweetcorn fields of vibrant yellow and dots of green and red sparkly shoes and a floor and a dance and a ceiling and its getting lower but she moves likes the waves in winter wavering from east to west north and south as she battles ships and pirates with gouging eyes who steel her self worth and replace it with sacks of empty space thats light and dark and flings violently through the sky and catches in a twig from a tree that is hit by train and descends in to blood in white fabric for the world to see and the world to ignore until the world needs something then it clings and waits impatiently until your 're useless and in a bed and in your place while everyone catches a bus to a festival and laugher is hollow and lungs are dented into a washing machine that spins dirt quickly but without stain remover it seeps under skin and catches the bee that is honey laced with hair lacquer.


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mylefttesticle

The old woman who smelled of vix and cough syrup but embroidered wool down both slender arms as she sat in a rocking chair listening to an orchestra of Austrian billionaires weave sad music through wooden instruments made from dead trees on cliff that she once eyed to live on but women with black hats shoo'd her away in a red dress that danced beautifully into the moon like a elevator to her heart stopping at each level to see something amazing and never leaving dissatisfied or hungry. she like bingo numbers being called in a smoke filled room in whitehall were buses ferry spiders up walls that have cracks and that have no ending and urine stained blotches that seep through her socks that she once removed in-front a nun and found freedom in sanctuary that is long seats in crimson red buildings that are high in the hills that people fetch prayers in a book to weep and show sorrow but she withstood charm and flames and she bellowed in fields in mist and naked absurdity as she held hands with faceless creatures who called themselves friends.


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mylefttesticle

They sat in a circle but just her and her necklace like a rope dwindling down her spine into a pool of grapes and her barefoot marching on ants that lifted and elevated her to being a priestess as she saw a banner with her face on a steel cold board most likely marble and she sat on a bench in a park with ducks singing moon river and she ate some plums and spat out pits that resembled her stretched stomach that grew a river that pointed out all that was wrong but with blue carrots she fished for happiness with a pimple that was him some years ago before he grew into a beast that lived in a hole in her temple that she scratched when in a bath of fluoride that she used as a pool in a desert that grew green legs in blond lakes that housed insects that crawled on her skin and gave her a face with no emotions.


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mylefttesticle

she cooked sausages but didn't cut the links but just let them be, spinning around a pan she sat drinking coffee and listened to water drip from a tap into cold aluminium surrounds and the clock ticking on the wall and music played from a stereo behind a wall where there is her couch where she sits and listens to people next door in throws of passion and she smiles she is not her and they are them but she has this thought and it went down the drain into the system of pipes where complex issues resounded into her pockets and she walked along tree lined streets empting them slowly while humming nursery rhymes and all this before dawn as the sky was deep blue like the thoughts she had a as a child while locked in a cupboard and listening to passionate ramblings of bleak people on steroids who run and never stop around a hamster cage in a building that houses a pigeon that flies to the pyramids but never looks to see the substance behind them.Squak!

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mylefttesticle

Gone to the pub the note read. Gone to meet Marie who likes Elvis and exclaims with frequently nauseating repetitiveness that she was born in the wrong decade.

Two gin and tonics and two bitter actual lemons i say to the toad behind the bar whose picture recluses on the wall that resembles his tie. The dark shadows in corners move between rotting furniture and some singing tramp bellows from squeaky speakers and of course the boys will be along in awhile and we sit and rip skin from moist beer mats and she of course talks about the time about the time and about the time and i sit quietly with snakes in my pants and moving without notice and things are becoming moist in my eyes in my spirit and a rat catches my eye and he is caught in a trap that hangs like art on an exposed brick that keeps sunlight out and its refreshing.


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mylefttesticle

And then she cried. This is nothing new open a tomato and see how it bleeds and slice it thin and make wheels and drive to the depts of the incline and look out and see worms and how they wriggle in and out of newspapers so important for news but left float along the streets that once had dreams but now have shoes with holes and people without souls making their way across marmalade skies until they reach a plug that with all fascination accepts three pins three times and plugs and supplies electricity to keep me alive. Is it greed is it vanity is this need that keeps me be from hopping on a beetle and going to war into a cave that was once so ripe and now so full of sand.

Clam shells on the beach being arranged to spell out words that have no meaning but to me as i walk along barefoot and cut on a seafront in nazi Germany some 70 years ago and broken bones and faces of anger look up at me through hollow skulls and i reach down and pick one up but all that falls is sand through my hands.


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mylefttesticle

It was while watching emerdale farm that barefoot first noticed the campfire that was lighting on her stomach at last light through a forest that was steeped in historical darkness and everlasting loneliness that no one was allowed to enter never minding wanting to but this love that grew made her wish to make bananas and colour them yellow and peel them and spoon them through a tube that would lead to the fibres of a pillow that would lay a head down to sleep and field dreams to a company that would make adverts that would teach her how to love within a bottle with a cap that she couldn't breathe from for the love she felt for little campfire and fire flies like the once thorn and painful crown that stung around her flat head driving with blond locks and porridge curls through the emotional octopus that swam in her garden of liquid but hence it was all a blur now.




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mylefttesticle

She can see him at the door again his shadow like snails crawling slowly up and down and leaving a rhythm of disgusting liquid in its presence and he sings those songs that scare her and she closes her eyes and feels his hands on her ape like cheeks and she clasps her lips shut and out pours gremlins moving down the street in a ship with wheels that sail along a passage of egg coloured plants that sing victoriously off key in harmonies of the damned as she slips on slippers made of virgin pearls that light up dark holes filled with darker secrets in a book with cobwebs read only by the 12 virgins of Queensland in a far away country that she read about in readers digest. She got lost on stage and a singular clap rang out and she disappeared down a trap that lead to heaven otherwise know as a field in Bray with harps and violins but no musical fingers calling the shots only Dracula in white with blue blood driving down his ears and up high in a tower dark orange hair flowing down like a tide that runs deep in to the forest of her mind that is dead with snails eating mice and mice making men and men making cruel talk and her with deep features swimming in a mind or mercury with no direction slipping on bananas and eating flesh made of oranges but filled with torment.


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mylefttesticle

In the corner of the room six mandarins on a skewer which look like six doughnuts that a fat boy from middlesex would finally fall in love for drips down and drenches her lips and that fresh citrus flavour lashes the back of her throat as swirling tongues whip like masters voice the sediment that rings a fire around the crust that is her mouth.

Them dressed in blood orange gowns and white balaclavas will not win even though they fight a hasty retreat she guards with purity of molestation of herself as a flea that inhabits a kennel unbeknown to the rabid dog whose lips are frothing with asparagus piss and his demon eyes only noticing when death is near and light shuttles down a test tube made in mars by scientists of a church who once inhabited this land with a whisk while whipping up a storm in her glands that bake in a oven made of wire and shows strips of flesh that resemble welsh coal of bygone days down a marsh in a mine the figures with kestrel heads fly around a sticker of John Paul past.


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mylefttesticle

She never did, she never did she squealed like pig with apple in mouth ready to be spat upon by guardian nights in tents in bogs and burning peat rose above stream where once lay grass now lay the remains of heads with tops removed and flowers growing out of them like buckets of sand in a wilderness that is majestical in colour but lacks feverish fraught, Barefoot now tranced in lingering looks across guided rooms where people dispel all notions of decency and swill tongues while embracing breath that stinks of dinner that was frogs jumping from ponds into large black cauldrons singing as they baked one last time consumed by meatheads dancing on ice and for ever falling on hot stones made of lava.


She looked did Barefoot and he looked back.

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mylefttesticle

She lays in bed consumed by the black hole that sits in the middle of Calcutta full of children's voices past and present they took the limbs and they took the kidneys and they took the liver and they took the hearts but the souls forbid and the lock stayed strong and the children one day will rise to sing and bring back law and they will round up past and present tormentors and sing joyously in their ears that will sear from stones that were a gift from the devil himself as even he sat in despair as atrocities took place. crispy pigs ears!

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mylefttesticle

Sam was his name dressed in corduroy and dungaree reading a post notion repulsion to modern romance labeled how to get with life chapter 12 verse 16th. Above his head a chandelier made of love birds dyed pink with flapping beaks and silent wings broke light through eyes with atomic blue colour that brought out best leather tables of green with spinster seats made of dull eyes that closed when arse sat.

It will never catch on Barefoot spoke at him Sam startled like an interesting point made from a book by Ross carroll somebody hunched jaw bitter pink knuckles and hissing sounds from a nicely placed hole in his chin failed to reply but turned beetroot in flavour and face scarred instantly.

Barefoot wasn't finished she had faced rejection from everyone since one.....month and now was enough slinging her arm in a hook and chasing ladybirds around a circle made my plethora the murderer who died victim and drenched in others blood due to drowning but still Barefoot spent three days making a skirt and four days cleaning herself to busy to notice he couldn't even see her.


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mylefttesticle

The twelve viscounts of the big yellow spinning wheel announce today the destruction of anyone born without pecan blood.


Chalets where they lived burned to the gills.

Barefoot roused a knife and stuck Sam in the ear and drew liquorish blood and sam ignorant of his own blinds smacked the back of her legs she had not got time to notice she enjoyed it.

we have to go she whispered to his hair, where he said eyes fell out and tongue swirling. The road to chalet has closed and now the road Little campfire beckons.

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Tompatrick

Nice.

mylefttesticle

The rag men she screamed, the rag men she screamed half her body expose as she scuttles along the street.

What is it asked Sam, marshmallows scoffed Barefood, marshmallows? scoffed Sam salt and vinegar crisp leaves rising with burning marshmallows into the light brown autumn skies scoffed Barefoot, taste down your spine while you still have one into a portal that is your womb and breast feed dolphins swimming in your bodily fluids as they sing death will come death will come to spinsters and sons and bastards and blaggards.

it was nice to see Delia scoffed barefoot, she will miss those twigs mused Sam.They laughed.


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Tompatrick

Better

mylefttesticle

The dog with the sign language spoke through his belly sat on a jar of petroleum jelly.

Imagine a small pond he hissed and imagine it illuminated by the whole of the moon and twelve beasts reflected in big yellow wheel constanly spinning.


6 men sleep

6 men awake

6 men seek

6 men get

6 men decide

6 x 6 hours a day

They wake with fishing rods wheeling down scavenging yokes fish up and biting heads and sucking blood like flies in ointment stuck in wind 6 men sleep and 6 men seek.

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mylefttesticle

A field full of purple leeks with lizards like goldfish swarming and seeping through the fibres of the leaves of the underground and steam bellows from miniature trains that weave in and out like needle point in her eyes seeping puss in beautiful cut diamonds.

Mother Bernadette is the daddy of these fields she has bronze type body and voluptuous lips and exposed nipple through fabric that is air. Knuckle dusters as hands and parsnips as feet gliding effortlessly through the ridged turntable that spins in circles.

Barefoot wheels the cripple that is sam her love. north he scoffs she replies east where men dress in glitter and dance on mushrooms painted red with gold stars and pet shop toys playing network roars like beasts with gilded iron teeth that protect the caves that house disease.

Mother Bernadette sees love in barefoot eyes and kneels before the cripple that is sam she with hands of claws that are pink and gold with dots of fig black red and touches his arm and whispers the unpronounced words of healing stones and arises sir sam from slumber and limp and Steele eyes and lips of red and muscles of dread.


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Barefoot looks broken.

mylefttesticle

Hamsters on bicycles pump his muscles through his arms and treacle treacle hot and gooey lacing down biceps into sides markings of past battles brittle bridges building history but Barefoot is sleepy and hollow and now she lays on velvet wood with lavender smells and her hair encrusted in beans flavoured with duck brains and eggs from skunks.

Lord sam beautiful and confused strokes her pin shoulders exposing the sharp texture of gold that seeps from her wound that was her heart and dismayed by his touch and repulsed by his new aroma she sleeps and dreams of past normal life.


On Wednesday she always sat in her book readers coffee shop and watched the rain soaking the outside world that she felt alone in always. He was a Longfellow with high forehead and blond locks like cream custards that they both shared a fondness for and he never looked to see her but she stared at him and ramblings of bored women talking about boring books and the world was dim and she had it with life and extensions and she imagined birds nesting and singingly waking her in the morning as she awoke on a beach with a ballon strapped to the man with custard cream eyes.

it was only a small explosion at first but soon it carried and varied and insects grew big and cows grew mean and life became ill and Tv ceased to warn and pigs ate super models with bread made from labourers in Spain.

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The day died that day.

mylefttesticle

three apes with jaundice eyes fight with a crane made from human remains and three claws fight made with the mouths of twelve dead ex presidents, its enough for a passage to awaken and open its way to Barefoot and Lord sam and they skulk in roundabouts made from the skulls of nineteen overly confident yet dead ex vixens of a chamber that a Slovak sick man kept them part of in a hill made of apricot lungs that open and wheeze with the blood of hallucinogenic elephant poo.

The road was made from dried honey and pistachio and four dirty feet laced up to the south east and through trees that clasped hands and blocked out sun and protected from beasts with claws made from the fingernails of twenty million dead doctors.

Little campfire the soul and the saviour he has the key and the code to ignite.


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He must be found, he must be found.

mylefttesticle

The kids of the East Antwerp pyromaniacs club bellow : attack attack attack the great big rodents of waste big big peering mauve eyes mohicans like pineapples atop their skinny top heads.... the pyro kids aim crickets doused in jelly and petrol and ignite fire and attack the rodents as they run at them killing everything in sight.

Barefoot passes a shallow apartment block with its bodies strewn across maple syrup coloured top that is the digestion of animals on the prowl, she sees a lonesome figure in the shadows singing softly childrens songs and weeping. a thought strikes her life before not as bad as life after.

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mylefttesticle

Spitting potatoes held hands and danced around Lord Sams feet as he prepared a small fire from limb of the broken and wood from ferries that sank in black berry pits that once rose high. He noticed Barefoot quite and peeked and worn and sad she had changed when he had and he felt less. Cut me in half and spit roast me they sang. The potatoes one by one in Lord Sams strong hands as he ripped them apart and tossed them on the fire Barefoot was humming where the streets have no names and now they didn't now there was no streets just a hue of destruction that sparked the wind wars of 2089.

crisp and soft the spit potatoes bounced on to banana leaf green and stiff and Lord Sam with soulful eyes laid them be fore Barefoots eyes but without looking she took them and placed them to her side that smell she noticed in hindsight a wonderful smell reminding of youth as a child her mother and father sitting and singing rosemary around the bend rosemary around the bend in a shiny car with elephant trees and sand like white milk and skies so blue you would fall in and never wish to return and the smell of spring in nostrils now full of fly vomit swarming around the exposed legs ripped from the disposed bodies of earth, she cried, she closed her eyes and when Lord sam slept she ate and closed her eyes as when she did it was the sanctuary of imagination of a past that brought her hope.


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mylefttesticle

Its bleak, three days, observation. Distance.


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mylefttesticle

It was Moore street but not quite but behind in a lock up the smell of ****, skag heads and tracksuits alien landscape to her a yoke from Blackrock. The pain the pain the pain never had a place within her and expelled she thought to end she thought she looked up and a ladder led to a room with straw and milk bottles full of rotten yellow liquid and flies again, again swarming and sinking swarming and sinking and swarming and sinking a dim light with a man in a suit and slicked back hair an operator in the mad mechanics of this life that had become nothing.

The sound of flatlining roused her from her demons and light had struck just as Lord Sam was washing his loins in the river of sin and she watched in the corner of her eyes and feelings aroused but she doused with isolation of thought and lord Sam turned to see her pigs in blankets of steel he said where she said over there he said quite now danger lurks and old boisterous owls act as watchers for the pigs who trample on souls of the dead defeated and mixed and served raw.

an elevator appeared and the two disappeared six hundred miles below the rainbow that glows with life and prospers with the colours of the saints who will rise on the 8th day of the holy hour that is lent.


wild rabbits burgundy red and acid claws roam waiting to pounce but lord Sam sees and douses with flames made of witches farts and blows them into metallic confetti a sight that rises up the nights of the seventh brigade of butchers.

Barefoot is bleeding and in shock a bee has penetrated her and poison is rising in her, danger is the hour and time is not waiting.

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mylefttesticle

adrenaline being pumped through by baby kangaroos on amphetamines spinning up and down on high speed motor bikes and making her flush and dizzy the poison like a map being drawn in slow motion through her body all the flashes come back and fears magnified by one hundred times and cool water from a damp leaf turns boiling with in seconds of touching her Scarlett forehead.

Lord Sam applies caper leaves from spittle and coinfhear from the damp meadowlands of eire. His fear repressed as he whispers prayers into her ear and strokes her wound with fingers like ladybirds.

She felt herself come alive slowly with each drip of his sweat that dropped into her wound and a golden glow around her heart began to illuminate and radiate and her eyes flickered for the first time in hours as her fever broke and she felt a need for water. The sun rose for the first time in three months just then.


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