this is not a post, this is NOTHING

Oh dear... where has the time gone? I swear I'm as bored now as I was at the start of the holidays - and the middle of them, along with most days in-between. I think I may hop over to Wordpress, see if it works out.

nein

I haven't posted in nine days.... woah. Lazy me.
I'll get back to you all on that one...

marmite, and piglets

I am so sorry. Really, I am.
BUT I have one damn good excuse.

estoy podar los arbustos!

Estoy podar los arbustos - in English: I'm pruning the bushes. I arrived at that title with the original intention to call it 'fillers' - which lead me onto hedges (English lessons) which lead me on to this phrase. I use it a lot.
As you can probably tell when I can't think of anything to post I stick a poem up. More often than not this is why:

The ever so slightly morbidly obese gentleman turned in his sleep, dreaming dreams Amarillo as he hugged his turtle shell patterned pouffe. Quite what this gentleman was doing hugging a turtle shell patterned pouffe is known only to his wife – and she died by fire extinguisher in the student riots. A tuft of white hair sat atop the aged and sunken face that had turned ghostly white due to excessive use of moisturisers over the past several hundred years, his nose was long and sharp – quite contrasting to his penis, which was short, fat and somewhat roundish. Bags too numerous to comprehend framed his sallow eyelids that were barely visible under his great and bushy eyebrows, and on this particular occasion his cheeks were slightly red. Santa was pissed. It was Christmas Eve and he'd got hammered in a floating bar off the east coast of Azerbaijan. He'd really outdone himself this time. 

Should I take it anywhere? Hopefully a more bloggy blog for tomorrow.

war, poem

As I lie, alone – abandoned by my country, I think. Over the eternal plains of inky thought my mind wanders, searching for a safe haven from the pain. The blood – my blood, slowly oozes from the multiple wounds in my chest; I’m waiting for the inevitable end: my heaven and my retribution. I have not abandoned them - I remained loyal to the last, they were the cornerstone of my faith. The godless Nazi bastards taunt me in my death, I merely smite them with my gaze. In the end I am the victor. 
Death has won this war
Death wins every war

my boy, poem

Nobody said it was easy,
by god, they were right.
One cannot imagine: the wispy figure
the deep blue ocean eyes
ungrown hair, dreary smile.

Devoid of spirit.

Abandoned by life.

His soft white skin, slowly drained of moisture
And a frozen grasp on a furry bear;
Tears forming on its glass eyes,
Casting looming shadows of reflection.

His last gaze searched my soul;
I hope he found compassion.
I pray he found his joy.
I wish he didn't have to go.

Here I stand.


Alone.


Endlessly cursing into the night,
Praying for my child.
My boy.

error 404

Madame De Parkerdour, or 'Valoch' as she is now known, has been forbidden from (I quote her) "touching" me in physics lessons, much to our mutual disappointment. I have thus resorted to writing the negative form of yes on her hand as a sign of my despised restraints.
The rustic iron chains have been cast down informally by a person of great knowledge and power, a person whom is originally from Scotland and would like to tell us things of which there is no time. This person is a warlock, she controls the structure of atoms with her red, green and yellow pieces of card. She despairs at the inappropriate and forcéd hugs that I have so valiantly endured.
Valoch hides behind a shield of mascara and eye-liner, with dyed hair and brown eyes, prodding me with her vicious spears and accusations of a sullen countenance - which simply are not true! I fight back with my only tools: pens and 'borrowed' stationary, of which there is little. Supplies are running low after the fifth night of raids and help must be sent soon! I implore ye watchers of this discord, send forth the bus!