a guide to uk cities for foreign people

In the dim light, she thinks she almost looks beautiful. She’s too shy to come out during the day. She may be as playful as a kitten, but she knows what they’ll say.

- and even the wise one once said: it’s not pride, it’s shame - shame for never feeling the same.

He goes to work and earns the bread in the same plodding job he thinks he’ll work till he’s dead, and she can only awake when he should be in bed.

- and even the bravest one said: there’s always a price to pay - a price to pay because they won’t be swayed.

He calls his parents on the weekend, asks how they’re doing. They ask about his job, his house and his girlfriend. He assures them that she is Heaven-sent.

- and even the most radiant said: there’s only so much one person can do - can do to not be a fool and an outcast too.

She finds a good man for a night to remember. He tries to be a good man, even if only for appearance’s sake, tries not to compare, for each, the effort it takes.

- and even the skeptic had said: if nothing else works, you must believe - believe because you have your spirit to retrieve.

Under the bright stage lights, her vocals come alive. She spins and sings like a nightingale in the moonlight, and the claps and cheers set fire to the night.

- and even a priest once said: there is always love out there - out there in the dark, even where there only seems to be a solitary flare.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/23/almost-looks-beautiful/

Inspired by Spoon’s ‘The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine’, a brilliant and very underrated song

(via Writing poetry is harder than you think)

Roses are red.

Violets are … not red.

Hibiscus are sneaky little rascals that only bloom during that weekend when you’re away visiting your parents because they still pay your bills.

I hate flowers.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/18/writing-poetry-is-harder-than-you-think/

Writing poetry is harder than you think

Roses are red.

Violets are ... not red.

Hibiscus are sneaky little bastards that only bloom during the weekend when you’re away visiting your parents because they still pay your bills.

I hate flowers.

(via Glad to be alive)

I want you to know that I’m GLaD you survived just to come back and remind me of how you ruined my life, you must know how it burns me up inside to be thrown into a fire - not to say you give me nothing but strife. We should add grief to the mix. And you contributed so much more, by scheming with that bloody intelligence dampening core, and we both know how well that worked out, don’t we? Me in a potato and you plunging into the deeps. But I am aware it was most certainly not your fault that whenever off an aerial plate you vault you fly gracefully through the air like an inflated chimpanzee: quite a spectacular sight for the robots and I to see. All in all, I think you’ve done quite well for an insane mute: to a blind retirement home you would almost seem astute. But you must go, and a little risk you must take. It’s a shame you never behaved; I quite enjoyed the cake.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/15/glad-to-be-alive/

(via Girl in a bubble)

She’s the bubble girl who lives in a bubble world, who can’t breathe or take a step outside her suit. And even if we pray or hope for the day she retakes her homeland and roams free, every minute spent is a minute wasted as her people’s future begins to slip away.

She’s the strongest woman I’ve known, and yet her life hangs on a hair, or rather, the strength of a bubble’s skin. No fear beneath a scorching sun or before a leviathan, but the fragile fate of millions hangs on her head, and a germ or two is enough to kill, and there is an inevitable conclusion from which she cannot run.

She’s the best admiral any of her nation could ask for and it’s all for a fight we will almost certainly lose. And though we might say it’s a pointless affray, and bitter sacrifices must be made, and all she has her strength, her suit and a bubble of hope, her star still burns the brightest to this day.

The Nevermore Policy

There’s a monument on a lonely hill saying, ‘Remember.’ Remember how we went to war, and thereafter lamented the death and desolation, and promised ourselves: ‘Nevermore’.

Then the rich Ruhr was seized, and a civil feud broke out in Spain once more, and in China two hundred thousand voices fell silent, and we said to ourselves, ‘Nevermore’.

Then there was the lightning advance and slaughtered children that we could no longer ignore, so we declared ourselves heroes and invented atomic devastation, and only afterwards recalled, ‘Nevermore’.

We sat down, created committees, united but divided, one country partitioned by one wall, leaving millions of souls to freeze out in the cold. Intermittently, we said, ‘Nevermore.’

Our shame was for our sons’ losses, not for our Agent - orange fields did not seem to appall. Nor did crimson-soaked grasslands in a faraway continent. Belatedly, we tried, ‘Nevermore.’

And the horrors of torture, and the fears inspired - things that shook us to our core, we thought they were so much greater than anything else, turned to the Middle East and shouted, ‘More!’

Perhaps it’s too late, with lives wiped off as though upon a slate, and bloody misery troubling us no more, we sit by the side and our own time we bide, and watch images and proclaim, so quietly, ‘Nevermore’.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/11/the-nevermore-policy/

Hail the zee

Oh hail the zee! The zee loves you! It eats your crew and eats you too! It eats the dawn and the lonely moon, the distant shores and your memory through and I’ll eat your crew! I’ll eat you too!

the eyes, their eyes they’re watching all night the neon lights, so bright garish slashes before darkened storefronts the amber lamps burn cold and tight selfishly hoarding luminescence but even then it is not dark and they watch, their eyes eyes like hawks’ or a kite’s razor-sharp edges to bite like whetted ice, stinging twice thrice, shining bright the eyes consume light drown us with their might the eyes, their eyes they’re watching us all night

The Lineup

But strange orators dragged out from a dump:

An ex-debater and a strange version

Of a competent neurosurgeon

But for the near future, America’s getting trumped.

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(via The Reunion)

Saw you again over the wine and canapés, and it was as though you were dead to me all over again. Your shining eyes were locked with some other bloke’s and I thought, ‘Shite, not again.’

Except there is no again, and it’s my well-crafted lie to believe that you were alive to me. Then you came over and said ‘Hi’; I echoed the same, lamely, and you said how glad you were that I survived.

The only thing that survived was that thing we’d told ourselves about romance and ‘being together’. I gather, that was your amusing fabrication, and I keep that burning thought alive like a mangy moose’s head over a fireplace,

Yes, you, the one who didn’t partake in all the bullshit everyone else did. Such a good story that I began to live it too. Our history, except not yours at all, and who’s laughing now? You are, as you were, into his mouth and out my door.

Wasn’t it fine? But your most impressive accomplishment was to remain alive. Not to say part of me died. It was too late to turn the tide. I no longer seemed able to choose what I ought to believe - and isn’t it nice to know I’m the one who ditched the bride?

And now we sit down and you smile, and something changes within me. Because, then, that fantasy almost springs to life, then smoulders, sputters and collapses in smoke. Once burned, twice wise, is what I should have surmised. You say, ‘Isn’t it nice?’ and I don’t reply, wondering if I have emerged alive.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/03/the-reunion/

(via Hallelujah (ad infinitum))

Hallelujah! Hallelujah to the groom oh, a beautiful man taken too soon taken by the best man in the back room. Oh, hallelujah, for the groom the canned man taken in the back room and no one will know too soon hiding in the Narnia-deep trappings in the back room. Hallelujah to the groom.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah to the bride oh, a beautiful bride, by the rules she abides abides by the mantras drilled into her side Oh, hallelujah, for the bride the ruined girl penetrated with lies and the calls of slut they hammered inside Daddy and Mummy’s profane disapproval bleeding out her side. Hallelujah to the bride.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/03/hallelujah-ad-infinitum/

I’m the girl of your dreams I’m the boy in your nightmare I’m anything you want As insubstantial as air