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This cloud, unfolding Like so many creased layers Of a crysanthenum Paper petals of warm wet air Filling, spilling Onto the page

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Atomised ~ Michel Houellebecq

This is the poem that opens the novel: We live today under a new world order, The web which weaves together all things envelops our bodies, Bathes our limbs, In a halo of joy. A state to which men of old acceded only through music, Greets us each morning as a commonplace. What men considered a dream: perfect but remote, We take for granted as the simplest of things. But we are not contemptuous of these men; We know how much we owe to their dreaming, We know that without the web of suffering and joy which was their history, we would be nothing, We know that they kept within them an image of us, through their fear and in their pain, as they hurtled into darkness, As little by little, they wrote their history. We know that they would not have survived, that they could not have survived, without that hope somewhere deep within, They could not have survived without their dream. Now that we who live in the light, We who live in the presence of the light, Which bathes our bodies, In a halo of joy Now that we have settled by the water's edge, And here live in perpetual afternoon Now that the light which surrounds our bodies is palpable, Now that we have come at last to our destination Leaving behind a world of division, The way of thinking that divided us, Immersed in a serene, fertile delight Of a new Law Now, For the first time, We can retrace the end of the old order.

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Went for a drive to unwind, found ourselves broken down and strandedin a random town so we stopped for fish and chips while we waited for the repair guy to come. Of course our little dragon behaved herself when he arrived, so we were on our way again, weaving through the darkness, finding our way home.

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I want to go back here…

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He still feels me, even with space and time; drove over an hour to give me a doll for my key chain. She is engraved with a promise, but not from him. He knows better than to try that again. This one is me, to myself. An "I think I can" for an engine that longs to be useful. I felt him tremble in my arms, but I was stronger. There is little left that he can break now. I am smaller than before, perhaps, condensed into my frame. On her dress is a lonely crane. They mate for life, symbolise eternal love. Well, the love is there. It jingles in my pocket now, metal against metal. I will ever wander in this impossible state, knowing this love is forever lost to me, yet is not dead.

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Wot’s in a name? — she sez … An’ then she sighs, An’ clasps ‘er little ‘ands, an’ rolls ‘er eyes. “A rose,” she sez, “be any other name Would smell the same. Oh, w’erefore art you Romeo, young sir? Chuck yer ole pot, an’ change yer moniker!” Doreen an’ me, we bin to see a show — The...

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My breath is white, my body curled inwards to contain the little remaining heat. My thoughts are filled with imaginary places, tendrils crawling in the mud of modern literature for scattered tickets to new lands. I add them to my itinerary, sleepless and close to tears. My own world is too vast, yet I am escaping. To places snuggled between beginnings and ends, not furled across a labyrinth of fear and regret. My reality sits outside of me yet it tugs at my flesh, burrowing into my bones like worms which cannot wait to feed me to the soil before my blood turns cold. A voice echoes, circling softly around my mind. Its words meaningless, but not letting me die.

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Horrid book kept me up all night, reading to the last word. It's 5.30 am and I don't know whether to try and sleep or start making lunches. The children will be awake at 7 for school. Some days, reading is bad for you, even if the next line feels entirely necessary to one's well-being. Today will hurt.

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He lives in my skin in August Is the heave in my breast The heft of my sigh Seven Augusts, on the eighth No closer to goodbye Love undeserved, still I try To hold its lantern-light high And not wilt in the weight Of his memory, lived inside Like another soul He will not pass me by

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He told me he was seeing someone new, and knowing who, I was happy for him. She is smart and sweet and shares his politics. His is the kind of heart that does not diminish with division. It was enough, from the start, that there was room for me. Our lives connect without one consuming the other. He comes when I call, and I do not feel alone. I did not foresee the growth of my heart this way, the peace it settles into, in loving for love's sake rather than my own. I am glad. 

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F(s)

So many fucks were given last night

Received and taken, given and had

Dividing like cells and multiplying

Till they faded into darkness

Morning cracking my head open

With a sleepy smile and the kind

Of kisses that promise, with a certain 

Urgency; more to come

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All soldiers are refugees, of a kind

There is no peace-time 

On the roads they travel

They left that land so long ago

Whether on the winning, or the losing side

They know they have not saved

That town called home for themselves

Mutated killers, they belong elsewhere

On muddy battlefields that have gone to seed

In a place where a rifle is more ready

Than an open hand, and the hands that hold them

Are paid by the hour

They return, never to the land

They paid their honour for but one

New battlefield, where survival rests

On silence and forgetting:

That once there was hope

There was home

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We lie in bed, listen to the click of blinds, watch a thin web of dusty cobweb weave back and forth, back and forth, in the waves of air we cannot see. The blankets and sheet are a heap at the end of the bed, and we are warm only where skin is touching skin. My shoulder, my arm, the swell of my hip. The curve of my thigh. Lean lightly into you. My fingertips are icy but I am too comfortable to move. To bother getting up and arrange the blankets. I only want to savour the quiet of skin on skin. The murmur of our blood beneath our surface touch. Our breathing unconsciously falls into a pattern, follows the movement of the strand of cobweb that weaves above our heads. You lift your hand to rest its weight, the palm rough, just beneath my breast. "Will you tell me a story?" you ask. Eyes on the strand of dust. "Yes."

Opening lines of Hiromi Goto's 'Chorus of Mushrooms'

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I am sitting on the front step like a lost child, or perhaps a granny who has lost everyone she knew as a child. For if no-one knows the child in us then how can we be.who we think ourselves to be - all wild hair, skinned knees and missing a button. The strangers scurrying past on their way home don't see. I rub the bitterness from my eyes and head inside. There is dinner in the oven, and rumbling tummies to be filled. The lost girl of the night, she will wait.

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I've slowed down considerably these last weeks, unsure of my direction. I've three months or so to sort myself out before things get hairy again. No matter how much I withdraw from the world I am never completely forgotten. People blow on my cocoon and I feel the warmth of their insides wash around me. I am reading more, knitting speaking playing less. Change buds like winter blossoms, ready to burst. Soon, I hope, I will grow too big for this old skin...

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THE NIGHT WILL NEVER STAY

The night will never stay, The night will still go by, Though with a million stars You pin it to the sky, though you bind it with the blowing wind And buckle it with the moon, The night will slip away Like sorrow or a tune.

ELEANOR FARJEON

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Fear; Regret

I am yesterday; he is tomorrow

We meet in the midnight of today

Too often it seems that I have never been

And he will never come to me

Yet we find ways to touch

Sweet ways of forgetting

What has been; what is to come