Lizzi Von DooLittle (vondoolittle) wrote,
Lizzi Von DooLittle

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Scattered Petals.

Work last night was dull apart from a discussion about Zoetropes and pinhole cameras with Jui-ehh!!!

Have only slept four hours and feel fresh as a daisy...

Going out now to pick up a black/white film then off to Waterfront Writers meeting - ready to scare them all with that nasty womb poem of mine hehe.



Just got back from town. Hot and knackered!

VERY pleased with some of my black and white photos - might scan them at mothers later. Charlotte has asked to have a go on my cello in a few weeks time - see how much I can teach her and if she's interested in learning more I can point her in the direction of some good tutors.

Some really good stuff this afternoon at the writer's group. My womb/tomb poem went down did this, which I scribbled together in about 15 mins before the group started:


I do not know why I ran.

All I remember is -

Suddenly I was running - tearing my crimson skirts on briars and thorns, my long black hair catching on branches that whipped me cruelly as I raced past.

A pause. A breath.

Hiding in an old stone doorway where I listened intently - still sure I could hear the steady, unrelenting sound of black boots on frost behind me.

I ran on.
Through twisted forest, derelict yards, wasteland overgrown with mangled machinery, the bright neon of the city - and the rush of noisy shoppers on a late winter evening.

Still I ran.
On and on...

Certain that my pursuers were close behind me - feeling their hot breath caressing the nape of my neck - high on my fear - the intoxicating scent of my blood as it pulsed violently so close beneath my pale flesh.

And then I remember how I slowed. Time slowed.

Nearing the corner gates -
On into that place with the heaps of old stones -
The angels and the ivy.

The last thing I remember -

Seeing my name cut deep into that stone -
Deep as their nails in my tender skin -
Deep as the thorny briars caught in my skirts and hair.

And then I broke apart - dissolving into nothing.
A pile of withered roses -
Old petals red and white -
Scattering into the wind.


I dreamt that!! Perhaps I should lay off the red wine for a bit??


Ok, coffee and croissants, have emails to do regarding some new poetry fest that might take place at the end of November in the Drum and stuff...(watch this space)...and have to get ready for work.

Tommorrow night I'm back down at the Art Garden Cafe - Nik Brooks is doing a storytelling night, 6:30pm til 9pm. The subject is 'Treasure Trove' so I'm expecting piratey stories, and no doubt he'll be dressed in character! Good stuff!!

Catch you all later.

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