So this is Christmas by John Lennon (rewrite)
Happy Christmas, Katy
Happy Christmas, Justin
“So this is Christmas?
And what have you done”?
“I shat on the sofa, poured beer on my mum”
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun.
The Father above us, He gave us His Son
A very Merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
They got drunk on red rum, they couldn’t see clear.
And so this is Christmas? (war is over)
For weak and for strong (if you call Him)
For rich and the poor ones (war is over)
The battle is won (now)
And so happy Christmas (war is over)
For black and for white (if you call Him)
But yellow and red ones (war is over)
They scoffed at the sight (now)
A very Merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
They hog drunk on red rum, they couldn’t see clear.
“And so this is Christmas? (war is over)
“And what have we done”? (if you call Him)
I shat on the sofa (war is over)
Poured beer on my mum (now)
And so happy Christmas (war is over)
We hope you have fun (if you call Him)
The Father above us (war is over)
He gave us His son (now)
A very Merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
They got drunk on red rum, they couldn’t see clear.
War is over, if you call Him
War is over, now!
Happy Christmas!
Sultry Wisps of a Time That Was Never Hers
Sequins, sparkles, a bold rouge lip. The sultry wisps of a time that was never hers, embraced by freedom, elegance, culture and expressionism. She could see it before her eyes, black, white and gold, dripping in decadence. However, it seemed more like a dream, allowing the real world to fade away. It was a renaissance of the soul, and in this time of petaling pleasures, she longed to be in a world she could finally be a part of.
What was it? Was it the dancing? The flashing lights? The parties which raged until late hours? Or maybe it was the poetry, the literature, and the gilded promise of something better. She swore she lived through it, that her soul had been there once before. She had played Jazz in a smoky speakeasy and she had heard the melodious prose of Langston Hughes. It was ingrained in her very soul, tugging at the strings of fate, longing for the clock to reverse. She felt the inexplicable urge to walk down the streets of New York City, in her flapper dress down to her crystalline black heels. To feel the wind carry the feeling of brimming industrialism and progress. To feel the innovation and excitement as it burned through her veins. Even within the depth of the great depression looming at the horizon, the lively and exuberant culture could not be slowed down. She dreamed because she was tired of the clubs and the lack of respect, tired of all the problems and all her chains. Tonight was her night, the biggest gala in town, and the theme: the roaring 20’s. Smiling to herself, she sat in front of the ivory vanity, placing her cosmetics on the table and getting lost in the hopes of what tonight could be. She dreamed of the rain, not the dance in the rain sort of rain but rather the downpour rain. The kind which makes it impossible to see, vieling the ugliness of the world and washing away the troubles of yesterday. It would be dark, a velvet night, the world filled in hopes of seeing the moonlight once the clouds should break. Maybe, deep within the party hall, the pitter patter of the rain would merely be a faint reminder that there was a world which existed outside of the confines of the idyllic scene. Would there be wind? Carrying the promises of tomorrow with the faint remembrance of the past. It would embrace her with its cool kisses and within a moment it would blow away and forget about that which it touched. Maybe the wind would sing, quietly as it moved and with the melody she would swing, tracing the dance floor, lost in the sea of poeple without a care. To be amongst the dreamers who never left the clouds or the innovation who paved the way for the future, and best of all, the writers, poets and the artist, who strive to express things which no one else could articulate. She could almost taste the hazy, crystal, gold drinks and their bubbles bouncing in her mouth. Like Alice in wonderland and that would be her potion, transporting her to a time beyond her own. Oh, how she longed for a time like that, to live in a simpler time yet a time of change and revolution. For she felt as if she could not fit in anywhere, whether it be with those of her own age or in the stories she claimed as her own. She lived in the aftermath of the time and watched the world become littered with those who thought they were eternal. She had an old soul and her story was etched in black and white, a timeless piece which allowed the facade she put up for the world to fade. Maybe she found that even in a time filled with extravagance, she understood that everyone feigned happiness to some extent, and that’s what made her feel like she belonged in the imperfect, yet picturesque era, that even with the happiness, there was something somber but that would be okay.
Finally, she placed the gold trimmed and crystal embedded jewelry box in front of her. Running her fingers over the smooth, textured white wood, she picked up the box and winded the delicate, gold knob at the bottom. Slowly, sound ascending, soft music began to echo from the box. It played a tune with an airy piano and a faint lingering of a violin. It seemed to set the scene as she reached into the box, her fingers brushing over the soft, red velvet interior. When she looked into the velveteen box, the memories unfurled around her, reminding her of a lost time. A young girl who waltzed into parties and lit up the room with her glistening smile. To say she was the life of the party was an understatement, she was the heart and soul of the party. Looking away from the trace of the red cloth she only hoped she could dazzle the party as brilliantly as her grandmother had. Her ruby lips parted into a smile as she pulled out the staggering and utterly breathtaking set of gleaming, moon white pearls. She held them carefully in the air, a set of earrings and a necklace, worn in the very time she so wished to belong to. It was a piece of authenticity, the only one that truly deserved a place in an event so true to the past. Once she looked in the mirror, sure of her reflection, she opened the drawer of the vanity and pulled out an old book.
She picked up the novel, and when her hands, black nails and delicate fingers, danced through the pages she found herself at peace. There was nothing more refreshing yet agonizing than reading it, and as F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” and that she was.
#writing #essays #creativefiction #contest
Glitter & Bells
Boys were stupid. They were fine as children, but they made terrible adults.
They called them “lost” but she found them all - each rough and tumble Jack, every clumsy and carefree Billy. She took them away from the world that would turn them into suit-and-tie soldiers. She kept them safe.
All with a touch of glitter and the promise of never.
Never would they need to grow up. Never would they have to worry about the cares of a dark, war-torn world. Never would they ever have to leave her, her little band of misfits.
No one ever missed them. There were plenty boys to go around, and unlike good little girls who could be tamed and trained they rebelled - finding mud piles, bugs, and trouble. Society tied up its girls in ribbons, but left its boys to fight. All the better to use them later on in life; she’d seen the horrors, heard the bombs.
Not her boys. At most they would fight pirates, or monsters of their own imagination. They would fly, not fall. She would take that energy and set it free.
Then that girl mucked it up. Wendy. Ooooooooooh, she hated the name. All responsibility and mothering. Boys didn’t need mothers - no one did. How dare she act like she could give these boys something better than pixie dust and play?
It was one of those fits - those tantrums - that had distracted her when she caught her tiny shoe in a window casement. With a wrench her ankle had twisted and the pain shot through her little leg. Panic set in next, as she realized she couldn’t escape with one foot caught in the wood. Tugging harder and harder, the tears falling down her glowing face, she heard the shuffle of footsteps too late. In an instant, the mini giant’s face had found her twinkling form.
“Oh goodness! A fairy!” It was a girl. She hadn’t been looking for one, she had thought this room belonged to a little boy instead. At young ages it was hard to tell through a dark window. She froze in fear, wondering what would happen next.
“Are you caught?” The little one looked at her in wonder, and she could only fold her arms and feign indifference. She refused to ask for help. “Oh dear, that looks painful. Here, hold on.”
The thud of footsteps, then the small child returned with an equally small needle. “I’ll try to be gentle, but this might hurt a bit.” Sliding the needle into the wood, she wiggled and jiggled and with a pop the pixie came free. “There you are! Can you fly still?” She marveled at the little wings, her eyes reflecting the glow more than the window glass.
Gingerly moving her foot, she admitted the girl had saved her. With a jingle she nodded, her wings flitting her up. The window remained ajar, just enough space for her to squeeze out. She headed for it.
“Wait! Are you going back to the fairy world?” The little girl stood up straight and clasped her hands together, the needle still wedged into the wooden sill. “I made gifts for the fairies - could you take them?”
Gifts? Curiosity gave her pause. The boys never gave her anything...
More footsteps thudded away and back, as the little girl brought over a tiny wooden box. “I made these myself - they’re not great, but I like to practice.” She opened the lid, and the pixie found herself drawn to gaze inside.
The box held an assortment of tiny, miniscule dresses and crowns, all woven out of field flowers and scraps of cloth. The designs weren’t anything clever, just simple shifts. The flowers had wilted slightly, but still held their color. Without thinking, she reached down and picked up a small daisy chain, slipping it over her hair bun. It fell and slid down around her neck, making a big necklace rather than a crown.
“Ooh, that looks lovely on you!” The little girl gushed, her hands fisted under chubby cheeks as she gazed on. “Do you like it?”
The pixie scoffed, but the necklace remained.
“Here - I’ll bundle them up for you.” Taking a small handkerchief, she gently moved all the items from the box into the soft folds. Then she used a tiny ribbon to wrap it up tightly. “There you go! Oh, I’m so glad I got to give them to you.” She smiled and the pixie startled, the rows of teeth scaring her for a moment. “Everyone told me I was mad for making them, but I always said that fairies were real. I’m ever so happy!” Her hands came together in a clap - and a curious thing happened.
Her glow suddenly grew from a glimmer to a burst of bright light, as power flowed through her tiny body. The pain in her ankle all but disappeared, and she felt such a curious energy suddenly tingle from the top of her head down to her fingertips. Stunned, she fell to the windowsill on her butt, her legs splayed out in front of her.
“Are you alright?” The little girl’s smile quickly flipped upside down. “I’m sorry, I clapped too loudly, didn’t I?”
Standing and brushing the pixie dust off her dress, she waved the girl away. Whatever that had been, she seemed unharmed. It was time to get back. Hefting the small bundle of gifts, she attempted to exit out the window - only to have her luggage get jammed in the opening.
“Let me get that for you,” the little girl offered, widening the window so the bundle could fit. With a jingle, the pixie saluted her, and then quickly disappeared into the night sky, the smoke from the chimneys causing her to cough in little bell sounds that made the girl giggle as she flew out of sight.
Looking down, she pondered thoughtfully for a moment. Then, resolved, headed for the second star to the right.
Boys were stupid. They were fine as children, but they made terrible adults.
Smart, gentle, giving little girls like that one were far better off without them.
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Tinkerbell’s mind is a crazy machine at the best
And her head sets aflame all the things that her body loves the best
She’s constantly at play
Somebody oughta come real soon and take that girl away
The Glitterhouse - “Tinkerbell’s Mind”
- Background Note: I've always hated Tinkerbell, but my partner loves her. This was the first song we listened to together on our first date, when I had to admit I knew nothing about psych/progressive rock from the 60's. It's inspired this post now a decade later. Maybe Tink's not so bad.
my hair calls herself an artist
my hair still mangles herself into your face on freckled tile, did you know?
i watch, shivering and wrapped in my shower curtain. / i watch till it’s time for me to take you and your smirk to the sink, / your eyes sticking to my fingers without fail. / my fingers, your eyes, your mouth, / they shake jointly / while i drown them on porcelain and let the drain choke on their skeletons. / i’ve come to think of it as an art. / the drowning of you, i mean. /
my fingers crumple and pull and wrench and hinge and scratch / at black strands twisting into a counterfeit print of your breath / i wipe it all away with my palms / (your breathing, though fake, was fogging up my mirror) / and your mouth curls to the beat of my hair rearranging herself on the inside of my wrist. /
your nose always sprawls on the tile longest, / and i would laugh at the sight of it if my lips weren’t pressed so tight together. / they don’t like the taste of salt, you see. /
last week i started drowning you with my teeth. / it’s easier this way. / i believe i’ve mastered the art, / and i rather think the taste of salt is growing on me. / now, my hair splits in the gaps of my teeth / as i rip it away with a vengeance. / you, darling, won’t ever have to hear it. /
here it phlows
Here’s how hell happened,
hard headed hapless humans having had homes havocked, having had hearts hurtled, hence heads hurt-ridden 'hind hoddies have hidden
Individuals ingrained in -isms incorporated insidious indifference, innocence is illusion implicit illegal industry inevitably intrinsic,
is it over?
indeed it isn’t
Putting poor people past putrid prisons perhaps paying policemen produces profit, pompous power plainly prejudges politricks playing pity plunder
Hear the heckler’s hateful hoaxes hard to hope he heeds the homeless, hasn’t happened so have to hustle have to have it, hooks as hard as heroin-addicts
Overdosed on overly-verbose oxytocins obdurate oracles operate onward, ones own opinions overcome omens only offers ‘onesty occasionally ‘omage or ’onour
’Plaude the proud people protesting pillagery and pertain to philosophy of peaceful pugnacity, poignant poetry projected in pictures painted in public -parks -plots and parking places,
penned plainly
phuck phalsehoods and phight for the phuture
