tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13550867382212307192024-03-13T11:57:38.267+00:00Microwave FictionFlash fiction, poetry, and random thoughts for the microwave ageTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.comBlogger256125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-25838953926769874102012-12-10T21:21:00.002+00:002012-12-10T21:23:14.902+00:00Santa's Last Day<style type="text/css">
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Two in the
afternoon and Santa was weary. His back was playing up from sitting
on the same uncomfortable stool all day, his head was spinning and
ached mercilessly from the incessant chirpy music, his chin was sore
from inquisitive kids tugging at his beard to see if it was real –
of course it was – and most of all he was totally, absolutely, sick
of those whining little kids, and worse still, their parents. What a
place to spend the last few weeks before Christmas: in a grotty
grotto in a large cheapskate department store, but, like every one
else these days, he needed the money, even if it was minimum wage.</div>
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So here he was with an annoyingly precocious boy on his knee. This
horrid little snob, in his pristine school uniform, was holding up a
long queue of disgruntled parents, with even more disgruntled
children, as he recited his interminable list of overpriced demands.
His smug middle class parents looked on, with grinning superiority,
as snobby junior took another deep breath, fixed another look of
concentration, and continued:</div>
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“An Action Man, a train set, a Scalextric, a fire engine, a bow and
arrow set, a PlayStation, a cowboy's outfit, an iPod, Lego, a laptop
– a proper one mind: no less than 8 Gigs of RAM – a toy garage,
some cars to go with it, a Barbie Doll-”</div>
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“A Barbie Doll!” exclaimed Santa.</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Santa, dear-oh-dear, your not sexist are you.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Course not, no, course not, don't think that lad. Just… Just…”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>“Equal rights and all that. It's the law. So a Barbie Doll like I
said (only don't bother with Ken), a Sindy Doll while your at it, a
nurses outfit, a-”<br />
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Gosh lad. Have you finished?”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“We're getting there Santa, getting there, be about another twenty
minutes. Where was I? You keep making me lose track. Oh yes, a nurses
outfit-”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Wait a bit lad, hang on there, others waiting you see. Have to
stop you.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“I haven't mentioned me bike. Its got to be green. Billy down the
road has a blue one and I don't like Billy, he's a pleb, a nasty
little pleb, he'll probably grow up to be a policeman. So mine has to
be green and have ten speeds. Got that Santa.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Just about, just about. Run along now.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
Santa pushed the boy off his lap with a well practised shove and out
into the grinning embrace of his grinning parents.</div>
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“Next,” shouted Santa.</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
The queue surged foreword one notch pushing the elder snobby's aside.
There, disgruntled at the indignity, they gathered themselves
together. Then noticing the unhappy face on snobby junior they set
off to find the store manager and make a vociferous and noisy
complaint. Deep down, deep within their joint minds, was a little
flicker of gold, it had a familiar name stamped upon it:
compensation.</div>
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Next upon Santa's lap was a little girl in a vibrant pink dress.</div>
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“Little girl,” said Santa, “you look like a nice little girl,
what would you like this Christmas from Santa?”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“A machine gun.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“No, no. No guns, wouldn't you like something nice? A doll say?”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Just a machine gun.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Dear me no, what about some makeup then? Make you look even
prettier.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“A quality one, has to be quality, M240 would do fine.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Errrr… Errrr… and why do you want this errrr… item?</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“So I can get all the poxy dolls I want, what do you think? So I
don't have to keep coming back to some weird lecherous bloke each
year and have to suck up to him to get him to give me presents.
Degrading it is. So I can go out and get whatever I want for myself.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Sorry my dear, have to put my foot down, but no guns, none
whatsoever.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Unbelievable. If the government can go around the world selling
guns then why can't I have one? That would just be hypercritical. Oh,
I see why now. Answered my own question again.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“That's good little girl. So what would you really, truly, like?”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“I suppose it has to be another poxy doll again. I hate the bloody
things. But what can else can you ask for?”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
Santa stood up bolt upright and the little girl and her pink dress
fell to the floor with a thud.</div>
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“That's it,” Santa shouted. “You lot out there, clear off, sod
off. No more I'm giving up. Going home. You bunch of no hoper's, I'm
going home.” He pushed through the waiting queue, on his way
nutting a fat man, holding the hand of a geeky boy, right on his big
fat nose. The fat man's nose started to bleed, the geeky boy started
to cry, and the fat man looked set to join him.</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
“Christmas is cancelled, plonkers, Christmas is cancelled,” Santa
shouted back at the complaining queue, given them the finger as he
did so. Pushing through the front door of the store, his red robes
flapping, he muttered: “You lot, sod off. That's it I'm finished.”
And he disappeared into the street side crowd of shoppers.</div>
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<span style="color: silver;">● ● ●</span></div>
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It was still light when Santa arrived back at his hut in the North
Pole. What a relief it was to be trudging up the path to his front
door, to see the smoke ascending from the chimney and promising
warmth, to see the windows just behind which promised a cosy chair
and a glass of something nice. Just as he approached the sturdy
wooden door it swung open, just missing him by inches and almost
making his red nose even redder. Before him stood the plump welcoming
figure of trusty Mrs Claus. She looked up, smiled, then bent down to
pick up a suitcase in each hand.</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
Mrs Claus said: “Your home early Santa. Your dinner's in the tin,
the tin opener's in the draw, the stove is the black thing in the
kitchen, and that's just down the hallway and turn left. I'm off,
don't know where, somewhere interesting, less of the white stuff. You
can send the divorce papers round to my sister's. Bye.”</div>
<div style="background: transparent; orphans: 0; page-break-before: auto; widows: 0;">
Santa stood watching as she walked along the pathway – not her as
well.</div>
Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-81600228571223548582012-07-31T06:08:00.003+01:002012-07-31T06:15:41.644+01:00As a Discarded ToyA blaze aches in my broken shoulder<br />
My dress torn, covered in dirt and mud<br />
Fat and putrefaction bath my once stylish hair<br />
Useless and forgotten<br />
I sink, lower, cast aside<br />
And I suffered, did I suffer!<br />
<br />
Some, some<br />
Can ascend and fly<br />
Like a bird of prey<br />
Swooping on those<br />
Dying among the garbage below<br />
<br />
I've despaired since being made<br />
Looked down upon by everyone<br />
As a plastic doll, a cheap plastic doll<br />
Never treated with respect<br />
Or assumed to have a mind<br />
Always a despised artefact<br />
<br />
Some, some<br />
Can cry and sing<br />
Safe in their cloistered grandeur<br />
Despising those trite<br />
Playthings of yesteryear<br />
<br />
I'm broken, torn apart, cut<br />
Never worth repairing<br />
Forever at the back of the cupboard<br />
Always that unwanted gift<br />
That last minute birthday present<br />
Always the discarded me, the forgotten me, the ineffective me<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />Many, many<br />
Can whisper words of defiance<br />
At the greed and insanity<br />
At the lies and corruption<br />
Of the few, the few<br />
<br />
Unused, cast aside<br />
A momentary flick of the wrist<br />
And stuffed into black plastic bag<br />
Damaged goods still in that scuffed cardboard box<br />
Sinking down among the detritus of ages<br />
And thrown, late one night, into the refuse bin<br />
<br />
Some, some<br />
Can hunt and snare<br />
For the shear thrill<br />
The power over a plaything<br />
Over a discarded toy<br />
<br />
Once, I was on that shop shelf<br />
I had a tantalising smile<br />
A cheeky face<br />
I had hopes and dreams<br />
Of a simple quiet life<br />
A playful life<br />
<br />
Many, many<br />
Can rebel and dissent<br />
Can demand their own space<br />
Can see the sparkling future<br />
Can cast aside the ages<br />
<br />
Now tears flow<br />
Dishevelled<br />
Ripped to pieces<br />
Downtrodden, so I cry<br />
Never to be my turn<br />
Despairing, so I cry<br />
<br />
Many, many<br />
Can reclaim a fresh world<br />
Casting aside the vultures<br />
A world of brightness, luminance<br />
A world without huntersTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-81179790841996414382012-07-30T14:11:00.001+01:002012-07-30T14:11:14.103+01:00The Market TraderI have a poor market stall<br /> Selling oranges to the forlorn<br /> They're juicy, succulent visions<br /> And you can try one if you would<br /> A one-off offer only available today<br /><br /> These oranges are a possible happening<br /> A bright vision of equality<br /> An appetising ripeness among the despair<br /> Don't look on with bitterness<br /> Or plunder pillaged desperation<br /><br /> The oranges come from the future<br /> The oranges come from a possible<br /> They're sun filled experiences<br /> And you could try one if you like<br /> A get-one-free special only for today<br /><br /> Hitherto the market has been declining<br /> One thrust might have been our demise<br /> Our graves already dug among the detritus<br /> But a new fresh batch of oranges<br /> Opens the faintest possibility of ascent<br /><br /> Why don't we make a world of oranges?<br /> Everyone growing or trading fruit<br /> A cultural of equivalence<br /> Full of the aroma of promise<br /> Where everyone tastes sweetness<br /><br /> You could join us selling oranges<br /> Or some other delicious fruit<br /> We could make the market thrive again<br /> Becoming a delectable exotic vision<br /> And spreading to neighbouring townsTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-68130838837172887682012-07-20T06:52:00.001+01:002012-07-20T06:52:07.647+01:00Bright, Bright, Afar so BrightAs miniature suns shine<br /> Dazzling in the night<br /> Forcing their brightness upon you<br /> Expecting, demanding, you shine back<br /> And when the day emerges<br /> The disgusting stain remains<br /><br /> The sickening flames of neon<br /> Gaudy monstrosities of illumination<br /> A vandalism of electrification<br /> You cannot close your eyes<br /> To the intimidating luminosity<br /> Of the thuggery of neon<br /><br /> The neon lights the skyline<br /> Like some discordant graffiti<br /> Scaring the mind, abusing the body<br /> Born again in ineptitude<br /> A deathly silence of lies<br /> No gift too trivial to discard<br /><br /> This procession of tackiness<br /> Sanctioned by wealth and greed<br /> Far more sickening than any spray can<br /> More disgusting than any youthful scrawl<br /> With no little army of street cleaners<br /> No cavalcade to remove the repellent<br /><br /> If it was any worth there'd be no need to advertise<br /> And with such flagrant a disregard for truth<br /> Presenting one side only of an argument<br /> Means always disseminating lies<br /> Or deliberately indulging in fraud<br /> And with no rain will wash away this vengeful stainTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-57835281306626715992012-07-17T07:03:00.000+01:002012-07-17T07:03:35.771+01:00Never EverWe now meet trembling with boredom<br /> Nothing to say, all dull inanities<br /> And depart desiring a forgiving lobotomy<br /><br /> We never ever were, are, nor could be<br /><br /> What was it with that red paisley scarf?<br /> An unfashion statement?<br /> A shallow mask for a shallow mind?<br /><br /> I never ever was, is, nor could be<br /><br /> I think I've had enough of your inconsequential ways<br /> Your noisy inhospitably booming incredulity<br /> Your trashy pop songs and superficial movies<br /><br /> You never ever were, are, nor could be<br /><br /> All we have left is a complete waste of time<br /> It would be a kindness to forget that dull monotony<br /> And destroy our tedious times, it all adds up to nothing<br /><br /> Because it never ever was, is, nor could be<br /> Because it never could be, could be, never ever could beTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-30865917617371776592012-07-16T08:00:00.001+01:002012-07-16T08:00:15.875+01:00TeresaI can remember you the shy girl back at school<br /> Sitting at a desk nearby<br /> Not saying much, always quiet<br /> Skinny, gawky and with so beautiful black hair<br /> Always overshadowed by your so called friends<br /> Me all afraid to say anything at all<br /><br /> I can imagine your life<br /> Spotty, sitting at a lonely checkout in Tesco's, bored<br /> Marrying young and pregnant<br /> A husband that takes advantage of you<br /> A husband that maltreats you<br /> One tooth chipped where he hit you that time<br /> And still taking advantage of your sweetness and lack of confidence<br /><br /> Would I have taken advantage of you?<br /> I hope not, I do so hope not<br /> I could have, should have, offered you better then that<br /> You will forever be a memory of a beautiful possibility<br /> Something wonderful lost forever<br /><br /> Have I got you right?<br /> Probably not, I hope not<br /> But I will always miss what we never hadTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-80040151459619935042012-07-15T06:57:00.000+01:002012-07-15T06:58:42.612+01:00DiscographyThe torrent crawls bringing raucous music<br />
<br />
One day for live performances, bootlegs<br />
The torrent stalls<br />
Frustration is the greatest hits<br />
<br />
Frozen for collections<br />
A tempting flurry<br />
The ratio disappointing, blocking<br />
Chasing hours for rarities<br />
<br />
The torrent crawls hanging on 99 percent<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>A little poem written, a few years ago, during the frustrating and long wait for a torrent download on my computer to finish. Was the wait worth it? NO! The artist appeared intriguing; but the try-before-you-buy download only proved them boring and the files were quickly deleted.</i></span>Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-6991188833104055402012-07-14T06:44:00.000+01:002012-07-14T06:44:05.750+01:00A Distant ConversationAn intermittent conversation occurs between two ladies, somewhat aged, in a covered market café near the centre of a small town. They are sitting at a small round table near the counter; a few thin bags of shopping are around their feet; the other tables are largely empty. It's a cold spring day and they've kept their thick coats on. Each lady is picking at her meal, beans with two slices of toast, and occasionally sipping from a mug of tea.<br /><br />Quiet words come from one, admonishing the other. <br /><br />Quiet words from one, admonishing the other.<br /><br />Omitted words from the other, the younger.<br /><br />They sit, finishing their mugs of tea. The café is almost empty – the tables wiped, the chairs all neat – and waiting to close on this tranquil late afternoon.<br /><br />One woman, the younger, slouched back in her chair, is quietly humming a discordant tune; an imitation of some forgotten pop song.<br /><br />One woman, the older, fiddles with the cutlery on her empty plate and scowled disapprovingly.Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-47419637345538171942012-07-13T10:40:00.000+01:002012-07-13T10:40:15.711+01:00A Clear Nocturnal SkyI walked through the vacant city streets <br /> Among the cold and desolation<br /> And saw freckles of fascination<br /> All incandescent speckles of mystery<br /> The luminosity seeming to drift away<br /> As I tried to clasp upon it<br /><br /> I walked onward though the devastation<br /> The loneliness of broken lives swimming all around<br /> I gazed upon tiny smudges of enchantment<br /> All above me this spellbound sea of stars<br /> The brightness apparently superficial<br /> So far away to be unreachable<br /><br /> Now lying in my bed, the curtains open<br /> Eyes shut in the darkness<br /> There I see within the stippled granules of stars<br /> All burnished bright I know their form<br />
The flecked candescence of the unknown<br /> I've caught them, I have them, they're inside me<br /><br /> They're internalised to my being<br /> They're lustrous within<br /> They're all I want or need<br /> (With eyes averted to the horrors just outside)Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-81900393101911261532012-07-12T10:11:00.002+01:002012-07-12T10:11:51.684+01:00DissolutionYou dissolved<br /> Into a desire<br /> So I melted also<br /><br /> You beaconed to<br /> Another world<br /> And suggested I depart<br /> The humdrum<br /><br /> You unfastened the<br /> Entrance of desire<br /> And I meekly followed<br /><br /> You unbolted the gates<br /> To my inner being<br /> And I willingly<br /> Pulled them asunder<br /><br /> New vistas opened up<br /> And before I could grow familiar<br /> You declared you were departing<br /><br /> You'd dissolved into another desire<br /> So I my life frozeTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-71410963072514839982012-07-11T07:38:00.002+01:002012-07-11T20:23:33.568+01:00Dark ShadowsThe darkness envelops<br />
The cold bites<br />
<br />
It's just the way the shadows fall<br />
<br />
The stifling blackness almost complete<br />
Here discarded among the detritus<br />
Abandoned outside the city<br />
<br />
Unaccustomed to the annihilation<br />
Listening through the anxiety<br />
As the unknown bodies crying<br />
<br />
It's just the shadows of regret dancing<br />
<br />
Fear enfolds<br />
Nothing remains<br />
The lurid illusions multiply<br />
<br />
A thin moon flickers through misty clouds<br />
I struggle onward, forlorn<br />
Towards an unknown allegiance<br />
<br />
It's just the sorrow among the shadowsTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-89629822938293308622012-07-10T09:12:00.000+01:002012-07-10T09:12:41.421+01:00RenunciationRejection, rejection<br /> Always rejection<br /> Is that all you have – renunciation?<br /> And I did so adore you<br /><br /> However:<br /><br /> Did you experience it also?<br /> Did you understand the faithful?<br /> The intense, demonstrative<br /> It's you that's disgraceful<br /><br /> And then remembrance:<br /> The provocative contact<br /> The manner of your embrace<br /><br /> Also:<br /><br /> Splutter, splutter<br /> Forever your splutter<br /> Is that all you possessed – verbiage?<br /> And that forlorn inclination<br /><br /> Whatever:<br /><br /> Now trepidation, the anxiety of innocence<br /> The concern for impression<br /> Now doomed to oblivion<br /><br /> And then memory:<br /> The incendiary connection<br /> The rousing of your acceptance<br /><br /> Remember:<br /><br /> I renounce, renounce<br /> I renounce youTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-69323178780883862792012-07-09T21:18:00.000+01:002012-07-09T21:18:05.991+01:00Florescent NocturnalSuch brightness I saw at midnight<br /> The emergence of another<br /> Looking back in envy<br /> Pervading the breeze with desire<br /><br /> Your soft folds envelop me<br /> Covering the sensation of your contact<br /> Then the pure dreamlike instant<br /> The moment of utter elation<br /><br /> Let me look upon your lovable significance<br /> Let me delineate the sweet suggestion<br /> Let me survey the expression<br /> Conveying your meaning to my existence<br /><br /> The hour ends in dissolution<br /> With an impression so enlivened<br /> Something always of remembrance<br /> Enveloped in your grace<br /><br /> Too soon you rise and<br /> Slowly glide into absence<br /> The aroma of joy still hovers<br /> How I ache for you to persist<br /><br /> Let me look upon your angelic essence<br /> Let me trace those sweet tremors<br /> Let me watch the effervescence<br /> Effuse your substance throughout my being<br /><br /> Eyes closed, remembering<br /> I long for your recurrence<br /> Opening my eyes in the darkness<br /> Lonely inattention is what I acknowledge<br /><br /> Alone now at sunrise<br /> The dead day all non-existence<br /> Awaiting another night of apparitions<br /> Only then can I experience your ambience<br /><br /> Let me await your angelic essence<br /> Let me await those sweet tremors<br /> Let me await the effervescence<br /> That gushes around my very beingTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-28952561264296087522012-07-08T20:13:00.000+01:002012-07-08T20:13:23.048+01:00AshamedAre you ashamed<br /> Of me? So,<br /> Do I not live up to<br /> Expectation?<br /><br /> I'm proud of you<br /> So why<br /> Are you<br /> Mortified by me?<br /><br /> Your embarrassed<br /> By me, so<br /> Stop demanding<br /> I follow.<br /><br /> Your humiliated<br /> By me, therefore<br /> Hack from my soul<br /> What you will.<br /><br /> Depart forever, if<br /> Your so<br /> Ashamed<br /> Of me?Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-16130620528331036302012-07-06T11:07:00.001+01:002012-07-06T11:07:46.999+01:00St Oswald’s Church, Liverpool<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Earlier this week I set off to have a look at <a href="http://www.stoswaldoldswan.org.uk/" target="_blank">St. Oswald's church</a> in Old Swan. When you glared at the map it does not seem that far from Liverpool Lime Street station. In times past I would happily have walked this sort of distance – I often walked from Toxteth to Liverpool city centre. On this day I was exhausted long before I made it to St. Oswald Street. Along Edge Lane you could see the St. Oswald church tower beckoning in the distance and all to imperceptibly getting closer. <br /><br />Normally I don't have much time for either church or religion, neither mean more to me than a vague curiosity value. So why this trip? Later this year I am starting an Open University module that consists of a rapid romp through the arts. One topic is the architect Augustus Pugin [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pugin ] so it seemed a good idea to have at least a peek at one of his buildings; a peek all close up and personal. St. Oswald was built in 1840 and only the tower remains of Pugin's original. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/timothymarshalnichols/sets/72157630445258694/" target="_blank">Here are a few photos</a> I took on the day.<br />
<br />Overall I was a little disappointed by the church. With what I'd read about Pugin I was expecting some stand out architecture but what I saw was little different from hundreds of other such buildings. It was pleasant enough as architecture but little more; it must be enthusiasts that put all that effort into writing such books and like – only to disappoint the amateur like me. Still I'm glad I've seen it. The church was locked so I didn't get to see inside. <br /><br />On leaving the small churchyard you could see the Victorian graves, the neatly cut hedges, you walked under the shade of a thriving tree; behind you was the empty locked church with its about to crumble façade; ahead was a small archway, adorned with moss, leading out onto the empty pavement; in the distance was the low hum of Edge Lane and the traffic making its way to or from Liverpool; just below this hum you could almost hear the chatter of a few local sitting outside a nearby pub. But there, across the road, dominating everything, was the aggressive utilitarianism of a Tesco superstore; it rammed its functionality and commercialism in your face. At this time of day a steady trickle of traffic meanders in and out and all the surrounding pavements and walkways are forced to conform to its monetary demands. <br /><br />Was Catholicism, or indeed any church, any less demanding of uniformity? Probably not. But even a lifelong atheist like me cannot help feeling a little twinge of nostalgia. <br /><br />I got the bus back into Liverpool – I was now minimising the amount or walking I needed to do – and onto an all-day-breakfast at a little café. Frankly this was the most enjoyable part of the day.Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-54882695658794435542012-07-06T05:54:00.002+01:002012-07-06T05:54:30.776+01:00Can You Imagine?Could I imagine you?<br /> Striding, tempting<br /> More than another’s<br /> Vain enticement<br /><br /> Could I anticipate you?<br /> With so zealous a fortitude<br /> Greater than others could<br /> Ever foresee<br /><br /> Should I envisage you?<br /> So desperate as being<br /> Unable to endure<br /> Separation from you<br /><br /> Could I perceive you?<br /> So despairing<br /> As if to wither<br /> Apart from you<br /><br /> Did I imagine you?<br /> And the fearful<br /> Ineptitude of these<br /> These impossible lyrics<br /><br /> Could you also imagine?Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-13291334044873859742012-07-05T07:01:00.004+01:002012-07-05T07:01:49.088+01:00Hinder Us NotWe need no assistance<br /> We shall to set ourselves<br /> Free<br /><br /> We refuse your help<br /> And will educate ourselves in our<br /> Endurance<br /><br /> We renounce your pretended support<br /> And the hidden<br /> Chains it brings<br /><br /> You can watch from afar<br /> Festering in your own<br /> Authoritarianism<br /><br /> Our struggle for freedom<br /> Shows how we all can be free of your<br /> TyrannyTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-3336768200119738392012-07-04T06:40:00.001+01:002012-07-04T06:40:43.216+01:00Will You?Please remain<br /> Remain constant<br /> Constant in us<br /><br /> Do delay<br /> Delay awhile<br /> While I compose myself<br /><br /> Detain yourself<br /> Myself in admonishment<br /> Of my misdeeds<br /><br /> Here loiter<br /> Loiter and renew<br /> Renew our feelings anew<br /><br /> Please linger<br /> Linger with me<br /> And I with youTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-46125568845496398142012-07-03T07:28:00.001+01:002012-07-03T07:28:27.192+01:00Stillness in the WildernessA calm is every last dream of recollection<br /> A calm surrounding my distant being<br /> Nevermore making any noise<br /> Nevermore uttering any tidings<br /><br /> Inhibition is my whole existence<br /> Nevermore to be acknowledged<br /> I exist in absolute inhibition<br /> I am my infinite inhibition<br /><br /> Stillness is my disgruntled acceptance<br /> Stillness perspires into my deepest psyche<br /> Nevermore desiring any tidings<br /> Nevermore accepting acknowledgementTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-51551302800390471802012-07-02T05:07:00.001+01:002012-07-02T05:07:26.729+01:00This New WineThe bottle pops open<br /> The fresh aroma fills the air<br /> The camaraderie fills our lungs<br /><br /> And that longed for union:<br /> Do they gulp or do they retch?<br /><br /> What will be the response:<br /> To this syrupy draught<br /> To drink deeply<br /> To imbibe with gusto<br /> To swig it down<br /> Or sip so sweetly?<br /><br /> The liquid spills into the glass<br /> Wetting the sides<br /> Sparkling in the dim light<br /> And the most beautiful of fluids<br /> Touches their glistening mouth<br /><br /> And that anticipated delight:<br /> Do they gulp or do they retch?<br /><br /> The moment is almost upon us<br /> To answer that deepest question<br /> Of our unity, of our conjunction<br /><br /> And that quandary all must ask:<br /> Do they gulp or do they retch?Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-66814417466573103202012-07-01T06:15:00.000+01:002012-07-01T06:15:11.695+01:00The Dryness of LanguageStill, derelict, non-existence, words<br /> No words to tell you how<br /> No words to feel<br /><br /> Silent, neglectful, inconsequential, words<br /> No words to tell you what<br /> No words to tell of the pain<br /><br /> Tacit, negligent, unimportant, words<br /> No words to signify the failure<br /> No words to express the hatred<br /><br /> Inaudible, remiss, immaterial, words<br /> No words at all to convey the loss<br /> Of what might have been<br /> Of what should have beenTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-75870989873362878472012-06-30T07:05:00.001+01:002012-06-30T07:05:24.050+01:00Stay AwhileHere, sweet,<br /> Sweet vision,<br /> With me,<br /> Will you remain awhile?<br /><br /> Here, beautiful,<br /> Beautiful dream,<br /> Alongside me,<br /> You shall always be cherished.<br /><br /> Here, wondrous,<br /> Wondrous image,<br /> Resides your home,<br /> Your very belonging.<br /><br /> Here, marvellous,<br /> Marvellous vision,<br /> Can you remain,<br /> Awhile?Timothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-31148360712271654442012-06-29T06:38:00.000+01:002012-06-29T06:38:09.279+01:00Spheres and CirclesTopsy-turvy we stumble<br /> Spinning as we go<br /> Stretching out<br /> But grasping naught<br /><br /> Helter-skelter we cascade<br /> Our quarry just out of reach<br /> Forever hunting<br /> Never catching<br /><br /> Haphazardly, madly, running<br /> Knowing not what we seek<br /> Chasing a vague desire<br /> For something betterTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-22176354339297878072012-06-28T06:47:00.001+01:002012-06-28T06:47:43.981+01:00One Millennia Too FarWith these millennia of inactivity<br /> Must we linger<br /> Or must we make do?<br /><br /> These millennia of anxiety<br /> Full of hurt and wretchedness<br /> Must we plead forgiveness?<br /><br /> Waiting millennia of ingratitude<br /> For that ephemeral moment<br /> Of feeling<br /><br /> These millennia of putrefaction<br /> Must they remain<br /> What must we expect?<br /><br /> Must we linger<br /> Or must we make do?<br /> Fearing these millennia of trepidationTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1355086738221230719.post-3253579201187564652012-06-27T06:39:00.001+01:002012-06-27T06:39:18.156+01:00Stolen TreatsThis is not the time to be despondent<br /> Simply make do and subsist<br /> This strange episode is transitory<br /> This rainy summer<br /><br /> Eschew depression my friend<br /> Annihilate your desire<br /> The sunshine is ephemeral<br /> This rainy summer<br /><br /> Here we all long linger<br /> Here all are wrong<br /> As speech defames our sight<br /> Joy is a solitary misdemeanour<br /><br />
This rainy summer<br /> Make melodious song<br /> So existence is renormalised<br /> So our psyche is everything<br /><br /> Assembled on dirt<br /> It could well dissolve<br /> This temporary microcosm<br /> This rainy summerTimothy Marshal-Nicholshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10884182812764984572noreply@blogger.com0