there's 50 shades of grey and i chose dishwater
a stream of consciousness by the artist currently called DRIZZLE
it's a soggy, drizzly something or other
that passes through me
it wobbles and shivers
except it also sticks in my throat
and makes me cry
and my bones ache all the time trying to contain its gelatinous weight
like aspic in pasty pastry without any meat
i often gag and then wonder
why?
i can't contain it like pastry would
i do not amount to pie
that would be something of a meal, which I am not
although, i am making a meal of this
sat in my dressing gown in a room i painted grey
who wants to be surrounded by dishwater all day?
i knew what i wanted when i put the effort in to change
i had colour charts and mood boards
i knew what was all the rage
(there's my age)
and i came away with plughole sludge
i guess it manifests this way
perhaps it's infectious too
do people see behind the bandaged smile?
the patina tears that the brass of me cries
do they know that's where my sepsis hides?
i don't know anymore what the weather is inside
wet, mostly
can be prone to cold
or stoned, but
moss does not grow, and
nor does my mind
it's shrivelled between the lumps of earth two feet above the end of a whetted Yorkshire wall
i do not intend to climb any higher
God can love all the triers
i just want to stop
and swallow, and breathe freely again
did i ever?
i want to not want to get off this spinning world
i want to feel safe and warm and loved and held
i want the fucking rainbow colours
without the crazy
although...
my husband always says i want the moon on a stick
he's probably right
he should be proud he taught me to dance beneath the weight
aspic doesn't do music
it slides off the stave
but i don't
i cling to it like an extraneous pulse pulling me on
but i am older now, and the airwaves are quieter, and the bandwidth is narrower
nobody likes music for one
that's why it comes with stadiums and halls
it's not meant for sludgy rooms
no acoustic. no life
dishwater will drown all that
as it drips down the walls
with my mood in its slipstream
ugh, i bore myself
i am drizzle
About the Creator
Caroline Jane
CJ lost the plot a long time ago. Now, she writes to explore where all paths lead, collecting crumbs of perspective as her pen travels. One day, she may have enough for a cake, which will, no doubt, be fruity.
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Comments (9)
well written
P-H-E-N-O-M-E-N-A-L!
Wow, love the melancholia of this piece Caroline!! My favourite line was "do people see behind the bandaged smile?"... gave. are chill as I found it quite relatable! Great work!
Very well done, Caroline! This is masterful work! Such a strong anchoring piece of imagery for everything to flow from
"My husband always says I want the moon on a stick", I especially loved that line!
Did you...yes you did...turn dishwater into something elevated and strangely beautiful. This was painful in many ways, but there is so many great things...so many amazing things. So many things I wanna steal and patchwork and make my own lol. I like the artist called Drizzle, but wish her brighter and warmer days and smilier days too. I am officially shit-scared now. I thought this was possibly my next big win challenge...but...damn. lol.
Absolutely fantastic. Too fantastic. I'm sat here between my grey walls feeling a kinning, in many ways.
This is a gorgeous piece. This right here "my husband always says i want the moon on a stick he's probably right." Also, I wasn't sure what aspic was, but now I have the vision of it sliding off the stave. Eww. Very well done, my friend.
What an idea to write about dishwater! And a better idea to write about inspirational dishwater! A great entry for the challenge!