Velvet Gown

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Vultures glare from their blood stained chairs,
As she spins and twirls in her velvet gown,
Her soul for sale they do not care,
She spins and twirls in her velvet gown,
Talons grasping, their sneers leering near,
She spins and twirls in her velvet gown,
Her face crumbling they indulge in black tears,
She spins
and slips
in her velvet gown,

Scarlet juice on the walls, notes cascading like piss,
She weeps and shrieks as they burn her velvet gown.

 

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The five senses of grief

Grief looks like the bottom of a bottle.
Grief smells like the unwashed bed linen you have not moved from in weeks.
Grief tastes sour, putrid, sickening.
Grief sounds like the music you once adored and now detest.
Grief feels like the objects you need to hold onto, to remind yourself that reality is not a concept.

The realities of freshers week

Freshers week should be advertised as one of the most awkward, draining and confusing seven days you will experience in your young naive life. Fourteen days ago I said a hurried farewell to my teary mum, sister and dad and started, what was promised, an entertaining week full of ‘new friends’.

Firstly I carried out the horrendously awkward task of knocking on my flatmates doors. The anticaption was maddening- what charachter would open the door to me? By door seven I was feeling bleak. Everyone was younger than me, painfully shy and nothing like my party mad friends back in Oxford. Fuck it. I am a confident young woman, I will meet people.

So the week of drunken antics commenced on the Saturday. PREDRINKS.
Unfortuantly, it was only me and one other girl who carried out the drunken antics as no one else got drunk. I woke up on Sunday feeling pretty bloody miserable and slightly ashamed.

People seemed overwhelmed by me. I was to loud. Swore to much. Drank to much. I rang my mum,
“If people do not like you then they can lump it, be yourself because you are lovely.”

For the next week I followed my mums wise words. People started coming out of their shells and looking to me for advice. I started meeting people from around campus and the drunken antics were not just contained to myself.

Two blurred weeks on from that teary Saturday, I am still finding my feet and missing my friends/family/cats but am feeling a lot more at ease and comfterble. Minus the freshers flu of course.

Hopes and dreams from the untainted young

Stale smoke filled my blackened lungs, the nicotine rush causing me to become lightheaded, closing my heavily made up eyes visions of my blurred future flooded my naive mind. Perhaps I will spontaneously move to Paris, learn French, meet a beautiful poetic Frenchman, have mind blowing sex and sip espressos in an arty overpriced cafe. Perhaps I will become an acclaimed novelist, get rich from my carefully sculpted stories, create worlds from my expensive oak desk. Live a life of comfort and freedom. Perhaps I will fall in love, the mutual adoration from my perfect partner leaving me floating through life undeterred by wars, bills and petty drama. Stubbing my cigarette out I wondered if my picturesque hopes and dreams reflected those of other uncertain young individuals. You can not fantasise about working fifty hour weeks in a dead end job, to pay for your disappointing two bedroom house, ungrateful children and small pension. Dissatisfaction and boredom eating your soul, turning you into the person you once claimed you would never become.

The unspoken race for that ‘summer body’

Last summer in Prauge (center)

Feeling wonderful last summer in Prauge (center)

The days are becoming warmer and brighter. Invitations for barbeques are relentless. These slight changes to my life can only mean one thing….

Each day I am going to be forced to become more naked. As my ‘diet’ from winter has not yet evolved and my pasty blotchy legs have not said hello to UV rays for a long while, I need to sort myself out. Two weeks until things really start hotting up. Fuck.
Bringing me some form of mere condolence is the other many girls and boys, who I am friends with, who are thinking ‘fuck’ too. The other 60% of my friends, despite the lack of excercise they do?!, are toned, tanned and not blotchy. As there WILL be photos of me, next to these goddesses, I need to start sorting my bod out using a few steps.

1) Visit the sunbed twice a week. Yes I am aware of their dangerous outcomes, however I am pale, blotchy, veiny and bruised so a forced tan is the way to go if I am going to look half summer ready.

2) Eat healthy and not late. My diet is not atrociuous and I am already slimish. But I would love to lose a few pounds before bouncing around, in a bikini at a festival, next to toned up boho babes. I have also noticed that eating healthy food makes me feel fabulous and gives me a natural glow that does not go un-noticed.

3) SLEEP. 8 hours a night and I look and feel better. 3 hours sleep and an eight hour shift at work (after a heavy night of drinking, dance and drugs) makes me look how I feel. Like fucking shit. And also messes up my body clock for a good 2-3 days.

4) Flattering clothes. Yes, I need to invest but how can I when I have yet to sprout a summer bod?

5) Effort. Effort is something I lack. Shaving every hair on my body, Keeping my nails fresh and neat. Going to sunbeds. Making a meal not buying takeaway. Going for a run.

I have TWO weeks to put in the effort and willpower to regain the body I had last summer. If I have done it before I can do it again.

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Students of the opulent class

When I am away from my city of birth and people ask, where I am from, the response I give always, always is greeted with the same irritating remarks.
-“Oh, wow, so you go to Oxford University?”
-“You must be posh.”

No, beyond the extravagant sprawl of University owned buildings there lies villages. Where the semi-intelligent working class live. We intrude the city to work in overpriced boutiques, only organic cafes and ‘five pound a pint’ pubs. But I, and all my average friends, love the city. No, we do not attend the University but the state funded college. And as much as we try, we will never be posh.

However, we know Oxford. The back routes, the best night out, who to contact for the quality drugs. Intruders who claim they understand the pulse of my city, only know a limited fraction of  Oxford and the diverse ways of life here. The city they live in guarded by the pampered gargoyles cemented to prosperity.   

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