Mitchell's Mustard Blog

October 11, 2015

Bricks and Mortar

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 5:36 pm

Dear you,

The reflection of the mirror never pays you justice. I sit there and watch as you get ready, knowing that you just can’t be replicated. Like that of a picture, beautiful, but never able to compete with the real spectacle. The glow, the desire, the overall being. I don’t know if this is real, so many questions. But none important enough to stop me admiring your presence. Believing in the tomorrow, the stars may not be aligned, but I’m working on that. I’ll roll my sleeves up and build the ideal setting. I’ll dig the tunnel, fix the bridge, pull your boat ashore. We are the river, not the drift wood. I’m not one for coasting, as long as I have strength, I’ll hold you high because I want to show you the sights. I have no interest in being your history, your regret, your once was. There’s no future in that, directionally driven and I wasn’t built with a reverse gear. Not born for games, the only match I’m looking for is one you can ignite, hold it under my heart so you can see me for who I am. In fear of the burn, but not enough to stop me from playing with fire. ‘Home is where your heart is’ they say, and I want you to be my bricks and mortar. Like a kite on a windy day, letting you down isn’t an option. We may dip, a little sway here and there, but there’s always the strength to bloom in the sky.
Because of you, I know that romance isn’t dead.



March 3, 2015

The Pack of Cards. .

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 2:26 pm

The sun peered in through the window, leaving its delicate trail to decorate the copper table. Streamlining across each face on the cards, to give them a glow of life, and a winning spirit. A warmth that compliments the company that surrounds the misshapen, under polished copper table top. The voice and rhythm of Otis Redding bouncing from wall to wall, like a wave, splashing against all that took time to listen and appreciate. But, on this table, the appreciation was intermittent, for the conversation and the cards took precedence.
In no time at all, the sun had retired, the natural warmth had been replaced by a manufactured source. The freshly lit candle flame mischievously popped and danced around, leaving each face on the cards to play an unpredictable game of peek a boo with the shadows. The flicker causing the illusion in the form of a wink from the king, and a blush from the queen. The clock hands spun just like that of the Jeff Buckley vinyl in the corner. His voice swirling, enticing, wrapping the atmosphere in a bow. The sound of ice tapping against the glass, the incoherent background chatter that skulked around looking for a witness. All blending into the walls, the floors, the unimportant. The occasional eye contact over the table as each poker face became that much more predictable, as each face on the cards became that much more playful.
As each cigarette burned away, the whistling wind causing the momentary breaks to become far and few between. Taking it in turns to roll and satisfy the addiction, the menthol filter introduced to the paper from the left, or the right, depending on the which side of the table the offer had come. The soft rhythmic sounds had been returned back to their sleeves, to be replaced with a more upbeat Led Zeppelin, twisting and turning the mellow ambiance into a mischievous foot tapping wonder. As the time became more apparent, the evenings environment starting to stretch and yawn. After losing all account of a victor, each face on the cards retired but not without a fight, the ice sat alone in the bottom of the glass, a plume of smoke had risen from the extinguished candle, just to dissipate like everything else in the immediate vicinity. The evening had drawn to a close, as the faces on the cards left with a smile.

February 1, 2015

For when the blanket of expectation falls . . .

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 7:35 pm

To chase a fools gold, the myth found at the end of a rainbow, making the journey just to kick yourself as the end destination keeps moving, grasping and clasping to catch a rogue leaf in a windy city, the key is knowing when to give up. The longing for the false hope you would receive from the thing your mind laces with fortune and future, only to realise that your illusionist mind works for the enemy, and what you thought you wanted, doesn’t exist. The cloak and dagger tales that are spun for your mind, to hold them in the cobwebs that accommodate the corners, waiting to be devoured or disturbed and blown away. Sometimes we are oblivious to what’s in front of us, It can only ever be as complicated as you make it, and by all standards, it seems that complicated is key. To know that you want what you can’t have is a step towards affliction, a step towards addiction, but a huge stride to a solution, lacing up and stepping out in a different direction than before, a strange but true horizon, an unfamiliar future, but a future none the less. Let those cobwebs be blown away by the refreshing breeze of a better day, a realistic sunrise, turn so the history of shadows surrender and lay down at your heels, bask in the knowledge that what’s in front of you will only ever guide you, take my hand, tomorrow will be successful, the day will guide and never dictate, to pull on the corners of this existence together and wrap it around us like a magicians trick, for when the blanket of expectation falls to the floor, we will have left it all behind, only to return when we choose.

January 30, 2015

Strokes of a Paintbrush. .

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 2:30 pm

Her hand gently traced the muscles of his back as they lay there entwined, her face buried into his shoulder, she gently laced his neck with her lips, working her way around the lower line of his beard, she had grown quite fond of the feeling of his beard on her skin, like strokes of a paintbrush. They both lay silently, knowing that any one word could end this embrace, clouded by the thought that they both shouldn’t be where they are, but that made it more appealing, they had started something they couldn’t end. The attraction bore deep in them both.
His eyes outlining the intricate details of the tattoos that coloured her skin, stroking the line work on her arm, making sure he didn’t colour outside the lines. Her naked torso pulled him in closer, nuzzling in for warmth and attention, she started to work her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, gently tugging, the one thing she knew would get her the attention she craved. Her nails slowly leaving lines on the skin of his side, a remnant of where she had been, and where she would return. Pulling her foot up against the bottom of his, a way of pulling him in closer, close enough to compliment the way she felt. Craning her neck, she reached up and gently nibbled his lower lip. He pulled her small frame onto his. As she perched on top of him, he lined her spine with his fingers to make her back arch and her skin prickle. Reaching up and tugged on the back of her hair, pulling her back down to his level, she dug her nails into his tattooed chest, pushing back to feel engrossed in that moment of pain as she let out a little moan. . . .

. . . . The alarm broke the silence in the room, the moment was extinguished as he opened his eyes, only to once again stare at the emptiness of the pillow beside him, a reminder that he was still alone.

June 3, 2014

Skint and Sober

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:22 pm

He sat, pondering on the things in front of him. The way things flowed past without his involvement. He could step forward and be part of the movement, the intimidating movement. It was the intimidating part that kept him in his seat, his weighted body, carrying the thoughts of yesterday and fears of tomorrow. His pint was sour. Before it had reached him, it was poured by beauty, a golden glow that enticed the many. In his hand, it was a weapon for his thoughts, a reason to sway in and out of a path he once stumbled. The days he was unstoppable, uncontrollable, invincible. It’s when the crowds stop cheering, your audience stops following, your band stops playing. It all changed, it all stopped, it was only his addictions that carried on. It had taken him years to conquer heroin, the substance that drained him of his money, his fame, his friends, but worst of all, his marriage. The rock that held him together walked out and left him with the only other rock he knew, the narcotic kind. He hadn’t seen his wife and children in nearly three years, he didn’t even know how to contact them. He feared she would one day see his name in the obituaries, and then keep turning the pages without a blink. His pride wished she knew that he was clean now. In the Hollywood life style in which he had been sold, she would come back to him, hold him and tell him all was ok. But he knew the Hollywood lifestyle was a farce, a rabbit hole he had tumbled down, with every bump, he had lost a little of him and gained a little of them. The ones that love and surround you until you’re skint and sober, dropped like a hat in a coastal wind.
The beauty that poured his last pint asked if he’d like another. Not realising he had finished the last, he had been rolling the empty glass between his palms, his wedding ring making a rhythmic chime. This is probably what caught her attention.
The new golden glow of the glass stared into his eyes, the cold on his hands, he thought of her.
He needed to pull his life together, find his family, recreate his existence. He told himself this everyday, but as always, the beauty behind the bar kept working, the stool he sat on stayed warm, and the golden glass kept staring into his soul. Once an addict, always an addict she had said. As always, she was right, wherever she was.

February 19, 2014

If She’s Sober

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 4:25 pm

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s sober.

A time once forgotten, a time we once spent,
my silent muse, inspiring,
a conscience effort to create,
yet you destroy the canvas,
only happy to be high,
as you walk away, again.

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s out there,
Once my muse, but too many times my recluse,
I wonder if she’s sober.

Strolling in and out of existence,
not just mine, but your own,
glazed eyes, hazy gateway,
my beautiful muse,
with a sweeping tail of destruction,
as you walk away, again.

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s sober.

You’re missed, but then you’re forgotten,
lost to your own addictions,
stumbling future, uneasy footing,
a broken muse,
an inspiration to no one,
as you walk away, again

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s out there,
Once my muse, but too many times my recluse,
I wonder if she’s sober.

I wonder if she’s sober,
Out there, strolling under the clouds,
I wonder if she’s sober,
I wonder if she’s sober.


Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 11:01 am

Once again he didn’t recognise his own reflection, he’d been here before, he didn’t want to believe that he’d relapsed again, the way he’d been living recently, no one would be surprised. His eyes hollow and gaunt, surrounded by dark patches that danced in the candle light. A tiresome complexion stared back at him from the mirror he hunched over. Neat lines of cocaine waiting in unison, tempting him back into the warm comforts, a narcotic cuddle, protection from the troubles of the outside world. His right foot tapped away to a silent beat, rolling, and re rolling the twenty pound note in his hands while his body prepared for the next intake. Feeling as jumpy as a whippet in the traps. Dabbing at his nostrils with a used tissue to stop it from running, his bodies way of telling him enough is enough. Another warning that he would choose to ignore.
The mouldy, damp motel room walls needed a wipe down, the wallpaper bending back on itself in the corners, giving up hope. The room must have been decorated in the mid 80’s, but then left to defend for itself ever since, a defence of oranges, greens, and purples, a battle in which it had started to fade. The smell of must lingered around the room, pacing and unforgiving on anyone who entered. A crack of light entered the room from the side of the blind, stretching to cut the room in two. He watched dust dance in and out of the sunlight as it floated around him, occupying the space that only his body didn’t. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning over the coffee table, a candle and the mirror holding centre stage. A tribal dance of shadows darted around him like he was their fire, catching them out the corner of his eye, eager to follow them to a better place, they seemed happier than he did. wiping the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve, then positioned the bank note, he always favoured his right nostril, craned neck as he sold his soul for his desires. A beautiful bloom, a release of pressure before this foreign substance started to drip at the back of his throat, entering the gates. As he sat back on the sofa a cloud rose around him, a wave of dust, repositioning itself around him for a tighter grip. It drifted and settled just like his heart, relaxing back into its rightful place. The heat in this room sat on his chest like a weight, everyone dependant on him outside these four walls will have to wait. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

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