29 7 / 2021
To keep unsaid,
(As if in sleep)
The thinking, the battle
The running thoughts inside the head.
Bad news,
(The Princess kind)
Left meaning, not facts
Chopped fine
Like French Onion Soup.
15 1 / 2019
Hostile Takeover
The contour of her bottom was sheathed in a yellow floral tube. Her long brown legs ended in four inch yellow stilettos that click-clacked their way across the Board Room floor. She leant down, hands leaning on the desk. She glared at the wide-eyed grey-suited Chairman, her gold chains swinging in front of his face.
“Tomorrow I’m sitting in that seat. You have fifteen minutes to clear your desk.”
The click-clack of retreating heels and the jagged breath of the all-male Board members was all that could be heard.
14 1 / 2019
Love furnishings
And if love is a thing, let it be a good thing.
Warm towels and soft, deep carpet.
Throw rugs and marshmallow pillows.
Not the cold grey tiles that reflected in your eyes as you pulled me towards the brown coverlet on the stained bed in the motorway hotel.
14 1 / 2019
Last Sundance
All consuming, burnt and dead
You make me want to hang my head
The larvae crawl on that you fed
Amongst the charred remains.
The blackened grimy barren earth
That will no longer suffer birth
Mean that creatures small or large of girth
Will leave no future stains.
13 1 / 2019
In Celebration of the Sun
Oh awesome ball of burning bright,
Who leaves me lonely every night,
Shed heat and sparks of lustrous light!
My world, my god, my sun.
Without you I no longer feel
The energy for life’s appeal
You make me whole, you make me heal!
My world, my god, my sun.
22 7 / 2017
The toast
The sun is a dark yellow underneath plumes of grey-black smoke. The eerie light pervades the evening and it feels later than it is. The Prosecco has gone a little flat and a few lone bubbles struggle to the surface. I can smell rosemary on the roast chicken. The dog is grinding his teeth against a bone.
I lift my glass in a solitary toast and the smoky sun picks up a liquid rainbow through the crystal.
15 7 / 2017
Date night -v- shouting
“Are your parents still in love?” she asked.
“Hard to tell. They shout a lot. Yours?”
“They’re sickening. They have date night once a week when Jamie and I are at soccer. They pick us up all smoochy and happy. It’s not natural.”
“Mine never do that. Sometimes they watch a movie together but that’s about it. Mostly they just shout.”
13 7 / 2017
The house is too quiet. It smells of death. The dense ambience of grief leaks into hollows that are left in the shape of the person that walked out, taking your life with them.
09 7 / 2017
Winter Discontent
It was the sort of week where the walls dripped rain, both inside and out. Sheets of water creating a womb, an isolation, an island of alone. Thoughts swum in grey matter much as birds, sodden, tried to return to their nests.