Poetry | Stories | Photography
Bob greets Christmas with bottles of Gin and Rum.
Mr Party Hard skulled thy spirits as if touched by the hand of meaningful existence. Work’s the pits, so he sits for a bit and wakes up at 3 am.
“Whoa! I’m wrapped around the letter “B”. How could this be? I’m so horny.“
They stand hand in hand taking in the beauty of the Alps.
Reflective and oddly calm, she says, “Up here, the world is crisp and clean. You and I can talk without the madness of society getting in the way… Don’t you love the way the snow sits upon the mountains, yet the sun still shines, and it isn’t too cold?“
He pauses for a few moments to breathe in the crisp air, “It’s beautiful for an Autumn day… the light, it’s welcomed here and not despised… I could live in this country…“
She looks at him and smiles, so he adds, “The sun feels different in Australia compared to Switzerland… Perhaps it is weaker?“
She squeezes his hand, and he kisses her forehead. She adds, “Yes… it feels fainter… let’s stay a little longer.“
a nymph on the shore,
as the waves move in
she calls to you softly,
yet the words are odd
her expression is plain,
please listen to the sea
you listen for a time,
as you hear sounds
under the waves now,
with her heart so close
her palace of shells,
your watery home
You stare into the mirror, hoping for something different.
The person in the mirror is you, and you know who you are now.
It took the broken pieces of your past to come together, just like this mirror, for you to see clearly.
You look into the mirror and say, “Well, a bit of foundation will do.“
You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish-faced stare.
Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment engaged in gossiping like a groupie infested with a lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.
What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?
Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than The Picture of Dorian Gray?
I’m bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores; it flows down into the stormwater drains and out to the sea. I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.
Should I worry that the rich people with yachts will touch the water I infect and find Bitcoin boring?
Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about, looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?
Would people think they were being touched by an angel or melt at the thought of the Devil?
Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I cannot say a word for a moment as her words creep over me.
She holds the rosary beads up to my height, and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.
Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much; The Devil will get you in the end.“
Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “If you see the Pope, you can tell him I want a refund for all those Rosary Beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…“
Entwine the tree branches of your soul with mine and dance with me in this forest.
Swirling and twirling around and around, we get closer and closer and closer.
Soon your branches move within and ignite a lust so swift.
The forest sings, your heart beats fast, and the world blurs.
The cliffs tell stories to the sea from the waterfalls, which cascade down in stages.
The sea finds the cliff’s stories amusing and interesting, for the cliffs are always so melodramatic and ironic.
Sometimes, though, a story touches the sea; She becomes wild and weird.
He watches her fall into the water; A bullet through her heart, and then nothing. No life resides inside her flesh now, only cold blues and greys.
He grabs her and pulls her close until her spirit leaves. Then, without any words spoken, he pockets her brooch as a memento of their love and leaves her alone.
She walks through the forest with purpose, for today she must compose a poem for a king.
She stands in the forest listening and observing, so creativity flows through her.
As a Skald, she must practice her craft well; Thor and Odin will be displeased if she does not.
Not one to shy away from the strange and the obscene, he thinks of some party tricks for tonight.
Ladies are many and boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.
Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.
The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, and the party is swinging and shaking all about the mansion.
Beauty abounds and lovely young sights as he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.
Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.
With weird ideas swirling and too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have and what do I need to get my perversions on track?“
Looking and looking, he opens the cupboards and draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Searching the kitchen and not drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.
Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles and a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.
The frosting is ready, and it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.
He waits for the prudes and the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.
Once properly pinched and appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in and starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.
There’s frosting about and in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.
With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.
C & K 