Poetry | Stories | Photography
The village gathered around
to see the light on the hill.
Saturated in whiskey and humour,
three brave souls staggered towards the light.
Some looked horrified, others confused, and
one took a nap.
The first to arrive cried, “It’s bloody Steve with a torch up his arse!”
Sitting naked,
boobs fall on sticky skin.
Sipping on tea,
butt cheeks feel warm.
Spa foot bath,
tingling all the way up.
Serenity music,
opium incense cloudy.
So tranquil,
feeling fat and flabby.
There once was an old pencil made of lead
It could draw everything he never said
When it drew a green fart
He thought it was fine art
Now he wonders if the pencil is dead
You love chocolate gateau cake. You’re always asking for this cake to be made and presented to you on special occasions. Sadly, your special occasions usually involve family, friends, the odd random person, and usually, someone dressed up in something contentious or cringe-worthy.
I take the challenge on with both hands. One hand would be a bit difficult, given the nature of the spatula.
I am making a cake for you.
I mix the ingredients.
I move backwards and forwards with ease as I tick off one goal after another.
Then, losing the will to live, I stand in the middle of it all, contemplating sticking my hand in the blender. I value my hand more than I value the quality of your gluten-free, almond free, dairy-free, fucking everything free, chocolate fucking gateau cake.
You still love my chocolate gateau cake.
Unfortunately, your family doesn’t. Was that plain flour I used? Oops, I didn’t notice.
I dream of the kitchen cupboards
smashing against your head,
and I cannot stop smiling.
You, falling from me so forlorn,
as the wood connects with
that round shiny ball, your head.
C & K 