Poetry | Stories | Photography
Grey clouds,
fog in the morning,
feeling the weight bearing down.
A hidden disease cripples your body
and leaves you broken yet whole.
An obtuse workplace,
work-life balance is only a theory.
Afraid to tell anyone,
you battle on with your demons.
A glimpse of clarity,
sleeping the sick workday away.
Grey clouds,
no fog as the day passes,
feeling the relaxing rain falling.
I want to run;
you want me to walk.
I want to feel it all;
you want me to feel you.
I want to love like a song;
you want me to love only one.
I want you to let me fly;
you want me to fly only with you.
I wanted you to see;
you wanted me to see it was me holding myself back.
Soft still snow-covered streets
sit still waiting for paw prints.
Soft still snow-covered night
stays still and dark until light.
Soft still snow-covered trees
stand still watching paw prints.
Standing at the door
to your room, you
are oblivious, her gaze.
Standing, looking at you,
thinking of your hair,
feet, the way you love.
Standing still, hoping you
won’t notice the way
she lingers, doubts much.
Standing by the door,
you feel the presence
of your beautiful star.
Standing behind you,
you know she looks at
you with so much love.
Standing there, you pretend
not to notice, to feel
the warmth from your sun.
December arrives.
Spring isn’t letting go,
as Autumn intervenes.
Saturday morning blues.
‘Let me sleep for one more hour!’
you yell yet whisper.
Dreaming of something
to do with Russians, mowers,
and manicured moustaches.
You’ve got a thing for the
Way moustaches grow, move,
and fly about demurely.
The Russians excite you,
as you think about bedding
another Oligarch or two.
Today will be a random kind
of day where you become
a semi-exciting philosopher.
The cat looks at you with
her resting bitch face;
she’s plotting your demise.
You knew when the two of
you met that the cat was a
capitalist, yet you melted.
She reminds you of your
tricky dilemma: Justifying
21st-century slavery.
You move from your Egyptian
Cotton sheets to your lush carpet,
then to your opulent shower.
‘It’s a hard life being so philosophical’,
you say quietly, yet you’re a CEO of a
company and you just fired 40 people.
Looking in the mirror, you can’t see it;
there’s an entitled air about you and
it moves with you through your life.
You play the down and our philosopher,
yet you don’t care about people;
just the clinic of gold bars in your safe.
The cat looks at you with disdain;
She swipes your leg with a paw, then
runs away to her food bowl.
You know she is just like you,
yet you better go and appear as though
you care for all those slaves.
Taking the piss,
and hating the morning.
They made a tape and
called it “Eat Your Veggies”.
When dawn arrived,
they turned up the sound.
It was the sound of a fierce
wind against their windows.
Underneath,
a subliminal message repeated
the words
“Eat your fruit and vegetables”.
After a few mornings,
gardening utensils, trucks,
and gloved hands appeared.
The street is known as,
“The Fruit Bowl Street
of the South-East”.
Now for another experiment.
eyelid flutter
nose twitch
finger tap
toe curl
a smile
a scowl
awake
asleep
we are
lost
in
translation
Upon your lips, a song departs of love, sadness, and something saucy.
Beyond your eyes, your heart races like a clock sped up by broken time.
To
plank is to be free from the constraints of society and do something peculiar. Something no one really understands, yet certain people like to do.
To
be with you is something different and new.
To
plank for you sets my heart on fire, and my ears buzz.
To
plank on the chocolate biscuits of your love is so sweet, as we contort and crumble all over the floor.
C & K 