Various

Beats Music suits and strides miss beats at the wrong time. Have you seen how Richard Ashcroft wins the streets of London? They were sued. It’s the way of our world. Sun tinkers with skin. Bald heads escape beer and tattoos show themselves. Pumas and roses. Cheap pictures to hide the embarrassment of flesh. Bellies fill space. Football dependency and a passion to vomit hatred. Nobody wins but Cristiano goes on. He pushes Lionel. Pinks to yellows. There is faith in endurance. Run feet into the grass and stun forty thousand. Let nets burst and wish for parity. Fairness for cars. Bentleys and Rolls. Classy but saved for the unwilling. Money to show the dead how it is done. New money to make up for personality. Lost and wounded. Pop stings headphones and bottom dollar rap pretends. Meaning left years ago. Do not open your mouth and play the game. Scouts stopped going to clubs and executives love reality trash. Money for garbage. Spout shit and pay for the next holiday. Opened ...

School “Here’s a blank sheet of paper. I’ll start with you.” The teacher is bereft of ideas and gives the students an opportunity. “You, what’s your name?” “Lydia, Sir.” “Good. Lydia, write down the first thing that comes into your head.” Lydia scans the room, makes eye contact with Denise. We’ve been here for the last six months, haven’t we? She stares at the teacher and wonders if he is settling on a breakdown. “What should I write?” “The first thing that comes to you.” She glances aside again and gains snorts from the class. The tall boy at the back chews gum and fights with his desk. “Should I write about this class? About you?” “Hell no. Don’t do that. Just conjure an idea. Let it flow.” She drums the pen on the wooden top and feels the strain of the situation. A blank sheet. What could be worse? Pages of Austen, Orwell, Solzhenitsyn and Marquez to devour where the little black dots make sense. Letters to fill the mind of hope and despair. Words of bea...

Electric Such a hum. Flies, bees, wasps and varied birds stake their claim. Two magpies fight over branch territory and starlings look for shade.  The winter blanket recedes and the sun plays its cards. Wounds to heal through Vitamin D. Nurture and burn.  Dandelions spout and irritate the lawnmower. Many cuts to manoeuvre and back and forth it goes, losing oil. Joggers skirt by in their tight black leggings. Shades, pods, water bottle and a determination to reach exhaustion. It feels good and the family will admire.  No Netflix today. The curtains are open and the outside screams bite. It’s time. Hibernating humans. Steak and potatoes feed the salad and the fire is out. Yelps from the neighbourhood signify life. They are outing. A fence-barricaded chat is not out of the question. The surge, they call it. A blackout. No sparks and no heating. Cold in the sun and desperate. Candlelight is seen through windows and blanketed adults warm their children. Food is ...

Normandy Souls drift and waters dry up. A tide of filth to dirty the shores. Scum laden and weeds to clean. It’s a green mess mixed with sand. This Normandy beach has seen some action. It could have gone either way. Cardboard decoys spun the Luftwaffe out of control. They flew back to base and decided to attack the north. They were under-nourished and fatigued. It worked and they were sucked in. Ghosts spray across the sand. It is peaceful but the water laps the broken metal. It wants justice. Salty revenge to a world gone mad. Children flit with arms flying. They are present and they fight for a future. Shrieks pervade the shoreline and parents relax with sandwiches. Life is not work today and companies can not pay for this joy. It is pure. Bank accounts to face presence. This sand saw bloodshed. Young and innocent teenagers, fresh from haircuts. Flirting with the hairdresser, weather chat done. Time to move on. She is curvaceous. Don’t look down. Keep control and focus. Th...

Bees Bees swarm around the light blossoms. An early morning buzz to soften reality. Coffee and awakenings. A glorious start to the end of the night. Parking is a daytime chore. Wheels need tarmac when sunlight hits the asphalt. Night does not care. Darkness revels in hidden shadows. Spirits are free from human curse. Birth to death. A fleeting up stance. Live and die. Give the world a break.  Taste the pork and smell the weeds. Senses turn us but they deceive. A twisted eye to nose. Too much to take in. Fonts and choice. Just write. Nobody will look over your shoulder. It’s up to you. Invisible gods spout advice. There is a voice in your head and there is a voice from beyond. A cheap gimmick. Sold for your hard earned money.  Sell your friends or win new contacts? A new phone number to replace the old? True friends burn under the skin. New friends rip off the plasters. Blood seeps and skin crawls. Smell the age. Sniff the past. Pretend the future will come. It is ...

  Hole in the Wall. Today may be the day. Sitting on the toilet and Mama still insists on using the old newspapers instead of buying normal toilet paper, like everyone else on the street. They don’t have to expose themselves to corrupt front-page politicians like our backsides do. Are you still in there, she shouts.  My ten minutes of solitude. I don’t even have to go, just need the space. Mind you, the curry we ate last night should kick in soon but it wasn’t nearly spicy enough. Chilli powder, not real chillies. Cheating.  There are no new signs of decay in the wall, no debris. Not even a speck of plaster on the floor. The dark hole gapes and I wonder if this life will take a turn, for better or worse. The hole decides. The twins are screaming murder and Mama is trying to calm them with cookies. Like dogs, they take turns in obedience. Open wide, she says. They are dumb enough to sit and sate themselves with chocolate appeasement. Mama is happy, momentarily. ...

  School “Here’s a blank sheet of paper. I’ll start with you.” The teacher is bereft of ideas and gives the students an opportunity. “You, what’s your name?” “Lydia, Sir.” “Good. Lydia, write down the first thing that comes into your head.” Lydia scans the room, makes eye contact with Denise. We’ve been here for the last six months, haven’t we? She stares at the teacher and wonders if he is settling on a breakdown. “What should I write?” “The first thing that comes to you.” She glances aside again and gains snorts from the class. The tall boy at the back chews gum and fights with his desk. “Should I write about this class? About you?” “Hell no. Don’t do that. Just conjure an idea. Let it flow.” She drums the pen on the wooden top and feels the strain of the situation. A blank sheet. What could be worse? Pages of Austen, Orwell, Solzhenitsyn and Marquez to devour where the little black dots make sense. Letters to fill the mind of hope and despair. Words ...