Election

No-one wins at ground level:
As lofty clouds drift,
Blocking out the sun;
There will be no light left
Once the changes come.

It’s just the same old guys
Wearing different colour ties
Telling the same old lies
As the country dies.

Talks

We talk in circles,
Hands cupped in comfort,
With words of sameness
And safeness.
The subject changes
Around changing;
“Do you think we should -”
“Stay together, yes.”
Faint smiles
And a weightless kiss
“Are you sure you -”
“we both want this.”

Morning

He pours for himself,
Her cup: empty;
She reaches out,
With searching eyes, for tea.

Cold coffee

My coffee is cold,
“I’ll have two more”;
Our hands separate,
Eyes snap to the door.
Silence and no smiles
We try but –
“no more for me”
She says,
Eyes at the floor;
No smiles,
But I try –
“me neither”
I lie.

Leather

The curtains pinch
Into a pinkish fold,
Then she turns in the light;
Edges etched in gold.

Strapped up and dressed
In another man’s name,
She presses in close
To feel my shame.

I am a vehicle,
I am a machine;
She wipes up my pain,
My tears unclean.

I return to the world
As the man they want to see;
I close the same door
I will open next week.

Brother

Baby is blue,
Baby don’t cry;
Baby is cold
And I don’t know why.

Mummy has tears,
Daddy makes shouts;
Lights in the road
To take baby out.

Here is my tie,
Family in black;
Please can you say
When baby come back?

A lifetime

We are all tourists
Waiting between visits
To the florists;
Sad standing and
Eyes down
Into the abyss.
Hands stuck in clap
Praying for the last flower;
Slow-dragging heels
Towards our last hour.

Pencil cases

Mouths wait agap
In search of offence
And react with fire
In organised pretence.
Wordless we all spill
From one shadow
To the next
With tape stretched
Across our teeth
And rope tied to our necks.
Today, a gun caused
The pen to bleed
In hope to censor
Every word we read.

Being offended does not justify ending lives and defaming an inherently peaceful religion.

The McRib

Established initially as a marketing icon for Flintstone followers, McDonald’s have been literally shoving the McRib’s second coming – or is it third? – down everyone’s throats as of late.

This flat rectangle of pork laxsidasically dropped onto the floor and then between two stale Sainsbury’s basic range buns is what we have come to expect from culinary journey that is McMastication.

The sauce is seasoned in such a way as to hide the taste of the grey meat. The meat is, I am sure, of high quality – as advertised; it is just a shame that they McFucked it up into a mince of pigness.

I was sold a McRib, however felt compelled to return my sandwich. There was not a ounce of bone in sight! At least get that part right, Mr McDonald. I told the waiter: “I ask for a McRib, St. Louis style (of course), and you give me this?! A McMeataroundthebone?!” He was not amused and kindly asked me to leave.

On the whole, my experience was a good one, contrary to everything I have previously said, even though I can’t explain why. It seems that the McRib has an addictive quality much similair to smoking: we know it’s a dirty habit and makes our insides turn to mush but we just cannot stop ourselves. Look out for the launch of McRib Bbq sauce flavoured nictone patches and E-McRibs in all common goods stores in the near future.

National Rail

A story of
what if?
and where are we?
at any moment
in history.
Growing outwards
and spreading into the green
like a plague of greyness;
A town where men
and women
move mouths
in the South
and lay down
tracks of self-preservation
for everyone to follow
without deviation
towards stations
with familiar names,
visited again and again –
late, of course –
using the same old trains.

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