Home town
There lies the sea, the rivers, the trees, the sand.
Here I lie in a hammock above the grassy land.
My mam shouts for me as I drift and swing -
And try not to sleep as the chickens sing.
To my home town-
thankyou.
I speak the truth.
I am so grateful to you
through and through.
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
My fingers are fluttering, and I am slipping the needle out of possession.
It has run away from my touch.
My mind waves goodbye, pursued with a guilty feeling of jealousy.
Clink
Clink
Clink
within the sensual folds of the old sheep’s skin.
Its new existence.
The bubbles of wool smoothed.
Smoothed from the stench of **** and blood
and bruised with vibrant colours.
Finally.
I can travel in which the needle did so.
Reaching into the intense warmth of the powerless skein.
I slip my hands.
I don't want to leave the irritable sensation
which tends to my wounds.
Wounds of a victim
inflicted by the violence of the cold.
My breath is as vivid as the colours I grace my hands with.
I hope to never find my needle.
She must stay.
Stay so I may stay warm and safe within the sheep’s forgotten skin.
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 8:35 AM UTC
I will bring the flowers
You bring the shovel.
Let us justify our genders in the response towards death.
You use your arms
and
I will use my tears.
I will receive help
but
you may not.
I think you should go back to work
tomorrow.
But I will stay.
I think you will be okay.
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 9:27 AM UTC
I write this on the toilet.
My partner stands there patiently chatting to me about his day as I melt into the disturbingly warm plastic of the seat.
It's my own toilet thankfully.
Not some grimey public one where the ***** lay in the shadows of the man-made whirlpool.
I am kidding; there are no ***** Scientists state.
This is a communal area for lost hair bobbles, bleach and the drowsy words of my partner's mouth as we commute here in the late hours of the night.
I like my toilet.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 7:42 PM UTC
The appreciation of others lives is interrupted by an advert.
Their online presence which plays like a sequence of a dream
A constant flow of images and words. A film of poetry.
I think. What if everything was interrupted by an advert? A non-stop of unnecessary and unwanted reminders to snap out of whatever we focus and rely on to get us through our day.
It's hurtful. I want to live through the videos of beautiful people , I don't want to be prevented from being comforted by capitalistic crap.
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 8:58 AM UTC