A rare thing for me to invite them.
A guest I seldom see.
But after today I needed them and they me.
We started of quite quickly.
Then settled to a pace.
Now all that's left.
Are the remains of the day.

In dreams he's lived from the day, she died.
He never wanted to feel again. He didn't have the capacity.
I'll defined future.
Nothing inside now.
She lit up a room.
Like an arsonist!
She could get excited opening a tin of beans.
Now he craves beans on toast and finding half of it is liquid.
She could never be a woman that only ate lettuce.
And now all he sees is salad in people

Stay in they said just don't go out, for a killer lurks all around.

It has no hood no knife or gun, it cares not if you are all alone.

It sticks to things then sticks to you with an oily touch its entered too.

You weren't held up or abused, because your clothes flattered you.

This was different you couldn't see the abuser entered you unseen.

You simply got to close to another, the killer now made you its host.

At first the damage may not show as the killer divides inside and grows.

You may shake it off and never know, yet **** the ones you love at home.

For this killer can't do it all alone, it needs conspirators to plan it's roam.

Like a hitcher it needs a ride, but can't if you just stay inside.

No host and like a stranded soul on a desert island it will die alone.

So wash your hands, Stay at home don't be a killer on the roads.

Walk the dog on your own, and keep your kids busy at home.

Who knows you may be the one, this silent killer....makes their own.

Wrapped in cellophane as though preserved waiting to once again be opened.
He washed the sheets today, a month on.
Her scent now gone but He can still smell her.
He never wanted to feel again. He didn't have the capacity.
An Ill defined future.
Nothing inside
But she lit up the room.
Like an arsonist with no thought as to what or who she burned.
It was like getting excited opening a tin of beans and craving them on toast, and finding half of it is liquid.
That said, she could never be a woman that only ate lettuce.
Her body was the incarnation of curvature.
Its sweeping form more beautiful than anything he had known or imagined, and yet fleeting.
For she was a muse.
Fleeting.
Lost.
Passing through.

Every page was part of the story.
Every sentence, every word.
Crafted over decades.
Like a book
They treated people the same.
Instead of reading all the pages, the good and the bad.
All they wanted to do was skim, flick through the pages to the good bits
Ignorant of the true story.
how the journey took them there.
Just looking for the happy ending.
Then after reaching the end of the page and realising that the story wasn't complete, they decided the book wasn't for them.
They may read a little more.
Come back and finger the pages for fun, but
it was only a few pages that made them feel good.
Finally they put the book down, tossed it aside and picked up a glossy magazine.
The kind that is relevant for two weeks then back to the recycle bin.
No substance all pictures, sensation and glitz.
In a couple of weeks a new copy to finger through.
So are you a book or a magazine.
Is there a story or a few extracts.
Are you a reader or do you flick through books and never read.
You see one day you have to pick up a book with your name upon it.
Will reading it be hard?
Will you simply flick through it unable to face your own story.

Running with Scissors

Oh I'm running with scissors
Hell they're not even mine
I got no paper to cut
And I trip all the time

I've been rocking my chair
Back and forth on two legs
Trying to balance
And waiting for it to break

Climbing up trees
Scramble to hold on
Shaking with fear
afraid of the fall


On the highway playing chicken
******* the cars
Well A cat has nine lives
I got just one

I'm running barefoot with you
Along a ***** beach
Cut after cut
Now our feet bleed

Faster and faster
Here comes the bend
Hear the tyres
Squeeling again
Again again again
Again again again

All of the things
That I shouldn't have done
Now I'm to old
My mad days are gone

How do classify the human zoo? Those that ride on mowers or walk behind? Those that garden or pay others too sythe?
How would we label the cage doors? Narcissist, liar, cheat or *****?
Swindler, thief, wife beater and more?
Or would we label them like science does now with sociopath, psychopath and criminally insane all herded together till they **** again.
Where would we put the lost and forgotten? Disabled deformed and afflicted in ways you can't imagine.
We walk each day in the human Zoo, now two meters apart as we all queue. The thin the obese the tall and the sort all hunting for big roll and pasta too hoard. But while you stand just look around, for the next Jeffrey Dahmer could be two meters behind!

There is a box.
It holds all the thoughts, the dreams, the pleasures our passions, loves and more.
And yet, a box closed.
For in that box are our fears, our need, our failings, loses and regrets.
I know why the box is closed.
As Pandora knew.
For if opened all are freed.
Not just what we want others to see.
So we all have a box.
We speak of its contents.
Often omitting items.
Sometines speaking of things in others boxes, wishing they were in ours.
Little boxes
Little boxes
We all have little boxes.

Ever wanted to just hold a ***?
Both hands squeezing all the fun!
But I've seen that deriere in a different way.
Wanton naked and in the air
Inviting and wanting asking to be touched
Only a fool wouldn't respond to such.
She held me and guided me inside of her
Then I realised I shouldn't be there.
I wanted more, not just a visit.
I knew it was wrong and I ran from it.
In the morning I knew I had been to a place that I had imagined but couldn't explain
It was not how I wanted it to be, I wanted passion and fire and had made a mistake
Maybe one day there may be a chance
To be there again bathed in romance
To be the one who made the difference
Is it so much to ask? Instead of existing.

Two flat tyres and the batterys goosed so our google celebrity is stuck in her roost.
It's that or hike like a pack horse to Tesco.
But her Jimmy Choos wouldn't survive the hill and the neighbours would wonder who's she going to see.
For the lockdown blues have hit home and the BMW is closer to sold!
Of all the times it chose to fail, it picked when a virus had taken over the world!
But all's not lost, Madame has a plan!
For she knows of a baldy man.
Well he had hair once and shaved it off. Not his best move if we're honest.
But still he came and she hid from afar as he gave her tyres some much needed air.
It was all so quick the neighbours missed it, even the twitcher in number six.
Her tyres inflated, she's had a jump, not that kind, her battery was f#####.
So doors all locked and best foot forward, to be fair she was feeling awkward. He wasn't a knight and had no horse and his volvo looked like it had been in the wars.
She braced herself and jumped in the car and off she shot to the local shops.
A perfect end to the oddest of days with a car full of shopping and the wind in her hair.

The fog refused to lift today
It knew it had a job
To keep the sun from breaking through
As sorrow filled my hometown streets

Die with memories, not, just dreams and regret.
Her parting words as she walked away.
She never actually said a word.
Yet her voice echoed inside his head.

I'm past it now
I'm over the top
Just waiting for things to start falling off
More grey than brown
More wrinkles each day
I wasn't expecting to be this way
Cholesterol high and diet low
Statins to stop you from having a stroke
I thought I'd be watching the seasons pass in the arms of a traveler who walked my path
If it's three score and ten then i'm in the last quater and it ain't golden years as the magazine's sold you
A tablet for this and another for that and one for the side effects if your still using that!
So go make mistakes
Make many
Then more
That's the advice as now I'm old

Not a scream or moan
You wouldn't know she was there
as they tossed and writhed in the bed
He moaned a lot he always did seeking encouragement for his carnal bids
But she was really somewhere else and kept her noises to herself
He often asked how was it for you?
I Mark exams not whoopdie doo.
It's not that she didn't have a voice to air mid coitus like a squalking bird.
More a sense of deep control letting no one see her all.

The view from down the rabbit hole
They say life is a series of moments. Some pivotal some fleeting. The fear in a childs eyes, the despair in the dying, the hope in a birth.
But those moments may happen decades apart. The irony is a single event can play them back all in parallel, simultaneously in a nano second, like a high voltage shock, triggered by anything. Something as simple as looking in a mirror or the sound of a childs cry. Thus it is little wonder sometimes people can just overload and snap. Fall into that mirror, that eternally looped moment. More disrurbing is you may be the trigger, or the stop by a simple word or action.

I closed my eyes tight to see if I could remember your face.
To try and remember a face I may never have ever seen, or am yet too see.
All I saw was millions of lights as though racing through my thoughts, traversing the universe at light speed on a journey within my consciousness.
I was once told I would meet my soul mate.
We all do.
But you may not know it's them. For your paths may cross at the wrong time or maybe in another life past, or to come.
I often pondered that.
Now as I race through the universe I find I have no soul.
Oh I have compassion and empathy and I have known love in many ways.
I feel sometimes more than I should, often, not enough.
But a soul?
No, to know you have a soul it has to be touched, or torn from you by another, or if they are indeed your soul mate shown to you.
The others are not the lights I seek, they are but the darkness collecting others very essence or to revive or feed their own.
So I close my eyes.
I hope not for the last time.
As tonight I continue my journey.
Will they join me?
Only they know.

Watching her I'm tempted to explore
As she moves back and forth, down on all fours.
I can see how the master had *** with the maid, as she rhythmically moves and her buttocks sway.
Imagine her skirt lifted up, revealing her briefs and stocking tops.
Pulling them down and stroking her **** oh how I want to slide into it.
Her pushing back as I slide deeper still, as we ***** each other just for the thrill.
But those days are gone and she's not the maid,  she's laying a floor, not getting laid.
But I wonder sometimes when she is alone has she imagined thoughts of her own.
Dressed in nylons with killer heels, being taken for pleasure by little old me?