What once felt an exciting,
adventurous experience
has become an annoyance
at the bruises and blood blisters
which come with each smack
of the lips.

Why must she kiss
as if it's her feast
and I'm the main course?
Especially as tomorrow
she'll be just as hungry

- something to which my lips
can give uneasy testimony.

When I think of my dad
I think of a smile
and full-body-laughter.

I think of piles of library books
and reliable pedal bikes,
cigars and pipe smoke,
holidays in tents
and long family treks.

I recall his choice of grey,
brown
and karki
and his superstition of green.

I think of stubble,
big crossed arms
and early morning mugs
of strong tea.

I think of an only son
not matching expectations.
Quick tempers.
Rationed phone calls.
Enforced lights out.

I think of that time
he forced the door -

and of mum's white
'best not tell your dad' lies,
and the lesson taken into my own marriage,
for better, for worse,
that the truth was worse.

When I think of my dad
I think of his smile
and his laughter.

When you give yourself permission
to be vicious
you can cause fear to rise
doubt to take hold.
No doubt, worse violence
is avoided
and disorder,
ordered,

but when you let your vicious out,
it's a ****** to put back -
and even when you do,
it'll know its way back out.

My three gold wedding rings sink deeper
into my 30-years-on skin.

I've seen the youtube tricks
for removing them with wrapped floss,

but I think I'd rather sever
each of them at the final decree,

otherwise I'll need to dispose
of three perfectly good gold rings.

And that seems a waste.

Time here is treacle -

it's thick and syrupy, a rich golden glow that envelopes the spoon while flowing over the edges inevitably leaving a trail / a thread if you will, that will never be chased down or scooped up without leaving a sticky sweet trace that will last days before it fully fades to a savoured memory.

Time here is golden treacle.

May your bells jingle all the way
May your snow be crisp and even
May you ding **** merrily on high
And may Saint Nick keep you believing

Rudolph The Red stayed in his shed
Unhappy with minimum wage
He refused to get started
Cos he wasn't rewarded
With the promised end of year raise

Rudolph The Red sang with his friends
And staged an all-advent sit-in
But Santa just smiled
Cos his jet had been fuelled
In advance for such an occasion

Rudolph The Red looked overhead
While Santa sped round the world
When Santa got back
With his large empty sack
His workshop was empty of Elves

Rudolph The Red was no longer led
By thoughts of personal gain
He'd formed his first union
With Elves and ten snowmen
And the workers were free once again