"unexploded" poems - Hello Poetry

"unexploded" poems

The onion doesn't have layers it has panels nailed to its skin. On occasions he goes back to the warehouse where he stores broken typewriters, unfinished narratives of the campaign, unexploded bombs. sellotaped wires. He audits his feelings keeps them neatly arranged on shelves and spreadsheets and he examines them against the light and is pleased with his investigations.

0

Jan 17, 2013

Jan 17, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC

The onion doesn't have layers it has panels nailed to its skin. On occasions he goes back to the warehouse where he stores broken typewriters, unfinished narratives of the campaign, unexploded bombs. sellotaped wires. He audits his feelings keeps them neatly arranged on shelves and spreadsheets and he examines them against the light and is pleased with his investigations.

Continue reading...

We stood in front of my grandmother’s Old almirah, facing each other The peacock feather and empty bags Of the square room fell silent all over again, Like strangers we stood facing each other. Then they all came, marched in, reflections, Paraded in like martyrs of Brute’s History. I knew them all, she knew them too They came, touched us one by one, Like strangers we stood facing each other. She looked confused just like me Watching life pass by, centuries reuniting After a very long season break, nations- Travelled, explorers stood upstairs watching, Like strangers we stood facing each other. Streets strapped the coffee cans and middle- Aged hospitals swallowed wars. Married women Bend over like animals and in months, unable To breathe they gave birth to few number plates; Like strangers we stood facing each other. The city vomited battles, human heads And dreams of muted foul slaves. Men and- Their violent tradition screeched for blue number- Plates, lean number plates, handsome number plates; Like strangers we stood facing each other. Unexploded bombs bounced happy homes, My brothers, my kids, my mothers Blew their windows and ran, ran away, Ran afar without destination; Like strangers we stood facing each other. They were all dark, their land was darkness Or were we all blind? Like a watchman we preserved darkness, The vapours that filled their glasses did not speak; Like strangers we stood facing each other. We are all reflections, ripples and mirrors Of men-dead and living. They all stood outside my almirah, million faces Inside a mirror. She did recognize them; Like strangers we stood facing each other. She did nothing, an unusable empathy rolled in, The hypocrite did not even cry. In quiet hours she smelt pain, blood and History flowing from confronting corners; Like strangers we stood facing each other. An insignificant obligation drowned her nerve, They needed a home, candle flame, cotton and wool. The land, their land has become unfamiliar And they stood outside locked gates and laws; Like strangers we stood facing each other. They all smelt the same blood, the abused blood, I tried to kiss them and they kissed me back with- Their cold lips. I tried to touch them, they touched- Me back with water in their eyes; Like strangers we stood facing each other.

0

Sep 6, 2015

Sep 6, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC

We stood in front of my grandmother’s Old almirah, facing each other The peacock feather and empty bags Of the square room fell silent all over again, Like strangers we stood facing each other. Then they all came, marched in, reflections, Paraded in like martyrs of Brute’s History. I knew them all, she knew them too They came, touched us one by one, Like strangers we stood facing each other. She looked confused just like me Watching life pass by, centuries reuniting After a very long season break, nations- Travelled, explorers stood upstairs watching, Like strangers we stood facing each other. Streets strapped the coffee cans and middle- Aged hospitals swallowed wars. Married women Bend over like animals and in months, unable To breathe they gave birth to few number plates; Like strangers we stood facing each other. The city vomited battles, human heads And dreams of muted foul slaves. Men and- Their violent tradition screeched for blue number- Plates, lean number plates, handsome number plates; Like strangers we stood facing each other. Unexploded bombs bounced happy homes, My brothers, my kids, my mothers Blew their windows and ran, ran away, Ran afar without destination; Like strangers we stood facing each other. They were all dark, their land was darkness Or were we all blind? Like a watchman we preserved darkness, The vapours that filled their glasses did not speak; Like strangers we stood facing each other. We are all reflections, ripples and mirrors Of men-dead and living. They all stood outside my almirah, million faces Inside a mirror. She did recognize them; Like strangers we stood facing each other. She did nothing, an unusable empathy rolled in, The hypocrite did not even cry. In quiet hours she smelt pain, blood and History flowing from confronting corners; Like strangers we stood facing each other. An insignificant obligation drowned her nerve, They needed a home, candle flame, cotton and wool. The land, their land has become unfamiliar And they stood outside locked gates and laws; Like strangers we stood facing each other. They all smelt the same blood, the abused blood, I tried to kiss them and they kissed me back with- Their cold lips. I tried to touch them, they touched- Me back with water in their eyes; Like strangers we stood facing each other.

Continue reading...

a e i o u and opposing thumbs my woman, she's a snuggler and spooner. burying herself on my, no, in my double barreled chest, her blonde hair, my field of gold.^ she landscapes my life, paralyzing me with the simplest of gestures. she sleeps holding my thumbs. locks me up. locks me down. so I cannot transcribe the lines of poetry mindful, landlines shut, land-mines of verse unexploded, till these now, hours later. a few notes ago, a few days ago, heard an octet, eight voices singing of five letters, five vowels, a e i o u. you can hear what I heard too. after you listen, better understand vowels are the butter of language. the anointing oil of connectivity. more than a line of code, they are the keys to the code, that make words and life musical. I suppose we could mange without them if we had to. spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t. but not so well. I suppose we could manage without opposing thumbs. learn to type with my nose, paint with my toes. but not so well. here is how it comes all together. a e i o u and opposing thumbs, never give them more than a never thought, passing over, assumed. oh yeah, on some tv show, you can buy a vowel. these glues are the things that give me the chance to tell this: this poem it is a bit about me. this poem it is a bit about her. this poem is really about you. I could live without a e i o u and opposing thumbs. but I could not live without her landscaping my chest. but when I share this knowledge with you friend, it becomes a verified, realized, acknowledged truth. So you see this poem is about a e i o u and opposing thumbs, but really about you. In fact, I am thinking, that if I did not love the title a e i o u and opposing thumbs so much, would entitle it instead, a wholesome democracy of love. you, a registered voter, vote then with both all the a e i o u and opposing thumbs at your disposal.

0

Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC

a e i o u and opposing thumbs

a e i o u and opposing thumbs my woman, she's a snuggler and spooner. burying herself on my, no, in my double barreled chest, her blonde hair, my field of gold.^ she landscapes my life, paralyzing me with the simplest of gestures. she sleeps holding my thumbs. locks me up. locks me down. so I cannot transcribe the lines of poetry mindful, landlines shut, land-mines of verse unexploded, till these now, hours later. a few notes ago, a few days ago, heard an octet, eight voices singing of five letters, five vowels, a e i o u. you can hear what I heard too. after you listen, better understand vowels are the butter of language. the anointing oil of connectivity. more than a line of code, they are the keys to the code, that make words and life musical. I suppose we could mange without them if we had to. spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t. but not so well. I suppose we could manage without opposing thumbs. learn to type with my nose, paint with my toes. but not so well. here is how it comes all together. a e i o u and opposing thumbs, never give them more than a never thought, passing over, assumed. oh yeah, on some tv show, you can buy a vowel. these glues are the things that give me the chance to tell this: this poem it is a bit about me. this poem it is a bit about her. this poem is really about you. I could live without a e i o u and opposing thumbs. but I could not live without her landscaping my chest. but when I share this knowledge with you friend, it becomes a verified, realized, acknowledged truth. So you see this poem is about a e i o u and opposing thumbs, but really about you. In fact, I am thinking, that if I did not love the title a e i o u and opposing thumbs so much, would entitle it instead, a wholesome democracy of love. you, a registered voter, vote then with both all the a e i o u and opposing thumbs at your disposal.

Continue reading...

In a little under a hundred years we've had so many wars. Men, women and children sacrificed for someones cause. And truly just what has been gained, versus what was lost? Can we say that it was worth it, can we justify the cost? In nineteen thirty nine we had the war to end all wars. Since then there've been so many, like we've hardly even paused And what is it we fight for? Do we fight for right or wrong? Or do we fight to get resources that we feel to us belong? Now sure there are some victims, of persecutions, genocides but unless there's oil or riches there, the strongest close their eyes. We forget that we're not perfect, but thanks to Gandhi and Dr King We changed our stars from where you are, and now know everything. I cannot help but wonder though, if they were alive today, would they see us a failure, shake their heads and walk away? In a little under a hundred years we've learned not much at all, except in war lies profit, and to some it seems a ball. Because if you have stuff we want, and wont do as we say, then we just roll our armies in and blow you all away. Or if you do things differently, even as we once did, then we will "liberate" you, then sell you to the highest bid. See we want you to be like us, cos were so freakin smart, sure we got people starving but an unmade bed is art. "My Bed" was bought by Charles Saatchi for £150,000 in 1999. £150,000 would feed 3200 children in Ghana for a year. £150,000 would provide over 6800 prosthetics for children who have lost limbs as a result of landmines or unexploded munitions. In a little under a hundred years, it would seem we have learned nothing.

0

May 1, 2010

May 1, 2010 at 1:00 PM UTC

a-thomas-hawkins

In a little under a hundred years we've had so many wars. Men, women and children sacrificed for someones cause. And truly just what has been gained, versus what was lost? Can we say that it was worth it, can we justify the cost? In nineteen thirty nine we had the war to end all wars. Since then there've been so many, like we've hardly even paused And what is it we fight for? Do we fight for right or wrong? Or do we fight to get resources that we feel to us belong? Now sure there are some victims, of persecutions, genocides but unless there's oil or riches there, the strongest close their eyes. We forget that we're not perfect, but thanks to Gandhi and Dr King We changed our stars from where you are, and now know everything. I cannot help but wonder though, if they were alive today, would they see us a failure, shake their heads and walk away? In a little under a hundred years we've learned not much at all, except in war lies profit, and to some it seems a ball. Because if you have stuff we want, and wont do as we say, then we just roll our armies in and blow you all away. Or if you do things differently, even as we once did, then we will "liberate" you, then sell you to the highest bid. See we want you to be like us, cos were so freakin smart, sure we got people starving but an unmade bed is art. "My Bed" was bought by Charles Saatchi for £150,000 in 1999. £150,000 would feed 3200 children in Ghana for a year. £150,000 would provide over 6800 prosthetics for children who have lost limbs as a result of landmines or unexploded munitions. In a little under a hundred years, it would seem we have learned nothing.

Continue reading...

The world is unexploded, but its waters are contaminated with the chemicals of a war-plagued nation which stain their tongues black and bleach their knuckles, and combust into a strengthening desire for a legacy of their homeland that now teeters. Each belief grinds friction into the desert sand, refusing limitation. Inevitable Invasion No merciful maps or keys towards clarity were left by their loyal armies; nor were any heart-strong soldiers. Through the forts of debris and shields of ash, we could not find the killed or the injured, only smell the salty decay of each victim. He limped through the rippling mirage, spitting eroding dirt and flexing his bloodied weapons. "I heard the victory anthem," he said. "The enemies are dreaming."

0

Dec 18, 2012

Dec 18, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC

krista-chouinard

Savor the Lullaby

The world is unexploded, but its waters are contaminated with the chemicals of a war-plagued nation which stain their tongues black and bleach their knuckles, and combust into a strengthening desire for a legacy of their homeland that now teeters. Each belief grinds friction into the desert sand, refusing limitation. Inevitable Invasion No merciful maps or keys towards clarity were left by their loyal armies; nor were any heart-strong soldiers. Through the forts of debris and shields of ash, we could not find the killed or the injured, only smell the salty decay of each victim. He limped through the rippling mirage, spitting eroding dirt and flexing his bloodied weapons. "I heard the victory anthem," he said. "The enemies are dreaming."

Continue reading...

Sutcliffe, O’Brien and you Used to wander about the Bombsites after school, the Keep Out signs ignored, The catapults in the back Pockets to hit at cans or Bottles or windows if there Were any left in the empty Shell houses of the bombed Out homes. Dad said there Could be unexploded bombs Here, Sutcliffe said, his blue Eyes and blonde hair catching The day’s afternoon light, his Grey flannel trousers and blue Blazer stained with food and Dust. O’Brien lit a crafty *** And passed to you to take a drag. You coughed and passed it back, Clambering the bricks to broken Stairs to a higher landing where You thought ghosts might hang In danky rooms or smelly attics Where light shone through the Broken tiles. O’Brien ****** Against a wall, the cigarette Hanging from his lower lip. Sutcliffe sniffed the air and Scratched his **** and you Standing on the creaky stair Pondered who stood or lived Here before the bomb dropped From the threatening sky and They wondering if they’d live Or die. Bet this was the bedroom, O’Brien said, and he and she Laid out here having ****** When the bomb went off. Sutcliffe sniggered, taking O’Brien’s cigarette for a quick Puff and handing to you with Dampened end. What a way To die though, Sutcliffe said, Him not knowing the ins and Outs of *** or death by bombs Or what’d be left after bombs Dropped. Probably some old **** who lived alone, O’Brien Conceded, staring at the sky Through the hole in ceiling, Without much concern and Little feeling. You reflected On his words and the stink Of **** and damp and empty Shell, the echo of yesteryears, The ghosting wanderings at Night and cold captured fears.

0

Apr 30, 2016

Apr 30, 2016 at 4:44 AM UTC

BOMBSITE BOYS. (OLD POEM)

Sutcliffe, O’Brien and you Used to wander about the Bombsites after school, the Keep Out signs ignored, The catapults in the back Pockets to hit at cans or Bottles or windows if there Were any left in the empty Shell houses of the bombed Out homes. Dad said there Could be unexploded bombs Here, Sutcliffe said, his blue Eyes and blonde hair catching The day’s afternoon light, his Grey flannel trousers and blue Blazer stained with food and Dust. O’Brien lit a crafty *** And passed to you to take a drag. You coughed and passed it back, Clambering the bricks to broken Stairs to a higher landing where You thought ghosts might hang In danky rooms or smelly attics Where light shone through the Broken tiles. O’Brien ****** Against a wall, the cigarette Hanging from his lower lip. Sutcliffe sniffed the air and Scratched his **** and you Standing on the creaky stair Pondered who stood or lived Here before the bomb dropped From the threatening sky and They wondering if they’d live Or die. Bet this was the bedroom, O’Brien said, and he and she Laid out here having ****** When the bomb went off. Sutcliffe sniggered, taking O’Brien’s cigarette for a quick Puff and handing to you with Dampened end. What a way To die though, Sutcliffe said, Him not knowing the ins and Outs of *** or death by bombs Or what’d be left after bombs Dropped. Probably some old **** who lived alone, O’Brien Conceded, staring at the sky Through the hole in ceiling, Without much concern and Little feeling. You reflected On his words and the stink Of **** and damp and empty Shell, the echo of yesteryears, The ghosting wanderings at Night and cold captured fears.

Continue reading...

The factory gates are locked, And there's no work today. The line-up's getting longer, And the soup kitchen's closed. The cardboard box was recyclable As a home above a vent; My children have no clothes, I hear my school's been closed. Then I hear you call her **** Because she won't sleep with you. The lake's been closed, no swimming, And the park soil is contaminated; I think we're underestimated. Clear the area Before Gilligan removes the head, Or Hawkeye looses his arms. This is not a false alarm.

0

Apr 16, 2016

Apr 16, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC

Unexploded Ordnance

The factory gates are locked, And there's no work today. The line-up's getting longer, And the soup kitchen's closed. The cardboard box was recyclable As a home above a vent; My children have no clothes, I hear my school's been closed. Then I hear you call her **** Because she won't sleep with you. The lake's been closed, no swimming, And the park soil is contaminated; I think we're underestimated. Clear the area Before Gilligan removes the head, Or Hawkeye looses his arms. This is not a false alarm.

Continue reading...

There are an infinity of infinities in your eyes hundreds of years of pain and hundreds more of sadness you are curled around one moment closed in to that second wrapped around a miniscule infinity of grief an unexploded bomb that I cannot defuse

0

Oct 20, 2013

Oct 20, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC

There are an infinity of infinities in your eyes hundreds of years of pain and hundreds more of sadness you are curled around one moment closed in to that second wrapped around a miniscule infinity of grief an unexploded bomb that I cannot defuse

Continue reading...

When the heart is in a state of collapse, it failsafes to stone. It Hardens, then Breaks, it Explodes, but not Into pieces, Just inside, It releases pain Within. Don’t Be wary of explosion Fear, The unexploded.

0

Apr 22, 2013

Apr 22, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC

Terrorist to Heart, Collapse

When the heart is in a state of collapse, it failsafes to stone. It Hardens, then Breaks, it Explodes, but not Into pieces, Just inside, It releases pain Within. Don’t Be wary of explosion Fear, The unexploded.

Continue reading...

Gran said it isn’t safe to walk about the bombsites Janice said as you walked with her off of Meadow Row towards the bombed out sites of WW11 there might be unexploded bombs she added holding on to your shirt sleeve there are no unexploded bombs here you said to reassure you paused midway and stared back to where the coal wharf stood and coalmen went about their work loading trucks and horse drawn carts how do you know? she asked her hand gripping your shirt sleeve tight don’t you trust me? you said turning your head seeing her eyes wide beneath her red beret yes but maybe there could be hidden beneath ground you looked around with hand above your brow none I can see you said she released your sleeve and touched your hand her smooth skin like soft silk moved over yours you mustn’t tell Gran she said she’s forbidden me to go on sites you sensed her pulse tap along your palm of course I won’t you said and walked across the bricks and rubble and weeds between even here amidst the bombed out ruins a touch of green.

0

Jul 11, 2012

Jul 11, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC

Gran said it isn’t safe to walk about the bombsites Janice said as you walked with her off of Meadow Row towards the bombed out sites of WW11 there might be unexploded bombs she added holding on to your shirt sleeve there are no unexploded bombs here you said to reassure you paused midway and stared back to where the coal wharf stood and coalmen went about their work loading trucks and horse drawn carts how do you know? she asked her hand gripping your shirt sleeve tight don’t you trust me? you said turning your head seeing her eyes wide beneath her red beret yes but maybe there could be hidden beneath ground you looked around with hand above your brow none I can see you said she released your sleeve and touched your hand her smooth skin like soft silk moved over yours you mustn’t tell Gran she said she’s forbidden me to go on sites you sensed her pulse tap along your palm of course I won’t you said and walked across the bricks and rubble and weeds between even here amidst the bombed out ruins a touch of green.

Continue reading...

Stunted, the same, by highs and lows alike. A jubilant parade inside some nights. Silver linings? Ticking timebombs! Infinite splinters! No good time left unexploded. Rusted blood iron and red wine filling my eyes. Tired of feeling "weird." Tired of knowing I'm being. I wish I wanted anything in a way that didn't scare me. I wish I could love anything in ways that couldn't hurt-- --inward or out-- I wish... _I think..._ If I sit on _this_ bench...for a _long_ time, and keep _perfectly_ still...but make subtle eye contact with some of the crows... they'll accept me as one of them? Teach me to fly Or, at least, hide in plain sight. A new vocabulary for my quiet when it starts to get mean. Entangled, alike, by lows and highs, the same. Convenient jailbreak for a Name-- --_Say it._ Chewing paper? Eat the playbook. Shred this formula. No good night goes unpunished. Rusted blood in my mouth, and red wine-- crying outside Tired of being fragile Tired of knowing I know. And how 'bout the crows? I'm good for a laugh, they suppose.

0

Mar 25, 2025

Mar 25, 2025 at 11:39 AM UTC

Splinter Pattern

Stunted, the same, by highs and lows alike. A jubilant parade inside some nights. Silver linings? Ticking timebombs! Infinite splinters! No good time left unexploded. Rusted blood iron and red wine filling my eyes. Tired of feeling "weird." Tired of knowing I'm being. I wish I wanted anything in a way that didn't scare me. I wish I could love anything in ways that couldn't hurt-- --inward or out-- I wish... _I think..._ If I sit on _this_ bench...for a _long_ time, and keep _perfectly_ still...but make subtle eye contact with some of the crows... they'll accept me as one of them? Teach me to fly Or, at least, hide in plain sight. A new vocabulary for my quiet when it starts to get mean. Entangled, alike, by lows and highs, the same. Convenient jailbreak for a Name-- --_Say it._ Chewing paper? Eat the playbook. Shred this formula. No good night goes unpunished. Rusted blood in my mouth, and red wine-- crying outside Tired of being fragile Tired of knowing I know. And how 'bout the crows? I'm good for a laugh, they suppose.

Continue reading...

the remaining trees bore witness to the stares of men seeking out death so they could avoid it the remaining trees grow strong on the bodies of men who found it never to return home to loved ones ordinary jobs ordinary lives no one can come here the land still poisoned by the hate of those determined to **** each other with lead, chlorine mercury and arsenic unexploded shells and grenades can still **** 100 years on it is quiet nature is allowed the freedom to grow fill the void that was once mud trenches and shell holes this really is no man's land because we made it so

0

Sep 16, 2021

Sep 16, 2021 at 6:49 PM UTC

the iron harvest

the remaining trees bore witness to the stares of men seeking out death so they could avoid it the remaining trees grow strong on the bodies of men who found it never to return home to loved ones ordinary jobs ordinary lives no one can come here the land still poisoned by the hate of those determined to **** each other with lead, chlorine mercury and arsenic unexploded shells and grenades can still **** 100 years on it is quiet nature is allowed the freedom to grow fill the void that was once mud trenches and shell holes this really is no man's land because we made it so

Continue reading...

I thought you would burst from unexploded laughter when my ten-year-old self knocked at your door in my Sunday best fresh-picked dandelions in my grimy hands as permission was granted to court your daughter Thirty years later, you made the grievous error of asking your daughter if she wanted to attend my mother's wake the mother who always said I would marry that daughter Today that daughter prepares her pilgrimage to home and bedside a journey I can't take because we are fellow travelers and you boarded the express Our lives have always been twisted; yes, literally and figuratively between friend and family I pray you safe and quiet passage and will let you know how the kids and grandkids are doing when I catch you on the second shift

0

Jun 25, 2022

Jun 25, 2022 at 12:41 PM UTC

I thought you would burst from unexploded laughter when my ten-year-old self knocked at your door in my Sunday best fresh-picked dandelions in my grimy hands as permission was granted to court your daughter Thirty years later, you made the grievous error of asking your daughter if she wanted to attend my mother's wake the mother who always said I would marry that daughter Today that daughter prepares her pilgrimage to home and bedside a journey I can't take because we are fellow travelers and you boarded the express Our lives have always been twisted; yes, literally and figuratively between friend and family I pray you safe and quiet passage and will let you know how the kids and grandkids are doing when I catch you on the second shift

Continue reading...

The bombs that didn't explode on the battlefield weren't malfunctioning, but their inert consciousness saw that destructive power alone couldn't bring peace to ignorant humans. Let us ***** a memorial to unexploded war bombs.

0

Feb 15, 2022

Feb 15, 2022 at 12:03 AM UTC

The bombs that didn't explode on the battlefield weren't malfunctioning, but their inert consciousness saw that destructive power alone couldn't bring peace to ignorant humans. Let us ***** a memorial to unexploded war bombs.

Continue reading...

Page 31. Voices from the dead reverberate to hang off walls within my head and I am being led down darkened streets, the chatter scatters everywhere,my brains explode, I'm loaded,locked in casket town, on the top floor going down. but then I smell fresh aubergine and realise a dream is underway, I know sunrise never lies to me,not surprisingly the voices of the dead reinvent themselves, become the racket on the radio that lays beside my bed, unlocked unloaded unexploded I am still the bomb.

0

Jun 10, 2014

Jun 10, 2014 at 1:19 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Page 31. Voices from the dead reverberate to hang off walls within my head and I am being led down darkened streets, the chatter scatters everywhere,my brains explode, I'm loaded,locked in casket town, on the top floor going down. but then I smell fresh aubergine and realise a dream is underway, I know sunrise never lies to me,not surprisingly the voices of the dead reinvent themselves, become the racket on the radio that lays beside my bed, unlocked unloaded unexploded I am still the bomb.

Continue reading...

I stepped left when I should have stepped right. It was a dance that ended my life.

0

Mar 4, 2015

Mar 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC

Unexploded (Two Sentence Story)

I stepped left when I should have stepped right. It was a dance that ended my life.

Continue reading...

We ain’t sending Christmas cards any more! We’ve done the list and that’s it! Oh no!…There’s another one just dropped through the door. You approach it gingerly like an unexploded bomb Cautiously wondering “who the eff is it from?” “Oh no! It’s someone who’s not on the list… the ******** Or, an older relative who doesn’t ‘do’ computers.... “We don’t do computers!”... And so it bounces off them this ‘losers’ two pronged attack. like getting one in the post and not sending one back! But we definitely ain’t sending cards any more! Can’t they just send an e-card, maybe one of those Jacqui whats-her-name jobbies... with floating fairies, sleigh bell sound effects and ****** labradors too. Or bang off a picture of Santa on FaceBook, Twitter, SnapChat, Instagram…surely that will do. Oh no they’ve got to go the whole nine yards. Even if they buy ****** Poundland Cards there’s still the cost of a ****** stamp! That’s extortionate too! No… Sorry… actually not sorry... We ain’t buying OR sending cards any more! We’ll donate to charity instead - that’ll be us… It’ll be cheaper and a lot less fuss. Sponsor a neglected reindeer, maybe a redundant elf Or yeh…better still - rescue a pup. One that WAS just for Christmas then just got chucked. For me this Christmas mail-out is over - the game's definitely up! Or really… if all else fails…we’ll just buy next year’s supply in bulk from the January sales!

0

Dec 6, 2020

Dec 6, 2020 at 7:58 AM UTC

We are NOT sending cards any more!

We ain’t sending Christmas cards any more! We’ve done the list and that’s it! Oh no!…There’s another one just dropped through the door. You approach it gingerly like an unexploded bomb Cautiously wondering “who the eff is it from?” “Oh no! It’s someone who’s not on the list… the ******** Or, an older relative who doesn’t ‘do’ computers.... “We don’t do computers!”... And so it bounces off them this ‘losers’ two pronged attack. like getting one in the post and not sending one back! But we definitely ain’t sending cards any more! Can’t they just send an e-card, maybe one of those Jacqui whats-her-name jobbies... with floating fairies, sleigh bell sound effects and ****** labradors too. Or bang off a picture of Santa on FaceBook, Twitter, SnapChat, Instagram…surely that will do. Oh no they’ve got to go the whole nine yards. Even if they buy ****** Poundland Cards there’s still the cost of a ****** stamp! That’s extortionate too! No… Sorry… actually not sorry... We ain’t buying OR sending cards any more! We’ll donate to charity instead - that’ll be us… It’ll be cheaper and a lot less fuss. Sponsor a neglected reindeer, maybe a redundant elf Or yeh…better still - rescue a pup. One that WAS just for Christmas then just got chucked. For me this Christmas mail-out is over - the game's definitely up! Or really… if all else fails…we’ll just buy next year’s supply in bulk from the January sales!

Continue reading...

This is the odyssey in the unsettling of a night and it's flight or fight. Run and we lose, fight and we might die. So we try and we do. Who? There's sparkle of stars overhead and I never got used to them, underfoot is where I put my faith, terra firma and I'm the fast learner, keep my feet on the ground. I look around and see unexploded ordinance, I don't see the romance in the dancing of death only the stink of its breath and the rot. And now with a reason to a life and to live I will not give an inch. Pinch me if I dream aloud, this anonymous face wants to blend in with the crowd and I will. Nightmares share with me the unsettling night, this odyssey. I expect nothing less, but want a lot more.

0

Jan 24, 2016

Jan 24, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

This is the odyssey in the unsettling of a night and it's flight or fight. Run and we lose, fight and we might die. So we try and we do. Who? There's sparkle of stars overhead and I never got used to them, underfoot is where I put my faith, terra firma and I'm the fast learner, keep my feet on the ground. I look around and see unexploded ordinance, I don't see the romance in the dancing of death only the stink of its breath and the rot. And now with a reason to a life and to live I will not give an inch. Pinch me if I dream aloud, this anonymous face wants to blend in with the crowd and I will. Nightmares share with me the unsettling night, this odyssey. I expect nothing less, but want a lot more.

Continue reading...