Driving Forwards

There was traffic on the A19
The toll of incorrect change and
Passes in the wrong lane
Past the deadline for paying, again.

If one day the heat of the moment
Rises beyond the honked horn,
The River Tyne will boil with such a rumble
That crayfish will float among the Nissans.

Citrine Dreamer

Originally Written 09/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021

Bestowed gift of manifestation
As laid by this babe's head,
Bring abundance to this child
With bounds yet to be unknown.
Create from his flesh a conduit
Flowing bountiful in curiosity
And free in unabashed glee.
Fortify his bones against misery
And afford him only adoration.
Grant him true expression of
Boundless and pure creativity
Cascading from his fingertips
Or coursing from his pouting lips.

Hold his tongue from envious spite.
Transform those jealous intentions
Into tangible and fortuitous actions.
Harbour angers, fears and explosions
To free his spirit for fresh pursuits.
Transmute his negative shadows
Into innovative and fertile passions
That may regenerate his being
And unshackle his ambitions.
Produce from this humble bairn
An infant of widened eyes and heart;
An enduring and steadfast being.
Make him true, fair citrine dreamer.

Faithless Grief

I’m faithless and unashamed 
For God did not give us grief.
Love manipulated our trust
So that chance could gamble
With the futility of our existence,
Ripping the tense velcro bonds
Of hearts grown together.

I applaud it’s gamesmanship,
For it doesn’t laude it in our faces
By any means other than simply
Gathering the grim and gaunt
In coats of greyed gaberdine.
Long coats hanging as if empty,
Made black from the heart’s rain.

I am faithless and entirely alone,
But still gesticulating to the air:
An open chested final demand
To give back the gift of grief
That greeted me at this graveside.
Need I be a god-fearing glossolalist
To return this heartbreak?

Vacations

This margarita
Drank at a dozen a dime,
Uses island lime
All the far places
That the heart wishes to be
Come with a price tag
I stood on a boat
On an ocean oh so blue,
Missing only you
I long for a break,
End the mundane daily grind
Just for a moment

Pencil Case

Momma told me not to run with scissors
Lest I pluck out my own eyes
With the rounded tip of the blade.
But she needn’t have feared impaling
For the glittered edge could split reality
Into newer categories of felt or unfelt,
Processed or compartmentalized in boxes
That are to be continuously mislabelled
And indexed under different triggers.

Momma told me not to run with scissors
Lest I pluck out my own eyes
With the rounded tip of the blade.
But she needn’t have feared impaling
For the glittered edge was a siren
That promised to multiple your mark
By severing the ties to reality a little more.
Knowing the hook was catching enough
To long for a longer, deeper verse.

Momma told me not to run with scissors
Lest I pluck out my own eyes
With the rounded tip of the blade.
But she needn’t have feared impaling
For the glittered edge was a safety blanket
Bound in bumps of gentle grip polypropylene.
Soon substituted for safe preschool variety
In the same clear polyvinyl therapy pencil case
As the steel screw fit pencil sharpener.

Buying Happiness in Room 208

The cheap cotton shirt 
Rubbed on his plump neck 
As he sat on the edge of the bed
Watching her adjust her cheap polyester bustier. 
They’d discussed pricing. 
He’d already paid half. 
He was nervous, 
Hesitant, 
Didn’t think he could
So she cut him slack.

She pursed her lips 
And tugged at his zipper. 
When she was bobbing her head
He was positioned staring at the ceiling 
Unable to sit. 
Before long his face, 
Once a grimace, 
Glowed from completion. 
Slipping out another twenty, 
He passed her a tissue and left.

Stomp, Stomp, Stomp

Yous are ruining my life
Belts an immature Geordie tongue
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
Up the stairs she runs.
Slam
She shuts the door.
Thump
She throws herself onto her bed.
 
I hate yous
Screeches her juvenile lungs
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
Up the stairs she runs.
Slam
She shuts the door.
Thump
She throws herself onto her bed.
 
You’re not a very nice mummy
Shouts the crying child.
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
Up the stairs she runs.
Slam
She shuts the door.
Thump
She throws herself onto her bed.
 *
I told her she couldn’t have chocolate for breakfast

Fairy-tale Reality

To escape to the land of fairy tales and princes,
Would be marvellous at best,
Escapism at worst,
But beautiful that none the less.
For living in castles,
Comes rent free,
Spare the dragons and dungeons,
And curse bound witches.
For jobs are for peasants,
And royalty we'd be,
With bountiful Riches,
And careless minds.

Yes reality is no Castle,
And princes are but men.
Fairy tales are stories,
And Riches are sparse.