You, a dry and whetted wick,
fuel evaporated in radiant smiles,
rest, cupped by my soft hand.
Held upright with a kind word
I restore your normal body
with the magic of faint praise.
I am bigger, deeper. Strong.

Yet, stood; alone, tuneless
fluorescent lights cast me down.
I shrink into a hollow star,
my five shadows crouching,
each devouring its share.
Their backs turned to me
grown fainter, longer. Weak.

biscuit divided
oat crunch and hot coffee –
one hundred push-ups

random selection
spins combination lock –
big crab claws

white cell rocket
burns red platelet soup –
motorcycling

lawn littered
by fat leg’ed witless oaf –
depression lingers

I sit, moulded in plastic, mulling
the miserable taste of experiment.
Loud nonsense assaults me.
“Halo 3 and a Xbox is it.
Dis’ it and you dis’ me. Pisses
on your shitty Jap crap”.
“Fuck you. MS is so corporate
PS3 is totally street, dude”.
Angry chair scraping makes
me slap them both with a bellow.
Authority of voice an inheritance;
I throw them out without moving.
Idiots leave an echoing silence.

ii.
Walking home the pavement is
almost mine alone; just a young
socialite rushing in foot long strides
towards me, her tan calf skin,
calf length boots clapping at her
size-zero body. She flashes a smile
that stuns me from her path. Guttered,
I twist my ankle and stumble causing
her handbag to yap. With a flick
of her head, a brunette lustre sweeps
me, hobbling, over to the small park
to share its single wooden bench
among today’s rhododendron blooms.

Sitting, smiling, a tired mother weeps.
I sit back to rest in the sounds of
small birds and swaying shade.
“My boy used to bring me here
each market day, afore the war”
Then sensing this wasn’t enough
“Loved the purple of it, he did”
The birds and I contemplate this
quietly. A dry bearing in her distant
cog so our place in the machine
stays lightly oiled. Embarrassed
tweets cover a faked squeak in my
step, as I continue homewards.

iii.
I lie sallow under the soaking
darkness of an extinguished light,
my body practises for an open casket,
the echo of a gentle breaths wash
over me. Each one lapping away
imprints of the days wrinkles.
“Sleep well me love” a roaring
tsunami smooths any furrows.
I am not tricked by tokens or idol
worship, taken by outer beauty,
or pulled back to that long past.
I have fortune, for with my love
I fell upon the perfect plane.

steaming hides abound –
tractors speed deafeningly fast
clutching breakfast

It’s dark, it’s after ten PM
and my door bell rings.
Local kids are bored again.
Playing “knock and run”.
But without any actual running.

Again with the ding-dong.
Trouble is no one talks to kids.
I’ve seen “them hooded tops”
on Music Television at the pub.
I’ve listened to how they talk.

As I zip up my cardigan
It goes a third time. Persistent.
Very well, I shall answer them.
Flinging the door wide I shout
“So, where’s the beef, mobo?”

I look into each hood in turn.
Half a dozen blank faces.
Then one, a young girl (I think),
Says “Laterz Grandpa” and
They all move off laughing.

Smiling with my success,
I shout after them (as they do)
“That’s large, moobs!”
And then close my door.
You’ve just got to speak their language.

- o O o -

This was inspired by, and written for the Ad Lib Group Writing Project run by Randa Clay.

starfish wrestling –
waves clinking at bared feet
soothing pebble sores

Posh shops know this and wrap them well.
Each sock cosseted in tissue and branded silk,
inside a solid shiny box tied with a bright ribbon.

The quality of these socks is only perceived.
They won’t last as long or stop your new shoes
blistering your ankle; you’ve paid for packaging.

A person is a bag of bodily functions, attitudes
and ape imprinting with feet that stink up shoes.
A pretty ribbon is rarely worth the higher price.