I know.

If there’s one thing this has taught me,
It is that I am lucky.

It could have been the other of the pair,
And then where would I be.
Without my agonising rock within this strange façade.

I know that I am lucky,
For I have my family –
My family.
Complete with criticism and dementia,
And undying refusal to bend.

And I know that I am lucky,
For I have my friends.
Now this one is a sweeter tune.
Somehow, they put up with all my screams,
Turn them into howls of humour when they can,
And never let me throw in soggy towel.

But if there’s one thing that I know,
It’s that I have to face it all alone.
Because there’s no-one who can swipe the pain, the images,
the contemplation from my mind.

Winter Blues

The sparrow sat impatiently upon the wall
As the frost moved in,
Awaiting mist-free morning light
And worms above the frozen ground.
Ruffled feathers underneath the wind,
It hovered in disgust
Above a peanut feast,
Beneath the flakes of snow.
Pecking angrily at berries red,
Its song was harsh and cold,
Anticipating spring.

And in the icy storms which fell,
The bird grew thin,
As it refused to thrive in absence of the sun.
And before the warmth could rise,
Its sorrow ceased, unnoticed.

The shoes that rocked their worlds.

Pink school-style kickers.
Rounded at the toe and heel,
One faded from the sun.
Spotted in an afternoon of laughter,
As they trailed through city shops in search of fun.

A source of pleasure,
Bargain-hunt galore,
but who’d have thought they’d be the final crack
A whip of stinging blended sentiment as box embodied form.
And on she stares.

Heads or Tails

The child,
Laying on a slab,
Because her life was hard.

Or the woman in her prime,
Who dies a little every day,
Unable to pre-empt what will be next to fail –
Some major memory, or ability to walk, to talk or hold a spoon,
The woman who can’t ask for help,
Because she’d disappoint her family.

Won't Somebody Stop the Juices - How they Flow!

It just keeps on coming - hold your hats, it's all going up here!

PROMISES MADE.
I promised I’d look out for you, that I would keep you safe.
But there are some things that I cannot fix.

A battered knee from sliding low –
That I can bless with magic touch
And in a little time, it heals.

A bruised heart and tormented mind –
I can offer solace. I can give advice.
And I can bitch for hours about the whore that gave you pain.

Boredom –
Sorted, I’ll be there with chocolate mountains when you call.

But this thing inside you –
Which furls in anger in your blood,
That, I can only watch.

Sure, I can be there on the bad days,
Grapes and comic books in hand,
And I can cheer you when you’re down.
I can pester you to do the dreary stuff,
Like eating well, and sleeping every now and then.
And I can be there on the phone with each set of results.

But every time, I see the pain is more.
And someday,
My promise isn’t going to matter.

Exhibit A:

When I opened my mouth to sing.

I opened my mouth to sing, and out came a silence so sombre, so solid, it would make a spider wilt.

My blackened eyes closed, willed my voice to fill the space before me, but nothing save a crackle of despair proceeded from my lips, as dry as desert wind.

My fists clenched; grubby ragged nails gouging into sweaty skin as I tried to claw out noise. And my dead, unsparkling eyes gaze out at hordes who watched.

No melody would fit emotions I wanted to scream, no words to falsify my honest praise, my disappointment, or my fucking rage.

So, my face louder than I could ever be, I walked away. And they watched me as I left it all unsaid. Because it matters too much, but it doesn’t matter anyway.

The Colour is Black, The Hue Finality.

Something good should have happened today. I had the day to write. And I can't actually remember what I have done, but on the occassion that I sat, keyboard in hand, to create more of the colourful post-folk planet's story, all that appeared was questionable shady poetry.

Bad Bananas

Just when you think things can't get worse, some little shit goes and dies on you... ok, that's really harsh, and I didn't mean it. Now I feel really guilty. But my grand-parents arrival coupled with my family's hypocritical duplicity, long shift patterns at work, and no escape have riled both me and my Muse.

Some bizzarre spark of emotion lights the fires of inspiration, and intense, passionate words are left to dance around my rotting brain because I can't enter my room - inhabited by aged Southerners - or leave Them to trip up on the banana skin that is forced-love and faked existence.