An apology to Lucy’s phone

Dear 1plus, today around 2.20pm you suffered an injury because of my inability to keep track of time. It was a series of unfortunate events which lead to your being bopped rather shockingly on one of your immaculate corners. I’ve always appreciated your fine lines and beautiful colouring. You have such a bright and cheerful face. The clarity you bring to our every day, and the way you assist in keeping track of time, writing notes and helping Lucy to keep in touch with her loved ones’ is admirable. So, it is with the utmost sincerity that I apologise for the role I played in your injury and near destruction. You are strong, and I know that you will bounce back from this – but I understand that you may well be smarting from this recent calamity. In case you didn’t know. You have been unique and special to Lucy from the first day of purchase. You do so much for her, helping to capture meaningful moments and share joy with the world. Wishing swift recovery❤️‍🩹

I are a brownie

EATING RATING: 11/10 on the concentric brownie scale.

The prophecy was true!
And lo’ the time is right for a brown review.
A mouth melting moment, surely divined in Lille. Unlike any other chocolate, or happiness pill.

With all the bells-n’-whistles, and no expenses spared. The brownie was so-damn-good, one cannot be prepared. Presented in a napkin, a teeny-tiny sweet. Good tucker for the promenade, to help you keep your feet.

In Line

There was a person in the line, looking down and eating time. The woman who was just ahead, looked to the brochure that she claimed said: “the cat food’s cheap, check page two!” The server was cool like me and you. Said “yes, indeed, while that IS true – alas, this magazine’s from back in June”. The shopper wasn’t defeated, and yelled about being mistreated. And with my way STILL impeded, I witnessed as the cashier pleaded. From front to back she flicked, checking September’s issue quick. Suddenly a manager was called, and not so suddenly appeared. By which time, I was not to cheered. When the register next to me opened trade, a second mistake was made. I’d checked my phone, and in that time – I’d been pipped by everyone from the back of the line. With my chance, to advance lost, I begun to calculate the cost. This multi kilo cat food bag, and the warbling nonsense of the brochure hag. Not to mention the rudeness of those behind, and the cashier who didn’t seem to mind. Etiquette, was damned and in that moment I took things into my own hands. I stood up on the conveyor belt and thus was how my anger felt. Some abuse and anger was vented at the shop. Then I stomped the bag of cat food, which made a satisfying pop. I kicked a gallon of detergent on the floor, then ran like hell through automatic doors.

thunder song

Free thought, training thumbs exercise brain muscle, organ, noodle, walnut whatever. Test it, press it: green. Red stop. Wine wine sine fine dining shingling mining rock hat bulldozer wattle, limp, eating faulty, dancing hating, talking, introducing, resting, resting, thunder clouds eat the hunger In me. Old lit up energy less a polarity of children, drool and hope and crawling, games and scones and cream and jam and prices that won’t stop wasting my friendships tasting like wine. Money wasting, my casing my choice, my friendship. Odd ball, lost it, costed it. I’m perfect, I’m fine, nothing hanging on my line. Extend a branch, put on some ranch, hope it’s fance’. Shirt and bills, unbutton clips, wattle, throttle, garbage dump, sickly pump, work and the noble effort of making the world a better place, industryindustry. How do you justify your existence when all you have is useless hopeful feckless reckless attrition narratives that waste and chill, waste and chill and drill at your heart. It’s a static start. Walmart, taking tarts and replacing them with your heart. Breath in, breath out – cardio. Cardigan, hard again, messages from you make me think back to when we were together. A complete, unreality of how I was. Brain changing dramatically from then to now. I’m looking back thinking “who was that” and we’re they happy? An I better now, or worse? I’m bias. Bi, hi, hi us. Higher than us right now, in the clouds of rust and red and poisoned lead in my bed. That’s what she said, hole in the head, take your meds, and you beads as you bled and you bleed, vains don’t bleed if nothing seeds, collect your bees and sail the seas and look back. Flying, dying Dutchman. Clutch man, ocean waves that gave naves faves when they brave the back side. Ocean wide, suicide, water slide, sick with pride, razors, hair tingle, intermingle, if your single pop pringles, drink a thimble of oregano. Ten time a day, don’t stray. Silly kid, intelligence remembrance, book take a look at a master’s idea of happenstance, existence your fitness, princess and princes bubble up, bite strike a light and turn it over, turn it on, long gone song of mountains wronged, hit a bong, country song, fight King Kong, sound the gong, eat like a Mong. Hungry hungry songs

Iceland

Agility, attitude, combat, speed. A list of four things, pulse across the screen as described by the pussycat dolls on MTV. We sit, finishing off our pizza and beers – banished upstairs with the Americans. The football has finished, Selfoss women won 2-0 at home. It’s been a peaceful adventure to the north of Iceland. There’s something very nourishing, spending time with your sole surviving parent. A rightness, echoing the day I arrived in this world. I bought myself a beer, and a double dinner, having accidentally purchased a salad, which needed a pizza to wash it down. I’d tracked down my dad and his friend, who were visiting for a conference the week before in Reykjavik. They were mellow when I arrived, heads lolling after too little food and generous bartending. We caught up but before too long, we settled into old rhythms. It frustrated me, but other people often have other things on their minds – distracted. There had been a funeral a few weeks before and it hung about making me restrained, fretful and pensive. I’d hitchhiked to Siglofourdo, which took up the entire Saturday afternoon. I’d met some gems. Maria, the fun mum. Thor, the alternative medicine man. Schvet and his psychologist girlfriend, the likes of which loved hiking. A curious couple who ‘did not give a fuck’ about very much. A cute blonde from the USA who was working remotely and mourning the loss of a parent (I found out through social media), and a local of Sigló who had been drinking all day and playing golf – he got me the last leg of the journey in record time. Sigló was a peaceful town with and old museum retailing the days of overfishing: Herring, whale and the rest. A lazy chocolate shop, a new hotel, a pool and BIO engineering facility (testing remedies for cancer and arthritis using the waste products of shellfish). The first full day in Sigló I ran north a few clicks along Trollskagi, (troll peninsula) to an orange lighthouse. It was a lovely trot, which took me along an 880meter tunnel which cut clean through a mountain. It struck me, as the tunnel was the only way to pass, the high calibre machinery that would have been required and the resulting interior. Moist and illuminated by a few lamps; sos phone and fire hydrants placed in the pull-over station every 100meters. While taking a few snaps of the lighthouse, the owner of the farm next door returned home and let out his dogs. They charged straight for me and nipped at my hands until I stopped moving and played some catch with a few rocks. They were wonderfully trained and had kind, inquisitive souls. I went to the farm and requested on my; bald, vein pulsing Icelander to look after his dogs. My cat had recently been run over – and I feared they might meet the same fate if they followed my up to the road. The jog home was a breeze, as it was mostly down hill.

Make up

I put on my clothes for the day while thinking of my next performance. Dressing up, dressing down, telling my story, showing where I’ve been, how I think and; and what I like. If I’m going to feel this way, or that, I’ll need some war paint. The story is made up, so when you text me, the letters melt in my eyes and run like mascara. Meanwhile I listen to an album you created. With some songs you recommended couple with thoughts of your head bopping along. That musical voice, hidden away. My empty surface, all made up. Ornaments. Decoration. Piercings and laughter ringing in my ears. No, not ringing – warming me. Fanning the flame of my heart. Turning on the light inside. Candles craving us with their orange light. Shining eyes meet, and my mouth is stilled, half smiling through a mask, that isn’t made up.

Poetry

Rarely does poetry jump from the page. In fact as you’re writing it you might be saying “this is rubbish” THATS OK – as long as you’re feeling something. Lean into it, as long as you can write it, share it, give it meaning. Own it and speak it.

Delivery unknown

A delivery man

Wearing shorts and a white shirt

He’s angry and asking:

“Do you know which floor?”

I say ‘no’ and sit down on a bench peering into my phone screen.

Locking and unlocking it nervously, feeling out of place and worrying that he’ll cause a scene, that I’ll be drawn into somehow.

Angst, frustration, bitterness – it’s all on display and a bit too much.

PLAY ME LIKE A RECORD BABY

Play me like a record baby.

Be careful, turn me on.

Scratch me if to have to baby.

Spin me round and wrong.

It’s hard when you’re around, baby

And quiet when you’re gone

[…break…]

I’ll play you like a record baby

With perfect skips and grooves.

I don’t forget the steps baby

And I know, you know the moves

I’ll hold you in my hands baby

Then let the needle go

Play me like a record baby

Working to and fro

The rhythm’s in our hips, baby

So abandon sleeves and slips

Whisper what you want baby

With lyrics, love and lips.

Eyes

Look to that slice of sky, filled by mountain tops. Tracking our horizon, clouds far as eye can see. Green and white and blue they pop. Attracting you and me.