Monthly Archives: July 2018

The damn book

One more martini, spoken, not slurred

One last anecdote, edges slightly blurred

Got to go home now, that next drink is deferred

Leave while ahead, now, dignity preferred.

 

Weave up the stairs now, miss the last one

Hit the sack before morning, avoiding the sun

Drink a pint of water, has to be done

What pain we endure just to have fun.

 

Wake with a headache, fumble for pills

Damn birds and their chatter, squawks and shrills

Move slowly, look down, give up, lose the will

Lie back wait for sanity, try to be still

 

Another one this evening, no way not to go

The party is for me and it matters, I know

The books out this week and we have to make a show

It’s what they expect: go, be that braggadocio

 

Just take the damn Milk Thistle.

 

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Clopping through the shop

A Brace of Biddies

Wimmin who shop

Cagney and Lacey, Butch and Sundance, Weatherwax and Ogg

Confident Women

Giving no fucks

Loving the shopping, happy to be, zero fucks given

 

 

A life struggled

I resisted birth

Resisted life

Resisted death

And yet, here I am….

…….a shadow sitting in a waiting room without windows. There are obscure voices like the distant ooze of sea on pebbles, the sound of a party to which I am not invited,  where love is visible and vital. If the invitation came I should decline. Parties have colour: I am a shadow dissolving to silver powder settling on the chair, on my memory.

There is a different party over here. An invitation like the crooning and cooing of birds calls me in.  The dust settles, spilling softly here and there over the chair and the floor. Love corrupts and drifts away, slips away, slithers.

I am dust.

 

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