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The knot in my stomach

Clenches like a pig’s intestine:

“Digest that!”

Such nerves are to be expected,

Surely, at times like this?

Please, help me, help to ease

The pain.

 

Too late.

My time has come.

Burning Love

‘Hunger!’ he shouts,

Screams about it.

That burning love,

What could he mean?

An infection, perhaps,

Of the severely uncool

Rock and roll kind?

Or drugs?

Alcohol?

Of course, it must be metaphorical,

I say,

Love is not a literal being.

It embodies itself, through symbolism

Like in ‘Free’.

 

Woah,

Where’s your passion?

 

People want to believe in it,

So they invent it.

 

Surely?

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Postbox

She shouts from downstairs

But not to me.

No.

It’s a delivery for a Mr. I’m Married To You.

He sends a reply back;

First class, of course.

 

She opens it,

Reads it,

Cries.

Pours out her soul to the air around her

Until it turns blue.

Crude.

Rude.

 

He laughs at her desperation,

Her misery.

Oh, how he loves the speedy service of words.

Vicious words.

 

She’s at his feet again

Like he is the Almighty

Come down to Earth

To wreak havoc and pain.

 

Old Testament.

 

The Red mail box outside

The house is full again.

 

Time for Mr. Postman to deliver more abuse.

Untitled

 

Stuck in traffic

traffic of the mind

thoughts can’t move

progress

stuck in time

 

a dull ache hinders progress

 

now it’s sharp

painfully there

i’m aware

sorely

of its presence

 

again it’s gone

like it was never there

 

a pretender

 

now i look outside the window

and breath in

stale yet fresh air

like life

vitality

in

and

out

 

in

and

out

 

now i can think

again.