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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

neo-mouth

Men grunt, grunt, grunt
Men fart and scratch – don’t listen.
If they don’t agree with you then there must be something missing.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

Men swear and punch and act out ’cause they don’t have the words.
Touching, feeling, talking out – that’s just for the birds.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

Men are silent men are strong.
Men endure, they’re always wrong.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

Men shout and yell and butt heads, men settle arguments with fists.
Men suck it up when you hurt them, don’t file it away in lists.

A woman likes the strong silent type.

Oh yeah, a woman likes a man who doesn’t dare to disagree, who doesn’t call her out when she’s wrong.
Sweet reason doesn’t apply, feelings conquer all. Don’t argue with your lover, if you do she might be gone.

A woman likes a man who knows how to ‘lose’ an argument.
A real woman likes a really good loser.

Men condescend, men patronise, logical thinking’s a patriarchal affliction.
Accuse them of anything and it must be true, it couldn’t be fiction.

A woman opens her mouth, only misogynists disagree
A wise man keeps his trap shut, submits and bends the knee.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

A man’s words can be ignored now
And ignored later.

Men, ‘splain.

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fat-dude-in-a-kiddie-pool-with-a-hose-23308-1311256195-3

In Obi-City the beats are phat,
And youth-gone-wide wear pork-pie hats.
The BBWs are OTT
On Ladies Night they eat for free.

Every seat is double-wide,
Cholesterol’s a mark of pride.
Diabetes is all the rage,
Every pin-up’s double-page.

A skinny latte’s a sign you’re troubled,
No fries with that? Suspicion’s doubled.
It’s your duty, so stuff your face,
Gulp it down, keep up the pace.

Mumu’s outsell jeans or shoes,
Jogging is considered rude.
The priests preach that dieting’s a sin,
Body of Christ, with insulin.

Baby Got Back’s the national anthem,
Sweating lard’s considered handsome.
Cheek by jowl in unanimity,
Happy, jolly, Obi-City.

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The Cat

ChuckstonThe cat who saved my life glowers at me from behind the curtain, the blinding sun at his back giving him a halo.

His amber eyes stare at me, narrowed on both axes, but do not deign to blink.

His nose is out of joint because of the kitten, whom he  – commander of the house – only tolerates.

He yawns, flashing the snaggle-tooth that hurts so much when  he bites.

The worst is yet to come.

Soon he will pay a ‘special’ visit to the vet – another consequence of the young blade that has joined our household and usurped his laply throne.

I couldn’t voice what is to be done to his fuzzy plums, waving my hand and making a snipping motion with my fingers.

It is the responsible thing, the right thing, the safe thing, the convenient thing…

…but to do to a pet what one would never do to oneself?

For the sake of an easy life?

The cat who saved my life, hunter of moles, home to fleas, he of the chipped tooth and unclipped claws.

Panthera tigris minimus, with coffee-stained chin and offset nose, fur of petrichor redolence.

The Alarm clock, the hero, the saviour, confidante, muse and master of the gardens.

Is he to be reduced to the state of a simpering eunuch?

This feline who, every day, gives me reason to get up, gives me love and affection.

This furry beast who – with touch of paw, push of head and raucous meow, the likes of which I’ve never heard again – broke into a closed room to save me.

Would he do it again for me?

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Wayward Child

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Monday’s child is gassed with mace,
Tuesday’s child shot in the face,
Wednesday’s child blasted by drones,
Thursday’s child, refugee, roams,
Friday’s child arrested for trolling,
Saturday’s child can’t go on living,
But the child who is born on all these days
Has their rights and their future taken away.

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naked_lawn_mow

a blink of sunshine and out he comes
sunburned belly, shoulders, bum
he marches to the mowers thrum
it’s a british summer

ear-splitting screeches, kids at play
take your dog and get it spayed
socks and sandals every day
it’s a british summer

prayers for autumn, comes to nought
wasps drank all the booze we bought
dodging showers is a sport
it’s a british summer

spend most of it in the pub
dining on reheated grub
give those nettle stings a rub
it’s a british summer

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Crackt

smashed-hand

I have a dream.

In which I have a hammer.

I use the hammer upon my hand.

So that I have a valid excuse not to write this.

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Sulphur no longer smells rotten to her. It is a perfume now, it calls to her, summons her down the cold concrete steps to the basement. A bright light would spoil the atmosphere, a single bulb is all she allows, low-watt and fly speckled, it makes more shadows than it banishes.

Her feet slap upon the steps, one by one, the silken robe whispering as it slinks after her as though ashamed, caught in her wake. There is a groan, deep and masculine from the deepest of the shadows and she smiles as she reaches the last step, exalting in a sense of her power.

The silk slips from her shoulders and, naked, she gleams in the little light there is. Pale and glorious, standing erect, chin tilted up toward the light. It makes no difference but she’ll show no weakness to her quarry. She melts to her knees and prowls forward across the icy hardness of the dim and dusty floor. Hardened wax crackles and flakes from the floor as her hand brushes it and old lines of chalk and blood are smeared.

It matters not.

‘How male,’ she thinks. ‘How narrow and focussed to desire a thing only for its appearance. To be a woman,’ she muses to herself, ‘is to contain a multitude. To be able to desire for strength or looks, for intelligence, for power, for any and all qualities there are to desire.’

Yellow, cat-slit eyes in the darkness blink and a taloned foot scrapes the floor as it withdraws. She prowls forward, in pursuit, on her hands and knees. Her breasts sway and every movement echoes in her belly, lighting a fire in her dark-ringed eyes.

There’s nowhere further it can go. This dangerous thing, this thing of power, this force she has trapped and bound and made her own.

It shows its teeth, but she knows it cannot bite.

It raises its claws, but she knows it cannot scratch.

It speaks threats and promises, glories and terrors, but she knows it lies.

Its skin, under her fingers is as warm as a too-hot bath, it makes her flush, it makes her faint.

Long nails draw down a scarlet, squamous chest, tick-tick-ticking from scale to scale, until her hands grasp the root of its mockery of maleness and its forked tongue stills.

For she knows its name, and calls it ‘beast’.

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