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Poetry

Return of the Children

August 18th, 2018|0 Comments

Oh old man, weep,
Weep your tears of pain.
Old man with unmet dreams
Weep for your yesterdays.
Oh old man, sing,
Sing with your broken voice
And wail for your soul.
Lost in your darkest dreams.
Where did your laughter go?
So needed for this drunken night.
You’re our fool now.
Come hold our robes
With your boney hands
And listen to our song of joy.
Listen to the breeze
Dancing on the window sill.
Listen to the children
Returning in the setting sun.
Listen to your heart
Beating weakly in your chest.
You’re still alive old man.
Think of the children,
Your children coming to greet you.
Weep for them,
Weep their tears of joy.

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The Flower Sermon

August 18th, 2018|0 Comments

I can still taste the salt and the fear,
From the mirror you threw in my face.
I am still chilled by you as I sit
Alone in this damp concrete space,
A thousand shards remind me
Of the thousand flawed lies grinning
You told the world so thorougly today.
And I don’t know what to do with your sinning.

Do I tell the world about you?
How you left your wife to fend
For herself while you forced
Yourself upon my best friend?
Do I take this largest shard
And stab you threw the heart.
Do I walk away and forget all you are?

And then I smiled,
And the mirror in my face
Disappeared.

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Making salsa

August 14th, 2018|0 Comments

Today I’m making sauce again.
The flavour left from yesterday is so bitter
I can still taste it,
Although, I’ve brushed my teeth three times.
What was I thinking?
When I added too much vitriole,
And not enough laughter.
The bus driver in his white shirt
With children looked after by the neighbour
Because their mother had died
Deserved at least a smile.
How was I to know?
How was I not?
He ate my sauce
As I shrugged off his furrowed brow.
It was a family recipe:-
Betrayal and anger with a hint of sarcasm.
Today’s sauce, will have more compassion,
More fun,
More me.

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Short Fiction

Tom

August 6th, 2018|0 Comments

“You’re a racist,” he said. “And racists don’t get jobs here.” Tom swallowed. Nobody fucking calls me a racist, he thought. The interviewer started to put Tom's papers back into the brown manila folder. “And I’m gonna report you for discrimination,” Tom said. The interviewer laughed as he closed the folder. “You hate faggots,” Tom continued trying to force the point home. The interviewer smirked, “You haven’t got a leg to stand on.” “I’ll have these,” Tom said, and quickly took the papers and ran from the building. It had been two weeks since the interview with the faggot [...]

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