mother

I do not normally write outside of the office. The work environment and narrow time frame seems to suit me better. However with my birthday approaching I thought I would dig the demon, which this year is different from all the previous years.

There is an irony to life, sometimes to appreciate it you nearly need to destroy it, loose it, burn it down and rebuild it.

If my mother gave me nothing else positive it was infinte will, strength and defiance. Life is hard. I'm a dam sight harder.

Twenty Ninth Funeral

Abortion in a bag
taken home
neglected in the look of
selfish windows
skin peeled turned to
flayed tomatoes
in an overdue nappy.
A womb of abandonment
makes no mother
leaves the scars of
Pathos' blade down the arms,
perched on the shoulder blades
sliced down to the bone.
Lazarus defiant
claws against
Mother's shovel
turns a funeral
to a birthday.

My sister showed me a message from my half-brother she received through facebook at lunchtime. There was brief news in there without any detail. Both of us have not seen our half brother and sister for some considerable time through our own choice. Although, we hold no grudges or ill feelings towards Ellie and Dan since kids are often a victim of circumstances and you cannot choose your family or what happens within it. Sometimes however, you need distance from a parent who has other motives or agendas.

I thought I would pay mother a visit and give her a little excerise.

Mother’s Paint

A sheet of sand blasted paper wrapped the eye,
grated the child, tore fingers prints
into strawberry juice numbness,
hung them on the wall in grotesque frames
printed her name there
in indelible ink.

After reading my last poem, I had an email from my sister.

"It's wierd. I looked her up the other day on 118. She never used to have a phone. Now she has a phone which is in her name. Thought he'd probably died or left. Maybe that's fodder for a poem"

I replied there probably was another poem there and I might give it a go. In between working, I have been writing and produced the following.

Blood has featured and still does in a lot of my work mainly because in some form or other it has been a part of my early life. Sitting here at lunch I had a mental block. What to write? A piece of flash fiction? A poem? Maybe I should just do some ebaying.

Then I thought of the theme of blood and returned to it to see where it led me. It is always interesting to see where something will lead, when picked out of the air.

I'm not in the best of moods.

Although as a "writer" that doesn't mean there is no reason to write. The challenge is always to write no matter what the mood - good or bad.

This is more of a bullet poem and is probably too cryptic for the outside reader. Nevertheless, this site is about expression and so it is.

There is a strong swear word it but there is a reason for the word appearing.

I have tried to right about time with "tick tock" in it for some time. Never managed to nail it.

Time is a relentless rhythm, it stops for nothing, not even death, it just keeps on going and going. It has no care only that it ticks ever onwards.

The following is a doodle to exercise the brain cells. Not had time to check this. Lunch is over - back to work.

Careless Shepherds

Time is not a lover but
a wanton womb and purple prick
an orgasm to light a wick
to flick infants in the dock
smash their heads in with a rock