Green Eyed Monster

 

This year, of all it's hardships

This year, of all it's woes.

This year of lessons, battles, losses, hurt and heaviness and sorrow.

Has been particularly difficult
For writers of dystopian allegororical ilk.

No  matter how outlandish
Or seemingly absurd
It's all plays out in news reports
Almost word for word.
From fire and murder Hornets
To plague and civil rights
Through the gauntlet of grotesqueries
To the scuttling at night
Of genetically modified crayfish clones
Eating cholera corpses down to the bones
In the waterways of a graveyard
In a major European city.
None of it's very pretty.
So this year, I have focused
My (by nature, admittedly a bit goth) brain,
On learning how to smile again.
As happiness is a revolutionary act.

My concrete corner,
Unwelcome altar of
Windswept plastic offerings
To the God of down-at-heel seaside towns
Crisp packets,  chippy wrappers,
Discarded masks,
Encroaching valerian, damp and doll sized dunes
Became a waving wash of wafting treasure.
I had finally cracked under the pressure.
The need to nurture is less what this was about,
More the need to beautify.
So I began haphazardly.
Went to the garden centre to see
What sacrificial flora I could adopt.
I've never stopped trying to grow things.
It's just that I have black thumbs and sap-stained fingers,
From all plants I've killed over the years.
But the indoor ones, for me, it seems
Were too fragile and subject to neuroses,
They'd sulk themselves to death
after a couple of months of neglect.
Outdoor plants, though!
A brand new world of possibilities.
I started with just a couple,
Something that's hard to kill.
Flaming lady shrubberies
A statement, if you will.
The smiling assistant assured me
It didn't need much care.
Just a spot that wasn't too windy
And some pruning here and there.
Well.
I put them down and on they grew,
New scarlett leaves unfurling.
Eye pleasing and inobtrusive,
My experiment conclusive,
The plants brought me joy.
Now. I'm a product of a culture
And of a generation spoiled.
Millenials, we whine and grouse
About our lack of toys.
But we were born in the 80s,
where excess was the goal
And when we find something that dopamine hits
We fall into addiction roles.
I didnt mean for all of it
To get so out of hand.
That flaming lady beckoned, you see
And I accepted her junglist plans.
The next trip I checked all the labels.
The corner we had was quite dark.
We get 2 hours of sun in the morning
So we had to have shade loving plants.
It took me what felt like forever
Methodically checking the charts
For sun dials and seasons and meaning
Behind the corporate cartoonists art.
Eventually I made my choices, picked out some pots too.
Went to the counter to pay for it all
And encountered Snooty Boots Sue.
She smiled and welcomed the greenlings
To be zapped in their barcode baptism
Then turned to me to ask questions
And referred to the plants all in Latin.
I shrugged and explained my new passion,
Confessed my ignorance of it all.
So Sue turned her sizable nose up
Pursed her lips, crossed her arms and drawled
"Oh I see. You're a new gardener"
As if new made me automatic scum.
"You will need some compost to go with this,
Can you guess which is the right one?"
She gestured a bingo winged arm to her left,
I Dreadingly looked to my right
A wall of colourful plastic sacks
Of variously composted shite.
I hadn't a clue,  I shrugged again
"The one with the flowers?" I guessed.
"Nooo" she sneered, ample chest in grey wool.
 "The blue bag for you would be best".
As she was taking my payment she asked,
"Where have you left your car?"
"No, I actually-"
"What?"she interrupted,
"Without it you wont get far"
The notes of disdain and triumph were there.
And her haughtiness was just too much.
"I'll be fine " I shot back, my shoulders squared,
Teeth gritted, jawline jut.
She smiled at me sweetly,
And said "if you're sure.
Here, let me help you"
I looked at the floor,
I looked at the sides, I looked at my stuff
I realised that Hercules himself would find it quite tough
To carry it.
It's that old 80s lifestyle, the drive of must have more.
I'm not making excuses, an explanation is all.
But I'd come this far. She couldn't win
So i sorted out my freight
One on the back, hands full, under arm
Ceramics! It was some weight.
Then Snooty boots Sue
Got her moment to shine
And reminded me with a grin:
"Don't forget to take your compost"
I took a deep breath in.
"No, no, quite right. Could you give me a hand?
It's under control, this was part of the plan.
I just need help to raise it over
This bag, then I can carry it on my shoulder".
Aghast, sue said,
"You can't do that! You'll hurt yourself, what about your back?"
I said " i can, i am, I'm off. I'm not going far. Thanks very much".
And strode with as much briskness as I could
Staggering slightly, and sliding in mud.
Once round the corner and out of her sight
I Gave up the ridiculous impotent fight
Against gravity,
and let the bag slide to the floor,
Off my shoulder,
by now reddened, soggy and sore.
Pondering what on earth could be done.
To rescue me from my pride's bumbledom.
When a black cloud surrounded once white panel van
Burped to a shuddering halt
And sooty marked garden gnome face of a man
Shouted something about
Needing a lift, could he be of assistance
I was so overjoyed I damned well near kissed him.
And I managed to get them home.
A quick cup of tea and I was out there digging,
As happy as a pig in it.
Trowel in hand, repotting and arranging
Trying to make the prettiest fit.
And when the spell broke it was later that day,
I'd whiled a good few hours away
Immersed in the earth and the dirt and the smell.
I was happy.
The theory, proved, conclusive.
But the height of that first joy proved elusive.
It was good still, yes, no denying,
But it seemed no matter which plants i was buying
I couldn't get that first /rush/ again.
My flower seeking urge was becoming so great
I'd been buying in secret alone
And sneaking succulents into the trolley
When shopping for food for our home.
What had been a barren grey wasteland
Had become, not the gardens at Kew,
But at least a refreshingly green space
As the plantpots number grew.
They encroached on the path and blocked doorways.
They clawed at passersby.
Honestly if one had demanded Feed Me!
I wouldn't have been surprised.
And I had peace to keep with the neighbours,
Who had nearly lost an eye.
So I took up my secuters in shaking hands, and trimmed them down to size.
I snipped and I sighed, saddened at their shrinkage.
I sorrowfully apologised.
Tidy and tamed they finally are, neatly encased in the corner.
But I can't wait to see the growth of the jungle
When the weather finally gets warmer.
For now I am on the wagon.
No more plants for me.
The pathway is halfway passable
And the fire escape is free.
I might fall off this wagon,
I can't promise I've stopped forever.
But my millenial whining at least has moved on,
To complaining about the weather.





Pedestals

Heed the mob with scythe and sickle,
Burning torches, glassy eyes.
Adoration false and fickle.
Come to cut her down to size.
They invested, they projected,
Told her she could have it all.
And when she did the unexpected
Gleeful forced her graceless fall.
Bind her hands and cut her tongue out.
Mock her struggle to survive.
Hobble her with heartfelt hatred
Sharpen up your spiteful knives.
Parcel out her flesh as pound cakes
Pass around her hacked off hair.
Memorise her worst mistakes.
Burden her with cross to bear.
Be careful when you are beholden.
Flatterers are always liars.
Don't believe your hype or fanbase.
Pedestals are funeral pyres.

Uncomfortable Crown

Stand 6ft back and deliver.
Stand 6ft back motherfucker.
Keep your distance, kill the virus.
We're united as divided.
Stay 6ft back motherfucker!

Hands on flesh and dripping lips
Are distant memories.
Finger tips
are gloved; and inside
red and raw
from soap and scrubbing.
Dry and sore.
Visors fogged with rancid breath.
Dehydration's safest bet.
Under aprons nervous sweat
trickles, tickles.
Don't stop yet.
If not service then you're worthless
and essential's redefined.
It's the year of perfect vision.
See the world through unslept eyes.
Safety now is in division.
Mass graves dug attest this fact.
The way it was was never normal.
That bridge is ash.
There's no way back.

Choices 2; an answer

I've spoken about choices before,
About how
The decisions we make are more
Or less
Than we give them credit for.

I find myself poised to respond
to a rhetorical question i once posed
That I find had limited scope.

Do you want gold, or silver bars on your cage?

 I would never have guessed
That fortress walls and barbed wire fences
Were even an option.
I was unaware that moats could be added,
Crocodiles,  branches of wait-a-while tangles,
A fire! Why not? And those monkeys with wings.
The whole Sleeping Beauty sharp bramble thorn things.

I feel like this wasn't really choice,
That through the cacophony of survival
My low, stammering voice
Got lost. And arrivals
Of heavier burdens to hoist
An unwelcome surprise. 


The Belle of Bulgham Bay

This verdant,  windswept spit of land
Ringed around with golden sands
Tended by MecLir 's right hand
Where magic makes its final stand.
Curlews cries,
Enormous skies,
Phynodderree in poor disguise
Mooinger veggey in Elfin Glen
Preserved til now from way back when.
Cashtal yn Ard, the sacred ground,
Silkies surfing at The Sound.

The lady I'd like to discuss with you now
has been cruelly misnamed as a sea cow,
by sailors sloshed on rationed rum
I'm not sure how else this siren would become
such a lumberous beast. She's more the sea sparra.
She is the Belle of Bulgham Bay, the beautiful Ben Varrey.

Now, memories made
when families play
In millpond waves
on sunny days
Often come at hidden cost,
I mean, how many earrings have you lost?
How many individual socks,
How many flip, but no more flop?

When you've baked your brain you know you can't trust it,
Distracted by sand in your toes and your gusset,
You picked up the spade, you picked up the bucket,
But you always leave something behind.

These tiny trinkets, swallowed by tide,
Make for glorious mermaid finds,
Out at Maughold she's a cave that's filled with wondrous things.
Buttons, brooches, bonnets, buckles; the bounty high tide brings.
She's got spectacles and hearing aids, dentures and toupees
But these oh so personal items are not lost, in fact they're saved.
In the Curiosities of Terra Firma Museum they are all exhibits.
And it's helping to explain some eccentric human habits.
Creatures come from distant oceans to educate themselves
on the ways of the grotesque flesh folk. Entrance costs two shells.
The Belle of Bulgham Bay is rightly proud of her collection
But she keeps a secret stash of her special selections.
In here she keeps the sandals, flip flops,
Workmen's boot, verruca socks,
Toe rings in particular are impossible to resist.
You see, the Belle of Bulgham Bay is a foot fetishist.
It all began when she was young,
Angsty, teenaged, spotty.
She saw a flip flop floating by,
A bit unbleached and grotty.
The imprints of the toes were clear
On polystyrene foam,
Stroked the ridges, mesmerised.
She felt her heart unfold.

So on this verdant windswept spit of land, &
When walking barefoot on the sand
Domt be surprised if a clammy white hand
Reaches out
AND GRABS YOU!!

Collectors

Some people collect stamps.
Some people collect coins.
Some people make air fix models so well
You can barely see the joins.

Some people collect conquests.
Some people collect scars.
Some people collect experiences
during which they see stars.

I've got a new collection,
and not through conscious act.
It's been kind of foisted on me and
I'd rather give it back.
I'll put it in an album,
Neat, protected, labelled, proud
private slice of all the lives
that used to be around.
Past tense.
You see it's all the funeral cards
with photos and songs and poems.
It's hard
to watch the collection grow.
I have no control
over this.
It's not like pokemon cards or vintage picture discs.
They're all limited editions,
all one off works of art.
All threads in one rich tapestry
of which we're just one part.
And the pattern that they weave glistens
Crystallised in wisdom.
Passed through timely advice
and an ear willing to listen.
It's not like I can display it.
For flat living it's highly compatible.
For the major part of it,
It's completely intangible.
The cards are merely a symbol:
A trinket in place of a jewel.
One hydrogen atom representing
Each universe of you.
So I'll put them in an album,
neat, protected,  labelled,  proud
and share them with the enthusiasm
of the traction engine crowd.

Some people collect conquests.
Some people collect scars.
Some people collect experiences
during which they see stars.

Some people collect stamps.
Some people collect coins.
Some people make air fix models so well
You can barely see the joins. 

I am Alpha

Every third generation
Comes a swell of population
That is heavily swayed towards the masculine breed.
Their forefathers before them
Only dreamt of time for boredom
Heavy hardships sailing on an ocean of needs.

Now over educated,
And fatally frustrated
By the search for rites of passage in this labyrinth of lies.
Force fed plastic fantasy
Of brutal masculinity.
Expectations uniform imperfectly their size.

Pain is compulsory.  Suffering is optional.
Terror unavoidable, endurance's honour irrational.
Hollow hearted heroes hand on bleak batons of bones.
Absentee role models bequeath medallions of millstones.

Shed your manacles of manhood,
Shake the shroud of conqueror.
Share your weakness to withstand it
Shine love's light as northern star.

Effervescent energy when unused turns to bile
And atrophy follows apathy, in deed, in thought, in style.
To combat putrefaction do not turn to dull distraction
Reframe homegrown heroes in your overactive mind.
You can be a man of action in your human interactions
Without staying isolated and it starts with being kind
To yourself.