Choices

Choices.

We all have to make them.

Which drink to drink.

Which thought to think.

Is this rock bottom

Or nirvana's brink?

Here’s a hint:

                     It's in your hands.

And yet our plans never seem to pan

Out.

Cause we schedule our schemes without talking.

We’re riffing without harmony and walking

When we should be dancing

And asking:

“What do you wanna do?”

I know you get frustrated

When you’re waiting and I’m saying

“I’m not sure, it’s so hard to decide”

But we’re drowning in a sea

Of unnecessarily delineated similarities

Dubious differences,

Invisible to the naked eye.

Distracting.

As wide as a sigh

With the full spectrum of importance

From turquoise

To teal.

Until you don’t know what to feel

‘Cause they’re stealing your freedoms.

Do you want gold or silver bars on your cage?

Choices.

We all have to make them.

Which turn to turn.

Which bridge to burn

Which path to choose.

Who’s respect to earn.

Here’s a hint:

                                It’s your own.

And when you’re thrown from your throne

That you built with blood and bones

Then you’ll have to knot your rope

And start climbing.

Hand over blistering hand.

The shifting sands of others’ expectations

And your own anchor preoccupations

Determine at which strata you plateau.

And although the decisions you make

May be different from his, or hers, or mine

Remember they’re yours,

But they do not define

you.

Choices.

We all have to make them.

Which battle to battle,

Which river to rattle,

Which knowledge to keep

Are we mind or matter?

Here’s a hint:

                                Reprioritise.

And when you try to look past

All the inconsequential shite

Of a world more commercial than pure

Be assured

You will see the ones who choose

Substance abuse over substance

You will see the ones who choose

Long term betrayal over temporary tears

And you will say

“They’ve made the wrong decision”

As if it were your undeniable right to judge them

And begrudge instead of empathise

Instead of recognizing

That the preferences of others are not your responsibility

And your own susceptibility to deference

To a power you perceive to be greater than your own

Is deceiving.

It’s another way to opt out of believing

In yourself

And your ability

To choose.

Wither Strength

These memory-threads, they've seen it all.

With sheer relief I watch them fall.

These tresses teased, consuming time

Created an image that was not mine.

Felt myself wither with the plait of each curl

Replaced with conservatories, patios,pearls.

Lachrymose points of fossilized light

Now passive aggressive and weak in a fight.

Almost as if my spirit was there,

Split at the ends and bleached and threadbare.

Menfolk seem saddened, “I preferred it before”

-          Historically, long and loose signified whore.

We have now the Vogue bob, the post-divorce crop

Meaning strong and professional. It’s a visual full stop.

Which brings me to Samson. I read with fresh eyes

The rewritten truth behind legendary lies.

It could never be seen that Delilah had strength

Or that it diminished as her hair grew in length.

She is painted as harlot, as betrayer, as thief

For disabling a terrorist who fought with mules teeth.

He destroyed a temple, killed thousands of men

But Delilah’s the villain? Pah! Think again.

His weakness for women she clearly exploited,

Earned his trust, passed her time and feigned her enjoyment

Over time introducing new tastes to his diet,

Soya, mint, coriander; she urged him, “Just try it.”

These anaphrodisiacs soon did the trick

And he gaped in dismay at his treacherous dick

As limply it hung there, refusing to play.

Delilah masked joy, knew the wrong words to say;

“What’s wrong with you Sammy? Are you not a man?

I've seen palm dates bigger. You’re reputation’s a sham”

And cruelly she laughed to drive the cut deeper

And insert in his subconscious brain a long sleeper.

Watching him crumble as once more she spoke:

“Your technique is shoddy and your cum face a joke”.

Her mission completed, her own head threads shorn,

Disguised as a man she escaped with the dawn.

To protect his secret and bury his shame

He shaved his own head and passed her the blame.

As excuses for impotence (don’t come) but go

This one is dramatic; distracting; for show.

And sad it is too, that his gore-fest career

Was ended through self-induced rumour mill fear

And not, as you thought, by his shiny bald pate.

Perhaps now a few more of you can relate

To a parable apropos basing your ego

On something as fragile as hair or libido.

And now you should know what’s important instead

Is the beauty and joy that’s found inside your head.

Lena; Jezebel; Amanda; Mail

The mass debates that circulate
On beauty, form and fuzz
Revolve, it seems, on lost esteem
And a bitchy, mean-girl buzz.
Too thin, too fat, too white, too black,
Too natural, too damn plastic.
Comments typed by trolls and beasts
Are cutting and sarcastic.
Don't know 'bout you, but I'm all appalled out.
The drama's made me weary.
There are too many things to scream about
And too few that make me cheery.
A body's a body's a body's a body.
Don't dictate forms and means.
A choice is a choice is a choice is a choice.
Mind your own behind the scenes.
Each of us have our own tastes.
It makes the world amazing.
And beauty is subjective
So stop the rants. Go raving.
Open your eyes, your mind and your heart
Let some fresh delight in.
You'll never know what you could be
Without the shameful spiting.
You get back what you give times three.
That much I know is true.
So give out love. It multiplies
And comes right on back to you.

Rum Goings On

Once upon a rum soaked night
The boy with scars external
Met the girl with scars internal.
Her asbestos heart was set alight.
The scars began to fade.

They shared a quiet privacy
Public personas shed like skins
Intimate darkness lets light begin
A moment stolen in the dawn
Her tarnished soul was saved.

The first in years to know her past.
Midnight black and blue regrets
With all the memories he forgets
The die of loss is long since cast.
With sorrow this road's paved.

Once upon some rum soaked laughter
The girl with scars internal
loved the boy with scars external.
They shared a happy ever after
Brief but pure and sweetly grave.

Malcontented Walrus Man

Somehow he oozes free
from a car designed for a being
a fraction of his mass.
Ego-swollen, he appears to have made
an inescapable life jacket of his self importance.
His tiny, malice-filled head and disproportionately scrawny neck
are the knot on his body's balloon.
He patronises women
while imagining them naked.
Leering at their turned backs.
Sycophantic to their faces.
Bullying and deceitful
he counts tears and anguish as conquests.
I wonder, will he ever taste his own medicine?
Chaos and finger-pointing, gossip and harrasssment.
He does not deserve compassion.

18th Century Man

He is jarring against
the concrete, high street, 60% viscose, quick fix, app twisted backdrop.
He swims into focus-
rough hands, soft eyes, timeless face.
Canvas trousers and half tucked shirt.
Kindly, undistracted, universally caring.
His portal is behind an unremarkable, once well painted, brown gate.
I wonder if he notices when he emerges into this era?
He doesn't seem to.
I wonder is it a portal of the body or the mind?
His bicycle and mother are well tended.
His auburn thatch is not.
Without a single note of irony,
he whistles.

I wonder.
Is it a portal of the body or the mind?