Thursday, 15 November 2007

For those who know or are Alcoholics - this is for you

The stranger who lives in my house

The stab of the screw causing the cork to jettison with a pop.
The crystal ring and slosh as the poison is poured into the glass.
A colour deeper than blood, a fitting substitute to flow through his decaying veins.
He licks his pale lips eager for the taste on his tongue, to feel it in his mouth and body.
The tense raging hunger, need, desire and longing is finally quenched, for an hour or more.

He returns to his chair before the TV, turning it on
With a determined press of a button on the controller that never leaves his table.
The wide screen jumps into life with such colour and energy.
That force has long left his body, no one can remember a time when he wasn’t this way.
The news and weather again and again and again and again.
The global disasters, famines, bombings and corrupt politics flicker
Over his glazed grey eyes, watching the world spin and change.
A world he no longer feels part of, a world he thinks no longer needs him.
All are excuses, reasons, motives, as feeble as the hand that lifts the poison to his mouth once more.
To take one more sip, one more mouthful,
One more glass, one more bottle
Empty as his heart despite the pleading looks of his children,
The tears in his wife’s eyes, all hoping, praying, wishing, waiting,
For him to change.
To be the father that used to laugh, his eyes once filled with happiness.
To be the husband that used to smile, a smile once filled with love.
That man has long since left their home and their hearts.

This is what it has come to; his days spent decaying before the TV,
His body crumbling and withering like the autumn leaves outside.
The poison that is so delightful claiming more of his soul, his spirit,
His mind, his body and his life.
A life he will not fight for.
The man that now sits in my father’s chair is not my father.
Just a reflection, a look alike but empty of his heart.
A ghost that haunts us with misery, sadness, shame and regret.
A perfect stranger that we simply call Dad but acts nothing like him.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

A poem written by a Green Enthusiast - me

The view of Storthes Hall wood:

Crumbling autumn leaves,
Crushed beer cans,
Broken twigs,
Shattered glass,
Creeping hawthorn,
Crisp packets empty,
Shimmering sunlight,
Smouldering fag ends,
And battered Blue Bells.

Student’s litter,
Rubbish and trash.
Is putting it in a bin
So much to ask?

In a world where
Being Green is ‘in’.
The least we could do
Is fill up the bin.

An ambiguouse poem: can you guess what I am writing about?

The life and death of Mrs Red:

I return through the meadow fields and cattle herds.
My pace relaxes
Once I feel the shade of trees against my back.
Dead autumn leaves crunch and shatter
Beneath my small delicate feet.
I ignore the odd feather
That floats to the ground behind me
From the chicken
I am bringing home for tea.
Fresh from the chicken shed
At a local farm.
A breeze stirs my coat.
Thick and coloured red. Real fur.

I reach home and I call my children out.
In a rush and tumble they greet me.
Five eager and hungry sets of eyes
Stare at me.
I pluck the chicken quickly.
My mouth salivating over the tender meat.
When it is clean we feast.
The chicken is devoured hastily.
I laugh inside as my two boys play tug
With a chicken leg bone.
One of my three girls rolls
Amongst the white feathers
Spotted with blood and dirt.

They stop. Dead still.
I hear the noises outside too.
I tell them to wait inside.
I approach the door cautiously
To see what visitors approach our home.
An unnatural light hovers over the ground outside.
I hide in the entrance within the darkness.
I don’t like the smell of who is out there.

You see her eyes reflected in the torch light.
You remember finding your chicken shed
In chaos and ruins,
A mess of feathers and blood.
You finger the trigger,
You take the shot.

Thursday, 1 November 2007

Something to remember at Halloween:

A recipe from a Witches Cook Book: Human Haggis

Take one human stomach, empty or full and drown it,
several times, vigorously.
Whilst it drowns take the heart and remove it
srom the blood vessels with a pair of jagged scissors.
Then remove the stomach and lay it on some hot coals,
as the stomach hisses and sizzles cut and slice the gristly bits
of the lungs and finally free the liver from the rest of the corpse.

Add the organs into a large cauldron,
(Preferably the old slow-cooking kind)
to boil and simmer.
Add any spices or herbs if you can find any.
Whilst the other parts are cooking turn the stomach inside out
and line the innards with nettles and slug slime.
(To help the furry side is the outside of the stomach, you want
to make that the inside by turning it inside out.)
Once other organs are boiled to death need them to a pulp
using some dragon teeth.
(Just ignore the fat and blood it all adds flavour.)

Stuff the stomach with the pulp and then use spider leg needles
to stitch the stomach into a full bag with no holes.
Place again into a bubbling cauldron and leave to stew until
the next full moon.

When ready serve upon a lambs jawbone with seaweed
and maybe some children’s toe nails as seasoning.
Give to the Devil and hope he likes it.

The perfect Hallows Eve dish.

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