Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

When The Party’s Over

Leave the bottle on the bar.
I’ve kicked the can down the road,
tracking its rattles,
trying to hear what lies inside,
but I think it’s just another thing that I don’t want to know,
so you don’t need to know either.

I sleep in shifts,
paranoid and flanked by my sycophants.
My best boy is a sociopath,
nouveau riche narcissist,
talks his shit in a rehearsed accent,
and I’m safe,
because I present him to you, to hate.

I live while the sun shines,
hibernating during hard times and harrowing winters,
the road ahead, red with rust, is not for me,
so here I’ll stay, with slowly sinking bottles,
closed eyes and constantly changing subjects.

I’ll hide behind wars that are not waged in my direction,
excelling in the fine art of obfuscation.
Don’t you know, you’ve never had it so good?
I’m your heartache,
I’m your hate,
but you love me, unconditionally,
in my delusional dreams.

I’m sorry that you feel that way.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

Million Dollar Birthday Fries

You cursed the candles,
their flirty flicker,
like a wicked smile after a lurid laugh at your expense.
The cake was like cardboard,
choked down with a cold glass of sick,
as celebrations go,
that one was… kind of shit,
but you scraped a smile onto your face during the family zoom call,
hoping the walls didn’t echo too much and reveal the big secret.

You made a show of unwrapping gifts,
so your parents wouldn’t know how quickly you were unravelling,
how sick you had become of the same cycle of hours,
how you could barely keep up the charade for the camera,
but you made it,
waving and smiling until everybody had left the call and given you quiet permission to collapse.

It was the unhappiest birthday you had ever had,
so you’ll be glad to know that the government,
who had given you the gift of loneliness and financial insecurity were celebrating themselves in what I can only describe,
dear reader,
as a never ending festival of fuckwittery.

Colin the caterpillar crawled across a desk,
throwing up smarties and sambuca as Dylan the dog sniffed around the sandwiches.
Special advisors had a billboard time, breaking swings and slides,
and atop it all,
the Mad King, unfortunately topless,
swung his tie around his head,
jumping from desk to desk like a poor man’s King Kong,
as his Fay Wray found herself planning their next holiday on the people’s expense.

It all makes sense,
when you think about it,
our sacrifices are just sustenance for the snakes that slither through big houses, admiring the tacky wallpaper.
The police stab their eyes out with their truncheons,
and the Prime Minister wipes his soiled lips on reports into his own conduct,
and you?
You sit alone,
tormented by the turmoil of a day that seemed to last forever,
longer and longer with each second.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

The Mad King Misses The Mark

The mad King slept like a baby,
in fits and starts with intermittent interludes of sobbing.
The letters were coming,
red ink and wax seals,
sealing his fate,
as the drum beat of battered desks ran out through Westminster.
Betrayal was cold and congealed in his mouth,
forced down by the friends he had kept close,
and the enemies he had sewn to his side.

It was all over,
no matter how many fingernails he broke,
clinging to a broken, bloody dream.
Brick by brick,
the boy who became King will be broken down by his own believers,
thrown over Westminster Bridge into the fast, forgiving waters of the Thames,
while they gather around a new dream.
It is all over.