Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Comic Sans

I saw that the tories had done an ad,

in comic sans,

and honestly,

I fucking lost it.

We are truly in the comic sans timeline.

I guess everything is funny,

classic Dom,

classic Boris,

classic cunts,

not giving a fuck,

that while they play games,

the pawns and pieces are begging for just one day,

just one day,

when the alleged grown ups,

outgrow their dungarees and dumb games,

and get to business.

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It behoves me to tell poor Brenda,

that an election is apparently imminent,

because our politically impotent prime minister

has thrown his toys,

his majority,

and his brexit deal out of the pram.

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Trump has finally learned to shut up,

silenced by the testimony,

at his impeachment enquiry,

but alas,

he’ll probably find his voice,

and his twitter password shortly.

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Millions marched,

of all races and classes,

for the planet,

and a people’s vote.

Trains and veins were bursting,

with excitement and frustration,

as for a few seconds,

each person thought,

for their own reasons,

that maybe their voice was visible after all.

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Some stuff probably happened in sport,

but I mean…

unless it comes from……….Rebekah Vardy’s account,

it’s irrelevant.

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Director after director droned on and on,

about how Marvel films are shit,

screensplaining to the plebs

about what they should be swallowing at the cinema.

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Franco is finally fucking off from The Valley Of The Fallen,

and hopefully what’s left of his corpse

will end up in a bin,

in an independent Catalonia.

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Life is truly written in comic sans,

and we are bobbing along the banter timeline,

but every now and then,

more and more these days,

something happens,

that is scarier than anything Halloween could hand us.

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Such as,

39 people,

seeking a better life,

saying goodbye,

and getting a cold reply,

from a nation that dares to call itself great.

“Where were their visas?”


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Thoughts On Writing, Writing

Sant Jordi

We pretend that we aren’t swayed,

but we still stay in awe of the twenty four hour magic,

the way everybody smiles just a little bit more,

the electric in our fingertips,

as we hold hands,

(just in case we get lost, definitely NOT because we are in love),

we go about the day,

slightly sailing through the air.

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You gave me a single crimson rose,

while I signed my soul into seventy seven books,

ignoring you,

from my book fair booth,

but still looking up every few seconds,

to check you were still cutting back in line,

to get my attention.

Just a single crimson rose.

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You are a waste of my time,

and a waste of my words,

or so I told myself,

as I signed my last book,

making it out to the waste I loved most in the world,

I singed my soul,

in black ink,

branded on the book I wish I didn’t write about you.

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As night fell,

the day dancing down the street,

and out of sight,

you were still in line, all alone,

with your single crimson red rose,

not seeming to understand why it wasn’t enough,

for a girl who gave a gift,

that would last forever.

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You held the sharp stem in your hands,

so tightly that you bled,

crawling onto the table of the booth,

under the soft, spring moon,

to declare to the town,

(that didn’t really care),

that you would grow me a garden of roses,

if I would stay and watch you grow.

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I watered you,

from my eyes.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, politics, Writing

Touristification

You are a tornado.

We took you into our arms,

but you spin out of control,

and tip trouble down your throat.

Por favor, no grites tan fuerte.

Our streets weep,

at your devastation,

as you scream at us,

in English,

as if it will magically translate,

the louder you become.

Deja de beber tanto.

As you roar through us,

we stand beneath you,

to catch the coins you drop,

so we can repair our pride.

El carrer no és un vàter.

We have to tell you in English,

because you won’t learn anything,

that isn’t in your phrasebook.

Encara sóc aquí.

Please, do not yell so loud.

Stop drinking so much.

The street is NOT a toilet.

I’m still here.

This was our home.

Esta fue nuestra casa.

What did you do,

on your summer holiday?


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