Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Jesus Christ’s Seventeenth Birthday

By the age of seventeen,
Jesus had gotten sick of his Birthday.
The cake was okay,
and the presents had improved since the days of the stable,
but every birthday took him closer to an impossible task,
something he didn’t feel able to do.

It’s a bit much to wake up on your birthday,
and realise you’re supposed to save the world.
Just a boy,
jumped on by all the world’s sin,
sent to sink it into his skin,
and destroy himself for the damned,
so that they could be clean again.

It hung heavy over him,
the heaviest whenever anyone said “Happy Birthday”,
because it reminded him that his life would be short,
and he should treasure each second,
counting down each slice of cake and wrapped up wonder,
wondering if they’d be his last.

His parents had scrimped and saved to get some secondhand tools,
so that he could start work,
but he had started to ask himself what the point was,
when he wouldn’t make it past thirty,
but still,
he sacrificed,
smiling and giving his best grateful hug,
because sacrificing was that little lamb did best.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Wrap Her Up And Put Her Under My Tree

I deny myself three times, before the sun has even got her slippers on.
It is Christmas Eve,
and I am beside myself,
down by the river,
I stare at the spirit that inhabits my skin,
and I throw rocks at her until she ripples and fades.
There is tinsel in my hair and torment in my heart,
because all I want is denied to me,
too big (and too obvious) to be hiding under my tree,
and I just wrote a record about Christmas love,
so now I’m lost in my Christmas loneliness.

I could have company.
I could have a warm body to wake up to,
it’s just a few swipes away,
but I’m running away from quick answers,
because I don’t like quick,
I want consequential,
I want something life changing,
and I wished on a star, so I know that it’s coming,
I just have to do my waiting, but…

Waiting is a solitary activity,
waiting leads to wondering,
and wondering ends in self loathing,
and before you know it,
I’m loading up a long list of reasons why I don’t deserve to be loved,
like the girls in my Christmas songs.

I guess I’ll wait,
and I guess one day, she will greet me,
like the feeling of waking up on Christmas morning, when you are still young enough to do so without being cynical,
and the joy will join each inch of my bones.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Comrade Santa

It was the night before his most important night,
and Santa could tell that something wasn’t right.
He had checked off his list,
he had checked it all twice,
he had checked the sleigh’s brakes and got travel advice.
He had been to the gym,
he had kissed Mrs Claus,
he had wrapped the elves’ presents,
and walked his snow dogs.
All that was left was to sleep before his shift,
but Santa had a feeling there was something he’d missed.

The children were waiting,
and the year had been a waste,
so Santa was ready,
Santa was on the case,
but there was an itch,
not on his beard or his knee,
something niggled at Santa,
something haunting and deep.
He stared in silence at the toys,
wrapped up in red paper and bows,
jigsaws and trains, teddy bears and dolls,
and he knew, that no matter how many presents he stuffed down the chimney with care,
it wouldn’t be enough to last the whole year.

The children were grateful,
the children were good,
but their parents were queueing at churches for food.
Work had dried up,
wage packets were small,
but every parent did their best to push through it all.
Santa stared at his wealth,
his Christmas Day feast,
the pile of gifts for Mrs Claus,
and he felt like a beast.
Even though he gave each year,
he still had so much more,
cheques from Coca Cola sponsorships,
and gingerbread on every door.
He’d give on Christmas Eve,
but there was more to be done,
so he set out a plan,
to have some Christmas fun.

On Christmas Eve,
Santa took to the skies,
showering every child with toys,
sending stars to their eyes.
He ignored his divisive list,
merciful to the “bad kids”,
and decided, instead to punish someone who really deserved it.
With his sleigh on the roof of all the richest men,
he snuck down the chimney and took out a pen,
he left each a note, after dipping into their wallets
“You’ve got too much cash, and you don’t really need it.”
Then back off he went,
back to each poor child’s home,
leaving twenties and fifties everywhere that he roamed.

The Musk’s and The Bezos’ cried out on Christmas morning,
but the police could never find a trace of a break in,
because Comrade Santa had been careful and clever,
red suited Robin Hood with gloves made of faux leather.
Every year after he played this extra role,
taking from the selfish and giving to the proles,
because he knew that unlike him, trickle down economics was fake news,
and that he had a duty to save poor kids from the blues.