Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Bus Has Crashed. All We Do Is Sigh.

An ideas man with no ideas,
incensed by common sense,
setting off down the path of procrastination and showy distraction,
because doing anything of actual value would be an abomination.

Obscenely out of his depth and out of touch,
tough on nothing but the nerves of the rest of us,
a sycophantic sock puppet for the same old solutions, that have never solved his many problems.

He has an idea,
that he borrowed and bastardised,
stripping the sheen from it until it is dry, tarnished branches on the ground,
and he points with a smile,
waiting for us to be amused and amazed,
but it never happens.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Boris Johnson Is Losing His Mind, and I Love It

Messy, maladjusted man,
clinging to his chaos,
confused at how his yes men could suddenly say “no”,
never knowing what the word meant,
lamenting on the lack of loyalty from the cyclone of snakes he surrounded himself with.

How could this be happening to him?
How could anybody do this to him?
He howled at a locked door,
laughing in the hidden face of fate, and the shadow it casts underneath the frame,
how it grows as the knocks notch up,
reminiscent of his bedpost.

He naps throughout the night on a bed of knives,
dreams full of dashed hopes and the danger of reality.
It is over,
but he bellows at time,
barking orders at the passing hours but never satisfied by their response.

It is over,
but he is still clinging to his chaos,
pleading with his power to stay,
with a soft kiss and a promise to change,
just like he gave to every one of his wives,
with a sweet smile and a mouth full of lies.

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.