Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Harry and Meghan

She is said to have stolen the spare.
They say she bewitched and ensnared him,
capturing the man who couldn’t be tamed with her hoodoo, voodoo vixen charms,
but the boy was harmed,
hitting out at those who stole his youth,
used up the lioness that bore him and left her to the wolves.

He saw it all.
He sat on his father’s knee,
watching his mother fend for herself,
watching a life he didn’t want begin to build up around him,
brick by brick,
until he was walled into woeful obligations,
serving his nation by shutting up about his discomfort.

The war on “woke” begins,
but he decides that he’s fought long enough.
He falls in love,
finds himself as a family man,
quietens down and plays the game for a while,
but it’s hard to stay and play when the game becomes rigged,
and the bricks that were built around you find their way into the hands of your blood.

Suddenly,
everything she does is wrong.
She is a thief in the night,
and not the right kind of woman for a man like him.
Her actions echo his mother, his father’s lover and his sister,
but somehow, it’s different when it comes from her,
and nobody will admit why,
but the boy knows,
because he knows these people inside and out,
and he shouts out for help,
helpless as he watches another woman he loves wading in the depths of drowning,
a familiar story that formed every nightmare he ever had.

Is it so bad that he saw the future and formed a new path?
Is it so bad that he’d had enough of tough love, tuts of disapproval and the obvious disappointment in his failure to find love among the lilies?
Is it her fault that he faced another hole in his heart, and knew he couldn’t handle it?

A man who runs cannot be stolen.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

God Save The King

I’m sorry for your loss,
but I’m sorry for the loss of a nation’s voice,
and frankly, I don’t know you, so my right to chat shit just means a little more than you do.
Pain is a panicky, prick of a thing.
Perhaps you’re acting out of character,
or perhaps this was who you’ve always been…
Who’s to say?
Not us, obviously,
because our lips are locked up, just for looking like they might make a little trouble.

Everyone likes a bit of trouble, Charlie.
Don’t be such a spoil sport, when we’re all going through such a difficult time.
I appreciate the bank holiday,
and that you’ve decided to grace us with your company,
but you can’t arrest me for admitting that you’re not the centre of my world.

You can always respond by calling me a cunt, if you want. I won’t have you arrested for it, I promise.

A workshy, boisterous blond once said that he couldn’t keep us safe from the plague, because the people of these islands love their freedom,
but it seems that our freedom is only fought for when it allows the state to shrug their shoulders and leave us to die.
If I were to raise my voice above the volume of a mouse’s squeak,
and speak my mind about how much I actually mind being “ruled”, then my alleged freedom comes second to the feelings of a rich but regretful man.

You don’t have to agree, but you can walk on by without letting the rage hit your eyes. You don’t have to make that call, and show us all how little you understand the people you rule over.

God save the King from the reality of his Kingdom.
Keep his eyes closed as he traipses down town centre pavements that house those without homes,
hold his hands over his ears so that he doesn’t have to hear his public as they grieve,
some sobbing for his Mother,
but some, grieving their shot at life,
staring with dread at the weeks to come,
as poverty stalks from the shadows, with dark, cold eyes, and an appetite for everything he sees.

Everyone needs to let off a little steam, Charlie.
We’ve been boiled and beaten down for a decade,
and you’re dressed in your blood diamonds,
getting precious about a bit of dissent among all your fawning and adoring.
Chill out a bit, Charlie.
Nobody likes a crybaby.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Paddington Hears The News

Paddington reads the morning papers with a melancholy smile,
watching Mr Brown make tea in silence.
Gun fire greets the morning sky as it weeps across the capital,
and the bear pulls a marmalade sandwich from his hat,
biting in to the sweet nectar, and all the memories it holds.
He drinks his tea,
remembering his manners and making use of a cup rather than the pot.
Mrs Bird gently pats his head as she passes with a weary sigh,
and he prepares another sandwich, before softly padding through the house and out of the door.

There is a stillness that cannot settle,
interrupted by sporadic sobs on the street.
Bells will be wailing soon,
rainbows have crossed the sky,
and the Daily Mail is desperate to tell the world about a cloud in The Queen’s image.
He joins silent commuters in a busy but quiet carriage,
his paws tightly gripping the handrail until he reaches Green Park,
disembarking and wandering towards the towering gates of the palace.
Slightly crushed by the crying crowd,
he makes his way to the front with a polite smile for everyone he meets,
and he places a marmalade sandwich on the ground, among the arrangements of lilies that lay on the pavement.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Unhappy But Still Glorious

Spring still clings to the ground as it stares up at the leaves, who are able to live without toppling from the trees, for now, because while nothing gold can stay, they are green, for now, gleaming in the early sunlight.

There are flags lining every building, like the leaves line the trees, and as I wait for the Jubilee to come and go, I wonder if Our Liz likes to watch the way the seasons change, as I do.

I started calling her “Our Liz” ironically, and now I can’t stop. She’s not the type of girl that runs through my mind constantly, usually, but I see her everywhere that I go, these days, so into my mad little mind she slips, for a second, and I start asking myself what she thinks of trees and things.

I wonder if Our Liz likes a cider in the sunshine? She’ll be tied up with a long weekend of things I wouldn’t want to do in her place, but I wonder if she’ll steal away for a moment, sipping a cider in the sunshine with a slim lucky strike, as Cliff Richard carries on.

We really are alike but totally different, I’m sure. When we were young, those who loved us called us “Princess” but only one of us got half of the World for their twenty seventh birthday. Still, who can resist the best part of a bank holiday? Maybe she and I will split some spirits?

We both ate free when we were at school. Me, because I was poor, and her because she was rich, but I was rich in borrowed books and ideas that weren’t locked away like her diamonds, so perhaps, even with my house that is humbled by her many palaces, I won.

I read once, in yet another borrowed book, that she loved to learn, but was never allowed to expand her mind in the way her family expanded their empire. I felt some sympathy, but she never had to learn about Mummy skipping meals to make ends meet, so it really was as little sympathy as I could spare.

Now the leaves are green, summer is on the horizon and flags are fucking everywhere. I know little about the woman who stares up from pound coins and puddles that reflect the tempest of decorations. I wander the streets, wondering what goes on in her mind, and what goes on behind palace doors.

Do you fancy some shots, Liz? It is your special day, after all.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Diana

International icon,

you learned to fly, before your time,

missed and mourned,

your sweet smile, savoured,

seen in the rising sunlight,

in the eyes of your Sons.

Reborn at St Paul’s,

you were an angel, on earth,

as all women,

you were worn out,

bound to be everything to everyone,

and like all woman,

you wore a smile,

that same, sweet smile,

as you lit up every Lane your lonely heart landed in.

Princess of a perfect landscape,

longing to live a real life,

to realise the beauty of the valleys and vales,

by staring into them,

as the sunset hits,

and the night is quiet and soft.