A poem written in November 2020, prompted by what exactly I can’t remember; there is truth to a degree in the words, and while this matters not to the reader, a need to expand on the actual facts took hold, from which followed a jaunt across the tobacco industry, teachers always being a-holes, a picture of my favourite gate, cheap snacks, Big Foot, how I used to live in the Lord of the Rings, laughing at my mum (sorry, mum), a real size but pretend Canadian Parliament, the world’s first dinosaur statues, and London’s most popular gorilla.
vs. Poetry
Anxiety
Winter Tree
I didn’t enjoy Christmas. I rarely do. This year had the added ‘bonus’ of me reaching the age my dad died at. I also realised it isn’t Christmas per se that isn’t liked. True, much of it isn’t, like the panic and stress about who goes where and what happens when they’re there, but really it’s that whole time of year weather thing previously mentioned (links below). The meal and all the drinking, any going out and socialising (assuming I can get past the leaving the house bit), I love and can’t ever recall a time of sitting morosely through any of that.
The River Runs Deep
Sometimes to help focus on a chapter I write poetry about it to set the mindset; something to read and get into the swing of things. The following relates to a book currently in the stages of final edit and formatting.
With much thanks to Barna Kovács for the image x
Incontinence Buttocks
Hello. To be fair the experience prompting this verse related to an issue in a front garden, not rear; but you try sourcing an image to match that scenario (much thanks to Monika Kozub for the one used, by the way).
Someone Else’s Towel
I read this to a friend, who in reply said it had a romantic ending; they were either being ironic or totally not listening.
With much thanks to Theblo Wup for the header image.
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Ode to Alexander de Pfeffel
It’s not nice to write mean things about the way someone looks; but I’m not nice, so there.
(btw: much thanks to Pixa Bay for the header image x)
Continue readingFor readers not from the UK, maybe even London: ‘barnet’ is cockney for hair.
Enough
Potentially the unhappiest happy ending ever
SCREEN
Welcome to a world of cruel dystopian colour; a place where the wills of people are crushed to smithereens while they writhe, screaming and yelling, for more-more-more, please; a realm of defecating into giant reverberating chambers that regurgitate it all as an intellectual sustenance gleefully chowed down on with great gusto and—mmm . . . yummy—appetite.
Continue readingThe Tree of Love
I thought (assumed) it would be straightforward enough to find a picture of a tree to match the image written of below. No. Not a single image capturing the forthcoming description; the closest being one alone on a horizon looking horribly like the default desktop image for Windows XP.
It was the height of summer and the tree in question stood on a small bushy bank, rising tall and well above the hedge below. Its leaves were so plentiful and lush that not a hint of branch was visible—an aspect integral to the below—despite being able to see sky through the odd gap here and there. The sensible thing would’ve been to take a picture of my own, but in resisting the march of the smart phone, I’ve had to use an photo—lovely, it must be said—that doesn’t match the image conveyed.
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N. P. Ryan 