I am sitting in a living room, small with well used furnishings.
The tv is on standby, the DVD player blinks twelve o’clock.
On the mantel an old clock ticks.
In my nose resides the smell of polish and coffee.
I read my book.
Between the clock’s ticks there is a gurgle in the pipes, a sound like homely indigestion.
Again a gurgle, then a moan which draws me from my book.
I turn to the radiator as it moans once more, then rattles and shakes, flicking the thin carpet from the floor. The rattling settles and so do I.
I return to my book, noting the odd radiator dance for future reference.
The radiator grumbles again, it’s pipes chattering against the floorboards while the howls of troubled souls from deep within trouble my head.
I wonder, do plumbers do exorcisms?
Out west I holiday, the beach is stunning here,
I feel the soft sand beneath my feet,
crisp white foam dances on the ocean’s rolls of deepest blue,
the cliffs curling many miles away glisten in the sun,
in this expansive idyllic western bay
I return to my eastern beach,
the litter strewn sand keeps the shoes beneath my feet,
sickening brown foam labours over the dank waves,
two hundred turbines foul what once might have been a view,
I turn away from the east, mind drifting to the west.
Driving a hackneyed street
folks mill around to meet and to chat
but never to do a thing
outside a shop selling bicycles, coffee and cake
a young lady writes the specials on a blackboard
the wind flirts with her short flared skirt
just enough to excite
but no more
the light turns green.
Don’t lose your warmfort
It holds you shurmly
Avoid a stinxaticalax
It will pull you to shatterment.