LEMON SQUEEZY Easy! Slow right down stop. Think, pick up the pencil re-write what you quote, unquote wrote. That's right! And what you've just written, will be, cliche, all right on the night. Or so they tell me, easy! 080797
written for Read Write Poem Collage prompt I used all the given titles and represented them as American sentences.
MARRIAGE CAN LAST What Sylvia meant, what letters are made of next door to Dorothy.
This isn’t a poem, say thanks that the money hasn’t gone somewhere else.
How the biscuit breaks, Miss America hot blueberry afternoon.
The musical a rare double bass and silver flute bones against clay.
Minneapolis skyline, insoluble essential minerals.
Splash of colours on dirty scraps of paper, this is my map of you.
The crows at Stirling castle, dinosaur bones, loving warm and gentle.
Degrees of separation, or how she moves softly are what remain. 030109
Written for Monday Poetry Train Revisited CHRISTMAS NIGHT 1993 It was Christmas night about fifteen years ago I didn’t shout help. I didn’t have a phone heating water or electric in that squat. It was flummin’ freezing that night just like it is right now ice and snow. The last candle had died and I had no matches left to make a fire. I pulled the newsprint blanket over my head and tried to get some kip. But there was no sleep to be had that night in that old ramshackle gaff.
The rats and roaches put paid to that and then there was one massive crash. I looked through the crack in the boarded up window, it was just some drunks. They were kicking empty crates on their way home from the rub-a-dub-dub. Smashing them against the steel shuttered shop fronts on the parade outside. They staggered on shouting and swearing and soon they were out of my view.
As I watched another character came by, a Rastafarian. A blanket over his left arm and clutching a brick in his right hand. Without a second glance old Dreadlocks dashed the padlock off the shutter. Rolling the freezing cold steel cover up to reveal a plate glass door.
Like a bull at a gate he charged with the blanket placed over his head. Leaving a Rastafarian shaped hole in what used to be the door. Just a few seconds later, he came skipping out onto the cold street. He was carrying a heavy blanket, full of cigarettes and booze. He had already disappeared out of sight when the alarm went off. MSC301208
My friend Anthony North at Beyond the blog! has passed on the following Reader Award:
Rules: Pass it on to five other bloggers, and tell them to open the nearest book to page 46. Write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next two to five sentences. The closest book, not the coolest, or the one you think will sound the best. THE CLOSEST.
The closest book to my desk is called I'm Saying Nothing by Eric Topp ISBN 1-903160-07-3. Eric was a friend of ours from the Manchester Writers Group, sadly he died when he was 34 having completed thirteen novels. Three of them are in this collection.
"Nice to hear from you, can't hear you, sorry. Bye!"
There is an earthquake: I thought it was imaginary, a sympton of my over indulgence. But actually it's Janine, slamming cupboard doors.
"Shit!" She goes, "Shit, shit, shit!"
Please don’t feel pressured to take part, I'm not going to pass this on to you, but you can have a go if you like!
Hey Anthony, I'm putting a link to you in my sidebar because I'm sick of looking you up all the time...
