WaTer element

FiRe element

EaRtH element

AiR element

WRAPPERS

The C.E.O. of W.R.A.P. welcomes members of the W.R.A.P. (formerly R.A.P. and W.A.P.) to this E.G.M. to discuss matters arising from the W.R.A.P. interim meeting concerning changes to the constitution. Members, to be forthwith addressed as WRAPPERS, who SMS’d A.S.A.P. will have already received the agenda comprising A.M./P.M. items. The P.R. to the P.A., currently in the E.U. investigating U.F.O C.C.T.V. footage on borrowed V.D.U.’s was unexpectedly detained by the M.O.D. following BBC and ITV broadcasts in which he appeared to be pointing an AK47 at the sky while driving a TVR S2 shouting, “Guns don’t kill people WRAPPERS do” and emptied a large waste paper basket of fruit salad wrappers onto the kerbside. Consequently we are unsure of the P.R. to the P.A.’s E.T.A. but will press on.
It has been brought to the C.E.O.’s attention via a memo entitled ‘F.A.O.: C.E.O. from the A.A.A.A. - (Association Against Acronym Abuse)’ stating that the A.A.A.A. board of directors categorically object to the overuse of acronyms by the WRAP in WRAPPER broadcasts and lyrical promotional material and they use the following e.g. “Rolling a C by the MTV aint for the likes of me, in my PCV, don’t need no smokes, tripping with the turkey tinsel brigade hits my OCD like a BLT and a G&T…”
Therefore the first proposed change in the constitution relates to item E-40: “Where possible use abbreviations to make best use of word count” to be amended to “Write wot u goddamn like, u is a wrapper and aint no constitution gonna mess wid r heds or make us squeal to the feds, big up the word count, ho ho ho, like it xmas daddyo.”
All those in favour shout ‘Booyakasha’.

a wordle of my blog

Is it? Did we? What?

Is it underwater? Like me, like my lungs?
Suffocated with the promise of change.
Is it Libya? Syria? Afghanistan? Egypt? Bahrain?
Are we at war? We are war. Backwards raw.
Clapping in the heroes, the dead, the roadside bombed.
Earthquakes shake-shake. Flood. Contaminate.
Did we know ‘tsunami’ when we built our sandcastles?
Did we care about a budget deficit when ice cream vans patrolled our park?
Caution sniffs pheromones in airport queues–eyes search out scented words like ‘insurgent’ and ‘improvised explosive’.

Then there’s God.

For these natural events read:
Volcanoes erupting as holiday plans scuppered.
Cyclones as senators battling for votes.
Earthquakes as infrastructure re-build.
Tsunamis as nuclear meltdown.
This illusion will drown us all. Landslide us. Tsunami us.
Wipe us out.

Discuss.

Topical Veg

The Spaniards were heard to complain:
"You Germans are quick to lay blame..
Don't dis our pepinos
you're making us so cross,
Go check out your sources again!"

Invitation

I’ll let the tide come to me
wrinkling its skin and curling up
the beach with its whispering voice
giving me a tongue lashing with it’s
thirst quenching, gut wrenching bulk
pushing up pebbles and flotsam and sand
looting the lugworms burrows with salty liquor
shouting move back - move back - make way
covering the dips and hummocks of the shore
making it flat once more, kicking down castles
and moats, providing a mooring for boats and
fishermen’s floats, I’ll let the tide come to me
licking and creeping to my toes and I’ll let
its nose sniff me out like a dog wanting its tea
I’ll let the tide come to me while I sit ashore
watching and wanting the water to wash
like a brimful of hope from an ancient sea
cleansing and healing the devil in me
I’ll let the tide come to me

bonfire

She left a note to say
Bonfire material in the porch
If you like.

Cold chills crept through the cat flap,
As sly as winter itself
Keeping me captive.

Afternoon dampness subdues my mood
I do not venture out today
The fire can wait.

I anticipate tomorrow’s flames
Licking at my face
Drying my cheeks.

Morning sunlight pierces hollow clouds
Two matches ignite the paper shreds
Slow smouldering teases the leaves.

You lift the edge with a stick
Breathe life into the gaps.
Deep orange cleanses my mood.

Twilight now. I look out through glass
Ignoring the smoke signals.
Remembering heat and our mittens.

awaiting Prince Charming

Princes have washed hair. Their horses smell of fresh hay
and roots of cowslip. They will lift you with one arm about
your waist and gallop towards a cinnabar sunset.
Birdsong and crisp air prevail in this fairytale.
I’m still waiting for the distant coconut shell of hooves
and waft of shampoo.

After your day of fishing

as we danced you told me
about your day, the breakfast
the people and the sausages

we waltzed on the carpet
hands held then you twirled me
about you, the tv on but we talked

and I could smell the scent of lake
and catch on your cheek
as we danced in the living room

you kissed me on my cheek
told me you loved me more
our end to the day was complete

with you dancing the minutes
knitting it back together
with hands and feet and lips

Martyrs Hall

Mad as graffiti, a smile, a poem,
a death among plastic flowers.
Gold embroidery, a defiant flag
unwaving, entombed, defended.

Mad as signatures, as visitors,
filled books, filled eyes.
Mad as love, as graves
as pictures, as guns.

Mad as good, as bad;
a museum, a mausoleum.
Mad as a bedroom recreated,
as shoes, as a civilian suit.

Mad as a tyrant’s tomb;
a carnival of collected nostalgia.

Mad as war, mad as men.

Wasteland

High rises wired up, connecting flex.
Channels and lines and lives and sex.
Hidden vices; crushed cans; stubbed out fags;
compact disc wastelands; smog; perspex.

Burnt up forests, bulldozed flat.
Arteries swimming in chip fat.
Dial tones waiting for numbers not names.
Dumped fridge freezers, sofas, the cat.

History buried, carpeted in cement.
Layered noises, voices, false sentiment.
The rims of styrofoam cups nibbled flat.
Builders yard tyre tracks, a cancelled event.

Man-made; disposable, unclean, misused.
Raiding the piggy bank for penny chews.
Sold out. Burnt out. Pent up. Lost.
Make up applied on last nights bruise.