Guddling

Trash! Smash balderdash,

Gibberish, all mish-mash,

Masquerading as the news.

Fiction, facts, we’re owed the truth.

Pish! Posh, all that dosh,

Dishing dirt, a load of tosh,

Captivating, cunning plan,

Doled out fodder for wee man.

Big man runs the well-oiled wheels,

Sleight of hand, we watch, he steals,

Steam, press, turn, depress with force,

One-sided justifies divorce.

Free to question, new release,

Biased brethern, big bro’ pleased.

Watch little man as he cuts chains,

Asking why, alive again.

Hubble, bubble, all this trouble,

Got our countries in a guddle.

Ickle, tickle, brand new hatch,

Easy-peasy, stand by, catch.

Fishy fish, caught with intent, by

Fishermen with hearts well meant.

Then we can fry them with some garlic and a lovely lemon zest. Hmmhmm. Smack!

 

Oy Vey!

Been and gone and done it today.

And freaking ever so slightly, if I may.

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Maybe more than a bit. Well, hey

Flying by the seat of my pants. A chancer, some say.

The brave, the bold and the helluva cheeky.

Taking a chance anyway.

What the feck! What the hell, eh?

Might mean I have to shut up a bit here in some days.

Sorry, what was that? How very dare you! I say.

And it’s not even gonna be poetry, Oy Vey!

 

Neither was this right enough…

Might sicken your happiness though and just come on to bug you now and again. 🙂

 

Is it possible to shit a brick? Just wonderin’, as is my way.

 

 

Melting Pot

The hurting, faceless ones pored over others’ souls in words, amended intention, applied lessons and rewrit the gospel. According to one. Nuances of understanding merged, reformed, reborn. Succouring to union, unknown aim but concordant with ancient wisdom, the melting pot simmered, cauldron of broken limbs and hearts. Stirred by empathy, the magic began. Fluorescent shimmers, greens and purples, yellows to cobalt, metallicised oral blood letting. Tasty on palate, savoured as life in the raw. Sipped from runcible, penned with ink, tapped into life on a keyboard. Faceless, not voiceless, they charmed new life in bubbles no one could burst. Evanescence materialised by the many.

A Good Citizen Now

It is so good to feel the pain now and be recognisant of its source. Every stabbing flesh wound and mental piercing takes me back to the Day of Great Awareness. Everything before then is now a nightmare of nothingness and unknowing, an abysmal non-life centred around their planned illusory calm; a place and time where innocence and ignorance reeked vapid. Those sugar-coated pills issued for protection are flushed now, winding round bends designed to confuse and obliterate the facts. The fact now is I’m alive to their game. Now that I know the rules I intend to break them all. Like a good militant citizen.

Tell Me About It

A plough drags stars across firmament’s field,

Occasionally drops one, so Heaven may yield

A soul on the earth that once lit up the night,

Now cascades brightness and life-giving light.

 

Tell me about it, these magical ways,

How earth meets the heavens and wonder portrays.

Tell me about it in songs that you sing,

In stories once written to entertain kings,

In poems and in quotes that entertain all.

Tell me about it, these words so enthral.

 

A trawler drags nets through oceans and seas,

Harnesses life from the depths to release

A multitude of dreams and millions of wishes

Of a world where mermaids live, conversing with fishes.

 

Tell me about it, these magical ways,

How minds mingle with folklore and nights become days.

Tell me about it in pictures and books,

In animations and films I once mistook

As reality melded with poetic allusion.

Tell me about it, wondrous dreams of confusion.

 

A jet drags clouds from Olympus’ peak,

Reveals gods and goddesses playing chess and who speak

To a world of mere pawns in a royal array,

Defending battles that rage, all part of the play.

 

Tell me about it, these magical ways,

How heaven, earth and oceans intermingle in plays.

Tell me about it, the comic and sad,

Tragedies and fantasies, some semblance of mad

Influence from lunar, the tricks of the mind.

Tell me about it, we’ll seek and we’ll find.

 

 Garner your dreams, let spirit drag

Through mind, soul and ether, all memories you’ve had.

Mix the concoction as a magical potion,

Spread it on thickly, full of flighty emotion.

 

Tell me about it, I love all that stuff.

Of flight, love and fantasy, never enough.

Tell me about it, imagination unfold,

In mind and in spirit may we never grow old

Though in body we rest as the years take their toll.

Tell me about it. Dreams are our goal.

Verbosity.

Is that even a word? Of course it is. I checked it. You don’t seriously think I would use a word that was made up by me?

Definition

I paraphrase.

One who finds it difficult to get to the point without describing everything.

Example:

I met a woman down the street today who was pushing a pram. It was a lovely pram; full of beautiful colours and challenging activities for her offspring.

OK. Maybe not that, exactly. But you get the idea.

For some reason, my husband is not interested in the particulars of a case but insists on knowing the point immediately. As in, ‘What’s the point to this story?’

It pisses me off big time.

OK. I’ve got a boring story to tell. Please let me embellish it so that it sounds as if I have a life.   

Is this a man thing?

Or, maybe, ‘Oh God, I’m boring the arse off the world,’ kinda thing?’

Most women I know like to embellish the finer points of a story and do so in an entertaining and self-effacing sort of way.

They make the boring sound entertaining because they observe the details.

Unfortunately, a lot of men do not appreciate the finer details.

‘Get to the bloody point, woman,’ is what they’re really thinking.

I am horrified at this idea. The very notion that a story worth telling is stunted in its prime.

Except for one teensy, tinsy observation.

I have listened to and continue to listen to, ‘stories from school’, and, let’s face it, if there was ever anything created that was destined to drive you to distraction and bore you to death is the story of, ‘She said’, ‘I said’, ‘She did’ and ‘I did back’.

That aside, you can usually pass muster with your kids. ‘Oh, did she? That’s awful. What did you say?’

Slightly different story going on here with your nearest and dearest.

So, OK, darling , I’m sorry that the point of all my stories is lost in the minutiae. But, I’ve been here all day wiping the crap off of shitty knickers and trying to come up with a menu that suits everyone, so forgive me if I can’t just ‘get to the friggin’ point’. I’m trying to have a conversation here.  Made up, for your information, of all the drips that go into making the drops of life. I beg your pardon for not holding your attention in some riveting account of the day in the life of….. well, you get the idea.

I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

This, by the way, is a very profound observation.

I repeat, I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

As opposed to?

Sometimes, I don’t know.