Spill The Beans, ya bugger! Whoever you are.

I have a little problem,

I really got to share,

No, it’s not my weight or work,

I’m good on those and mair.

It’s something else entirely,

You’ll get it once you read,

It’s coping with the volume

Of posts within my feed.

It’s hectic, man, I’m telling you,

I like so many posts,

I comment and I scroll some more,

And read past words, of course,

Like sooking up the flavour

Of a drink that I’ve just found

But time’s a hellish bugger

And it’s hard to get around

To all the mail that drops on floor,

Through virtual letterbox,

I’m trying, gawd, I’m trying,

But I’m telling you, it sucks!

You write too much (yeah, I do too!)

So what’s the answer, please,

Someone must have worked this out,

So go on, spill it, tease

Me with the findings and

I’ll forever be your friend,

How do you cope with volume

Of the mail that never ends?

Is there an app that I can use

That gathers in one place,

The folk I love, can’t do without,

Though never seen their face?

Someone must have sorted this,

All this talent here,

Some creative bugger

More practical than I, I fear.

I know that you are out there!

One of you must’ve found!

Tell me, quick, or I’m deleting!

Or maybe going to ground,

Hiding out till WP apps

Support my needs in ways,

I can answer mail and browse

But still get on with days.

Who are you and where are you?

The answer to my prayer!

Stop hiding out and tell me

How to cope with flair.

If you’ve found the secret

And you want to patent it,

I’ll back you to the hilt, I will,

Just share a teeny bit.

I’m done today, the mail’s still there,

Though through it I have gone,

Maybe if I stopped with talk so much,

It’d be sorted and well done.

Email me or make a post

Or comment down below,

For feck sake, please just share it!

And now I have to go.

I’ve done sod all else today!

A Schoolboy’s Sins

Obsidian eyes

strip colour from his whipped soul,

volcanic centre

pulsing,

pushing,

thrusting

to tensioned skin and beyond.

His haloed aura

shooting sulphorous, searing flares,

purpled haze of rage, a scarlet maze,

nothing muted in violent

whippet thin lips

twsting, ‘fuck you’s’, to all,

his sundry, motley enemy

of stunned football laughter and giggling girls.

Absent abundant charm,

intelligence,

humor,

wit,

gone with his glorious smile.

All this,

in the shortest of longest moments

before the tears,

blind, burning anguish

of a silent voice,

forbidden to reveal

the cost no child will willingly pay.

So silent.

Then violent.

Souls warping nicely for future

atrocities.

Blessed, burnt souls –

the child sacrificed –

on the altar of adult

duplicity, supidity

and,

quite possibly,

the same reasonable rage.

All our sins.