Thick, tree branch hair
groping along my pale arm.
Gentle snoring as she’s unaware
that I pat her softly with my palm.
Slightly nuzzling up to me,
forehead easing onto my chin.
Eyes closed, she cannot see
my slack mouth start to grin.
The happiest moments of the day
are when love can alone awaken.
Together we can find the way
that’ll leave neither of us forsaken.
I anxiously wait
but in the morning I’ll know
my ultimate fate
and the direction I’ll go.
On Earth it’s decided,
and that is a shame.
I’ve spurned a chance provided
in the greatest of games.
Although all is not lost,
for I could yet ascend.
My soul has a cost;
but, God, money to spend.
And if He’s out of pocket,
then I’ll go straight down to Hell.
Please wear my face in your locket
once I’ve swung like a bell.
For now I am calm
dear, as in the morning we’ll know.
I will no longer harm
here, or in the place I will go.
Rough sands of the West
blew across the frontier.
100 miles to the town but
Miss Prescott was unclear.
She said, ‘how much further
until we start to see
the evergreen mountains
of this Galilee?’
Dumb Tim the coachman,
who usually signed,
spoke a few words back:
‘the trees are behind.’
Gesturing his finger
towards far off hills,
that’s when Miss Prescott
first got the chills.
She’d always been weak
since she fell in the river,
but something in the distance
too made her shiver.
Distant, craggy rocks
moved up and down,
yet it was not the Earth churning;
it was an Indian crown.
Still the convoy went onwards
as no one had seen
the danger on the horizon
or what it may mean.
The calling got louder
the closer they came,
and Coachmaster Morgan
called out her name.
‘I love you Miss Prescott
so please promise me this:
once I dispatch of these Indians
we’ll share marital bliss.’
Miss Prescott was stunned
and knew not what to say.
The heightened sounds of the warriors
led her to pray.
‘Oh please protect us, Lord,
from imminent doom.
For I am too young
to lie in a tomb.’
Morgan charged off
on his standardbred, brazen.
About 20 men followed
the sight was amazing.
When both parties met
at the base of the canyon,
the fighting was fierce
and made not a champion.
Dumb Tim drew the wagon
up to the dead men.
Miss Prescott jumped out
and cawed like a hen.
Coachmaster Morgan
was spread on his front.
Shot like a buffalo
pursued on a hunt.
All over his body
arrows stood tall.
Some of the folks whispered,
that he was dead on the fall.
Miss Prescott turned him over
and looked in his eyes.
She could tell that his death
had been a surprise.
‘Please know that I thank you
as we can now go
and proceed to the West
whence money shall flow.
I really did not want
a proposal or marriage,
regardless of whom,
would steer that wedding carriage.
So I was being honest
when words whipped you like leather.
I meant what I said:
‘Not now. Not ever.”
The fried fat smell fizzles as it rises out of blackened pans
and slowly lumbers over to my hesitant nose.
In a shadowy corner I droop a weary head;
thirty minutes of work for this godawful prose.
Yoghurt pots ooze the three-day spoilage
onto the sandstone colour, red-brown table.
Her mother shipped that here special, yet,
for the raising of income, it does not enable.
Crumbs, paint chips and dirt specs are the topsoil
of this dingy, little bohemian flat.
But this is my calling, I demand it of me
To live this way: a poor, miserable twat.
As I trod down the stony steps of St Michael’s church
the heart inside me went to dance and lurch
for never before had such beauty fallen so deep
into the pit of my soul, for which I would keep.
Her black curly hair drew me in, creeping around me like vines on a trellis frame,
it held me so tight and shielded me from the green outside. Her name
squeezed into my mind like rodents through a crack into a communal bin shed.
My whole body was annexed for the purpose of love. My heart, on the frontier, an intimate homestead.
Gazing over ivory white plates, her mum and dad sit astounded and their quizzical looks
hurt us both as we try to explain, through gulps of gravy, and a decreasing number of fucks.
Our bond is ordained from above and with God’s grace, we shall fulfil his word.
St Michael’s stony steps sink and soften to the touch of this love, preferred.
I can’t deal with it anymore. I have invested so much time (and money) into that game series. In the early days (2005-ish), interactive management was breezy and I could mastermind myself to European silverware, top titles and everything below. It’s safe to say that I can’t achieve the level I demand of myself, and I can no longer enjoy the game as I wish to. It is time for me to gratefully walk away from the FM series. Maybe I’ll get into FIFA or some dumbed-down management game I can actually win at least a few games at. The constant defeats in every save have led me to the obvious conclusion that I am terrible at it.
Christ. What a waste of time that all was. The last three or four years, I don’t think I enjoyed at all.
It’s nearly 3am and I’m still wide awake.
This blasted tea keeps arriving before my mouth,
and I’m not sorry about that.
It tastes delightful, probably because it should be forbidden.
This time of the, erm, morning – what would the boss say.
Well, I don’t care, he’s not my guv’nor.
Only when I’m sat on my ass pretending to look busy.
He won’t notice anything tomorrow (today) anyway;
he’s taken another week off – skiing in the Italian Alps.
Isn’t he worried about the virus? Why would he be? He hasn’t been when Janice was sick with it.
People like him have always got a plan or a way out.
Perks of being management I guess – ‘rules for thee, not for me’.
He’d be having a tea right now.
Bollocks, he’ll be having three. Three big ‘uns in the Sports Direct mugs.
Needs it after all the Bollinger he bloody got through at Christmas.
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 