My tail is
wagging and I
can smell something
which maybe
is my own arse

Noises from off, and I bark
and wag
and bark
whilst she or he breaks sleep

My favourite time of the day

I scratch at the door but no-one answers
so I circle and then sit, and
and start to think about my life

My favourite contemplation

Till eventually – and ever so
exciting – they come in and
see me and i jump and they pat me
and then he leaves and she pours

and again

and then i jump again
because its my favourite part of the day
and she sits with me and
strokes my head and
tells me everything

And as it
goes on
today as before
I think that
maybe they don’t have
a favourite in their day

3rd week of the holiday

21 days after the first meeting with the Colonel, I found myself astride his still warm corpse, the beaten heart ripped from his chest and held aloft as a cheer leader holds a pom pom. Those about me gave noises of appreciation, but the loss of this once great man made me sick to my stomach, a wretching worstened by the inevitablity of his decline.

Wednesday sees the dustmen powdering the road. The noise of the lorry wakes me and, as usual, I have to run outside to place the bin on the pavement else it will be missed.

This morning it is heavy, and groans as I tilt it towards me and bounce it down the steps.

I open the lid, and look inside, forgetful of what rubbish I have collected over the past week, but confident enough that none of it should be shouting at me.

The bin seems empty to its depth, but darker than normal inside. And deeper.

That’s strange, I think to myself. I can smell sulpher, and the cries when the lid is flipped open seem to be those of tortured souls. I wonder, briefly, whether Guantanamo Bay has been relocated to my wheely bin, but it seems unlikely, as there are no protesters nearby.

No option, then, but to leave it out for the lorry and see what happens. I only half hope that it won’t empty out the contents of hell outside my house, but its a risk that I take, not having yet had a coffee or being properly awake.

Never finished

It was the the first late evening with
transport dragging us apart.

I have to go.

Existence summed, then
but no matter for
we can all ignore the deterministic

It was lovely.

Holding and close
lips touch for the first
a new journey.

I can imagine the discussion between God and the Devil over who should have the souls of the Chuckle Brothers.

To me.
To you.
To me.

And so on, until eternity is over.

Why are people so against TV?

Seriously. I know there’s a lot of crap on there, but it seems that people are happy to knock TV as being worthless, per se, where they don’t make the same generalisations about other media – films, poems, writing, and the like. Its something that has interested me for a while, and generally, I think, reflects on the part of the opinionator a lack of clear thinking. TV as a whole is no more worthless than any kind of art or story telling form.