What are you doing?
Not much. Sitting.
Oh
Yes?
I wrote a poem about feet
Feet?
Yes. Seemed like a
TREAT?
No. Too obvious. Just a way to avoid defeat.
What are you doing?
Not much. Sitting.
Oh
Yes?
I wrote a poem about feet
Feet?
Yes. Seemed like a
TREAT?
No. Too obvious. Just a way to avoid defeat.
If I was to squeeze
your foot
like a tube of toothpaste
the insides would come out
a podiatry pate
from the big toe
But
I wouldn’t clean my
teeth with it
the taste
of foot in mouth
being all wrong
Zoom. Did you notice, the sound of the year rushing past, speedier than ever as you sit watching the television from the safety of a lockdown sofa?
We are, apparently, still at war with the Corona virus. An enemy that we can’t see, and that many seem to assume as an inconvenience not to be taken seriously. It gets in the way of the drinking and *being crowded together* that is so much more important than spending a month not moving anywhere.
The cat circling
mine and your legs
begs
Food, please
shouting with
eager purrs, and
then
a view of its tail
“Campaign” against misused quotation marks
F*ck Swearing
In the spirit of success, I have spent the morning extracting wood filler from the aforementioned doors, as the residual holes look better than discoloured filler.
Perhaps this is just like life. Be yourself and embrace everything, rather than looking artificial with an attempt to fit in.
Tears return
as we all will
to the ocean
Look ahead, and
the future erases the now
in two hundred years
these words
and
the many that have
surrounded them
will be lost, memories only
to dead lovers
friends and acquaintances
a lifetime past and
forgotten
Always under your feet
He died as he smoked as he lived. Passively.