confident cat look. Knows their routines. Fills her diary so she knows what gift she receives when and from whom, when bathroom decorated, roof and heating fixed, whose birthday is next. No need for nosy tech that’s smart only for folk as charges you for it. Notes what flowers planted and when. Nothing as smart as pen and paper. Her cats know she knows them well. She can see in dark as well as they. Understands when they speak. She radiates cat nous.
unnecessary meaning when water pelts down and good hearted fetch in your half dried smalls, skirts, tshirts, towels and Daisy Dukes for you to hammer on my porch window aflame with anger that some slavering pervert has nicked your knickers and needs his balls cut off and put against a wall and shot and when I bring them out you snatch them from my hands, glare as if I have abused you, stomp to your door and slam it. No thankyou, how thoughtful. I try and do folk good turns but they infuse my kindness with things I never intended. I hope St. Peter understands when I arrive at his gate.
“Her Tongue Licks An” published in The Creative Cafe. Very grateful Jake.
Originally posted on The Wombwell Rainbow: The Wombwell Rainbow View original post
of cold in heat, heat in cold, light in dark, dark in light, her hand in mine, a single kiss, a thankyou from a woman back bent propped by a stick who crosses in front of a school run car paused though the driver is late and a child in tears and sweat in the heat smiles as an old stranger gives him his baseball cap that he thought lost, a woman who has stripped her sofa, chairs, emptied cupboards, wardrobes finds a fiver in an old coat she swears she’d taken to charity and now she doesn’t need the food bank. A best man finds the ring at the bottom of his pint. , via Daily Prompt: Reprieve
them and me. I am a crafted metal circle. I prefer air rather than skin move through space I surround. Passed from hand to hand, finger to finger. A symbol of unbroken eternity to some, a bondage in metal to others. Lobbed at unfaithful, aggressive, sorely used. Displayed behind glass in hope my glint under artificial light sparks interest. Placed on then removed from the dead. Sold on again in the eternal round of possession.
“Nothing Is Real (For Manchester)” kindly published by Jason in Literati Magazine
close to his, as when he fettled the garden so did she. He dug his borders, she dug hers, cut his grass she did hers. They were polite to one another, said “Good Morning.” She gave him advice on how to change a plug. He admired the tattoos on her thighs. Her boyfriend stood at their open kitchen door with a frown. His wife pointed out weeds he had missed.