Thoughts from a shipwreck

Ocean life ignores the iron

desperately holding onto its skeleton, only knowing

another part of bed where prey can hide and predators seek.

Motes of debris sink to the port hole, or where it used to be

before rot came and the coral took root.

The ghosts don’t mind, the deep is quiet

and the pressure a comfort. Here they can rest

far better than their kin in the ground,

away from the irritating buzz of fear.

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City Scape

The cities reflect me as I stand on the edge,

cliff nose to window. They would be castles

in the air, if I didn’t look down

to see the miles below where eyes are open,

ogling until the soil, until the grave.

They have the scent of sweet rot,

that candy cane gutter pile left

for the elves in high viz jackets

(that render them invisible to the streets and suits);

underpaid, overworked, and tired – so tired.

And still those glassy screens profess

fresh lilies, crisp and bred to perfection.

Chocolate Box

And the trees take their last breath

before the mountain gets its luminous dusting for another season.

Below, the village smarts itself up

for photos

taken by every confectioner around

to be stamped on tins and boxes, ready to be discarded

without thought once the consumers have gorged themselves into stupor.

Yet when the year turns,

the people make to sweep away their sluggishness

with good deeds.

The trees reappear, breathing deep, refreshed,

and watch.

And listen.

In the distance, they spot small groups coming together

to tidy and repair.

They hope.

Overture

Evening draws in,

the half-moon observes

your passage home.

Hours drip by heavy,

oil falling in water.

Unmixed, always a separate entity

to those wandering past.

Cigarette butts on the ground

avoiding the traps especially set

on waste bins.

The smell of energy drinks

left on the bus two seats down

marring the truest scent

of night.

Door unlocked, house is silent.

Signs of life everywhere

that need to be tidied before morning.

Before mourning.

Of what might have been.

Not of what is.

The aftertaste of what is

is natural,

no added sugar.

A little taste of my WIP (which features ogres, dragon-people, fae and many other creatures)

‘What…is all this?’ Max said, tentatively picking one of the hair-wrapped parcels up. He rubbed it against his trousers, trying to get as much dust off it as he could.

‘It’s blue,’ Rae said, examining the neat strands. ‘Gwind, it’s just like yours. It’s exactly the same colour.’

‘You think it’s Fae hair?’ Max asked her. ‘I suppose if it was used to protect whatever is underneath, then that would make sense.’

‘I’ve never heard of it being used for that before,’ Gwind said, ‘but as Silver discovered, there might have once been more uses for it than we think. Perhaps we should unwrap them? Though it looks as if that would take even longer than rearranging the books upstairs. I can’t even see where the ends are.’

‘I could just burn through it,’ Silver said, and before they could stop her, she spat a tiny flame at a parcel by her feet. It touched the hair, fizzling for a moment, and then went out. ‘That’s strange. Our flames should be able to burn through anything.’

‘Let me try,’ Max said, and took out his knife, attempting to cut through the hair. Despite pressing down hard, the blade simply glided over it. ‘Some hair you people have,’ he said to Gwind, failing to keep the awe from his voice.

Plastic Jellyfish

Salt crystals linger around my lips

from my time drinking in the ocean.

My belly is swollen, now hosting

millions of lives so I can keep them safe

from the rest of the world

with its beads

and bags, nets and hooks

tangling everything and anything in sight.