Poetry

A letter to Dr Jekyll from Mr Hyde

Dear sir,

Your brains are addled, your thinking warped.

You doubt, you stumble, you question every thought.

I’m here to give you the push you need,

but use me wisely else you will not succeed.

You have a plan, every detail laid out,

yet you’re short of tools, there are none about.

Without the tools, your method is stuck

and all of you is saying you’re well out of luck.

It’s what you get for beingĀ distracted,

your guilt is well-deserved for how you’ve acted.

What you don’t understand, or perhaps you do –

is that nothing will ever progress when what’s stopping you

is you.

– Hyde

Poetry

Underground on tip-toe

What do you make of time?

Catching teeth at the edge –

a half-chewed sandwich

being forced down

as feet are charged

to skip across the tops

of moulded caves.

Down into the caverns

full of tubes that threaten

to shave the skin

from your nose.

And for what?

Worn out shoes and holes

covered in stripy threads,

and a headache at one

in the afternoon.