Poetry

After a meeting

My bones are rock, the act of talking

leeching the energy from my mind

even though I know I look completely comfortable.

I get home, in my own space;

that’s when it comes out. Materialises.

The heaviness. The weight.

I deaden, yet laugh maniacally

as it rains from my body.

I’m tired.

Poetry

Nozzle-rama

What do you do if you have a tube

needing a nozzle,

but is nozzle-less?

And while we’re at it,

perhaps we should consider

how nozzle is close to nuzzle,

close as close, yet far apart,

unless you’re applying filler.

 

Discuss.

 

What is in

the nozzle-needing

nozzle-less tube,

anyway?

A hand to hold,

a hug from a friend

undercover as a stranger?

A cart-load of commuters

squashed up in glue?

 

Ah, the nozzle.

 

Hiding down the aisle,

white-feather painted.

Now we can use it

to thrust out

liquid staples into the cracks

that have appeared

in your straining cheeks.

 

It’ll only hurt for a moment.

Promise.

Poetry

Gloop

It all started on

a Monday;

the contents of the pot dribbled

onto the floor,

flooding the newly polished tiles

with a voluminous

dark gloop.

 

The gloop was a mistake,

a recipe

gone wrong

from the mass of ingredients

forced to boil together.

Just like her life.

Spread out so thin

that she was barely a droplet of herself.

 

Working through the week,

she swept up the gloop

into heavy-duty sacks and buried it

among the mountains

of other people’s waste.

 

But for years after,

the gloop’s dark stain

remained.