Biography
Amateur poet based in Lincolnshire new to the spoken word scene. Former teacher.
Bus Stop
Bus stop When I am waiting at the bus stop I get whisked away into An alternative universe where the information super highway is but a distant dream when I am chatting to nice old Beryl in her M&S nylon raincoat in cream. Her pink, blurry, smiley eyes witness to visions wicked and wise cruelty, racism, sexism, vandalism, lack of give-a-shit-inism not an inkling of a surprise as to this ungrateful generation’s nonchalant yet assured demise. As a faint, wrinkled smile Plays around her furrowed lips Words of how the weather Never seems to know just How she should for that day dress Or whether the wind has Made her blue-rinsed, lacquered hair a mess. As a faint wrinkled smile Paints over the watercolour blotches Of loneliness Patches of vacant distant impassioned love From a long dead husband Once a beautified oasis of loveliness She wears her best ‘that’s in the past And she is on her last Days on this Earth So she will wear her heart around her neck on a chain With his faded photo in this locket’ To remember him again. And again. And as the rain drops fall So do the seconds on her biological clock Counting down to Home is where her husband’s heart is. So many stories, so many tales, So much real life to be had, When the digital world’s switched off Tales to make you proud, To made you joyous, To scare you stupid And to make your heart sad Sadder Saddest. Sadder than the saddest thing You have ever had to look in the eye And reflect the desperate feeling And cry and fucking cry Until in your eyes Your life is the most blessed thing Of sickening privilege and gratuitous joy An epic adventure A pack of Cards against Humanity We are ALL in this together. Make the most of every second – Life is a play For life is fucking precious Every breath we take is precious Every person on this decrepit planet is precious So why don’t we treat it that way?!
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