The house on the hill – One further poem

My mother never loved my father,

A man who even at the best of times was a drunk and a gambler.

Whether she loved me was a question I thought of habitually

And to some great extent,

But with little in the way of conclusion.

Various failed attempts to begin a script

“I’m talking about him, with his big fat tip tap typing fingers. That’s what this is, you know. It’s some weird puppet show so he can watch us fuck. Well it’s not happening. It doesn’t matter what he does, I’m not-“

WWE, Breakup Medicine

When I was little, I used to love WWE unashamedly. Now I am older, and I have dipped my toe back into that messy pool of rippling muscles, I can appreciate the beauty even more. I think, in a way, this newfound adult shame actually makes it better.

Getaway

I’m sitting on a rough ledge, dusted white and overlooking a sheer drop. The sun is warm against my back, which is a truly unexpected kind of hug, especially here in the U.K. Wind roars past in frantic gusts, drowning out the periodic buzz of the crickets. When I catch the sound, like the spokes of a bicycle spinning as they catapult someone across the world, I think about the twisting roads that snake around these endless, sloping mountains, and how perfectly terrifying they would be to race along.

Rainymood

The website Rainymood is a recent addition to my arsenal of heavy duty anti-sadness firepower.

I was in love once.
Now I am again.
This love feels so much smaller, though,
Than the love I felt back then.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in motion

He walks with a peculiarly relaxed kind of purpose, taking the time to glance back at his dog and let out brief, regal mutterings. He puts down his book, takes off his hat, and reveals a distinct lack of any meaningful hair on his head.

”I’ve got to speak one or two words, and just try my voice I understand?”