The Wordkillers

We kill the cure
Condemn the curse
We shout and spit
As though it fashion
Is it!
The words we use
No smiles, all eyes
And fingers pointing
‘That’s what they’re for’
Are they!
A reckless adventure
Inferno in waiting
Made for decay
Meant to delay
Does it!
Prefabricated values
Shoved down throats
Gagging, we choke
For the wordkilkers
It hurts!
And I sit, write
Hide and worry
Wondering, just wondering
Have they won?
Lord no!
Please no
Cant have
I’m begging

Surreal Views

Surreal, suggests the fish-headed man

Battling against societal currents, swimming against the tide

He’s getting nowhere fast just as he likes to

Bobbing up on occasion so plastic ears might listen to

A piano with bones instead of keys sounding a glockenspiel salute

That migrating sparrows, pink and proud, nod agreeably to

Whilst carnivorous sunflowers snap them

From the air like feral children with donated candy flosses

This I observe with dispassion, this I see and now believe

As governments say we aren’t dying fast, but slowly

And scientists place hands in back pockets

To withdraw cigars rolled up in green papers

The Queen’s head is on mine. She’s weeping

The Muddleman

The Muddleman made a mess of everything. He seemed to stumble through life smashing into this, clattering into the that, and never ever apologising. Parents warned their children about the Muddleman, so notorious did he become. People avoided him like the plague. But it was hard to avoid the one that ruled them forever. Soon, everyone became muddled by the Muddleman. The world followed. After that, there was no one left to be muddled anymore.

This Marionette Life

Author’s Note: This is my third post on Medium and can also be read here.

Sometimes, I bound through this thing called life, my knees high, head higher. The sky seems bluer on such days, the clouds puffed to cotton wool perfection, the birds swooping for the sheer hell of it, and me smiling beneath. I like to smile. We all used to, I think!
I pray the good times will last and that regardless of the season, the colours of creation enhancing each in their changing, everyone, but particularly me, will know contentment. Contentment is something hard earned but achievable. At least, it should be.
When one allows oneself to slip into this torpor we call happiness it is invariably the time the scenery will change. Who removes one backdrop and replaces it with another is debatable, changeable even, but as regular as clockwork. One cannot allow too much happiness; the world must be reminded of such things. Who makes this decision to subdue, to make the buoyant flag and those once exuberant knees sink below the waist, to bend, crawl and drag, who knows? Arms will fall limp, shove inside trouser pockets to finger the lint and never reappear, life will turn hard and we the little people will suffer.
At these intersections in time, I frown, my smile petering out as though a river breaching its banks and all the accumulated joy drains from my soul. Like a deep breath released too soon, I deflate without time to take in the necessary oxygen to reinvigorate. I don’t like such times. Does anyone?
I am a person who likes to either be in control or to be controlled by choice. There is a certain reassurance in knowing someone has your back, watches out for you, cares. When one reaches a certain age, realises their mother and father won’t keep the demons at bay and that the nightmares they pretended to expel are in fact more real than childhood could ever perceive and the lack of direction they gave is a lacking you will carry through the rest of life, it is hard. You don’t want it to be so, but it is. I don’t think anyone does, do they?
And so it is you wake up one day, the lines cut, your celestial strings draped over the bedpost. You don’t have the strength to lift your arms, legs or even your head, and no one is going to help you. It doesn’t have to be this way. I don’t think it ever was, was it?
This marionette life requires a good puppeteer. I think we all deserve to at least breathe freedom through clean, expanded lungs whilst thinking it our choice, or at least with the knowledge those controlling us want that too. Do we have that? I’m no longer sure and that saddens me. I don’t like being sad, my strings cut and face downcast. Do you?

The End.

50 Word Stories: Barbed

His words stung and tore, struck deep and true. Some believed him in his unbelievable way, some prepared to wait, others not. He reserved the most barbed for the latter, slashing and slaying with puritanical disdain. He judged them. Would be judged. Will… be… judged. Barbed words always stick. Always.

In Disbelief 

In Disbelief
Acerbic tongues sting this flesh 

like a million tiny bee stings;

the barbs embedded in my skin.

I shake and quake with hidden fury,

so very English, so polite,

and rankle, and rile, and bite

at the unforgiving pain of it all.

Disbelief, I tell myself.

It’s utter disbelief.

But the cold hard truth,

these clients of the devil

market and peddle through unsanitary smiles,

who push and prod the badness under my entrails;

they know, they know it’s not.

They seek to conceal 

and I want to believe the lesser of two evils:

it all stinks:

accept it.

I’m beyond acceptance

beyond their views of this world

and all we should stand for.

Instead, I mire in disbelief.

I would have it no other way,

for my universal fury waits to spill over

to those other ninety-nine percent

who agree.

At least, I hope so.

God, I hope so!


Does a Cane toad walk with a stick?
 Does a Firefly get hot when he’s sick?
 Does a Hyena laugh when he’s sad?
 Does a Penguin not fly to be bad?
 So much to ponder, my friends,
 That at night it drives round the bend.
 These funny, old questions of life,
 Like how Turtles decide on a wife?
 But the question I ponder the most.
 Is if we can’t all just smile and toast-
 Each other with smiles and aplomb,
 Instead of thinking who we should bomb!
 DOES anybody know?
 Because I’m not sure anymore.