I never get the exposure I like. There’s either too much or too little light Either I’m the centre of attention or ignored. I never get the exposure I like.
I never seem to be in focus. There always seems to be a bit of blur. Like squinting and not seeing right. I never seem to be in focus.
It makes me momentarily snap. Noise I can’t help but notice. Always sort of in the wrong frame of mind. It makes me momentarily snap.
Though I get my daily dose of the Masters of Photography I wonder what’s wrong with me. Nothing clicks though I get my daily dose of the Masters of Photography.
In the dark about after hours, and what happens when the minutes run out with that last second on hand, we sit in a circle holding hands waiting for an off-guard spirit to drunkenly blurt something out.
If ever there was a chance, you’d think your loved ones would give you a sign. With the clocks ticking down, whether grandfather or digital, putting them back is an autumnal dance. Me personally I’d love to hear from that mother of mine.
I’m a bit tearful thinking of it but had some wine and that puts me in touch with what I’m feeling. When my heart and head collide and fit. Sorry, yes, it’s embarrassing.
Tough as nails I’m gonna drive it home. Laying on the floor I’m ready to give in. Writers everywhere have their favourite illiterate reader riddled with sin. Tips for everyone serving a glassful of tonic with a nothing of gin.
This is the heart of the matter as a matter of the heart: I’m full of fear about the future today and the future is full of fear that I’ve stayed up too late to not let tomorrow have its say.
Today was World Kissing Day. We kissed all day. You put me in a good mood and me you. This poem isn’t about anyone but you.
Made a guess at hearing the plane you were on leaving across the sea overhead as I looked up from my balcony breadcrust with your home emptied of your books, and clothes, as my books gather dust and wardrobe hangs like lead, moth-eaten with wanderlust.
I guess you’re halfway done with here and halfway done with there as, like you say, ™it doesn’t feel like home” like someone who needs space from what’s coming and what’s gone.
Every explorer needs an evening sat on the sofa. Every malcontent needs a laugh. Every day needs adventure. Every squeaky clean pop star needs a bath. Everyone waiting for something. Some have the wherewithal to force it. Some join the circus wearing their lucky ring as others stay put and frame their face in a photofit.
As your imageinary plane overhead flew away, way away today all this came to mind as brain cells keep thoughts under lock and key by self-imposed aviation design
When fearing curses dominate verses and pure coincidence leads to waking dreams of waving friends ignoring passing hearses with odds in favour of things going well and mouthless spirits gagged from spinning their dark spell, that little voice in your head asks ‘But am I that jinxed to be voodoo chicken led?’
When going mad and being reckless with bottles pouring out their medicine poisonous joining in the drinking and daring yourself to dive in at the deep end of red water as you burp out speaking speech bubbles live that little voice in your head eggs you on to repeat what you just foolishly said.
When quiet and deaf to tut tuts. When as sure of yourself as a self-contained saint. When talking to yourself with no ifs or buts. When no negative thoughts can taint feelings of doubt that little voice in your head whispers assurances like a newlywed.
That little voice in your head is your saviour and your executioner. The one that plays on your better and worse judgement and your amateur schizophrenia. The one you call little but which sometimes booms and clangs like heavy lead as you sleep off your days as light as your primary school snores of felt Zs.
(from ‘Ventriloquist Dummy Voice-Overs’, photo from graffiti in Cagliari)
As social media mimic philosophers write ‘life’s not a rehearsal’ which extras put a like for, while doing the same thing every day eternal flash car deep thinkers wear fashionable hundred dollar bill suits, and second hand beggar cat walkers rub together coppers like perfect poverty beauts.
Meanwhile, hairdressers, famed for idle chat shop talk, go on strike deep in thought, as their sitting waiting mirror-gazing customers mull over their greying hair experience they might have swept away to nought.
Aging over thinkers turning sixty wonder how the years went by so quickly while those living life to the full don’t have time to think and act the fool.
The sea turned to turquoise from grey. When my memory lapsed, I remembered what I was here for. The rain fell like a rainbow that had missed out on people who couldn’t stay. People who were in as you knocked but who hid behind their door.
All those excuses to keep horizons in the distance behind lenses double-thick. Smoking behind the bike sheds. Authority’s gonna come down on you like a ton of bricks. You never went for it 100% and your tongue’s gonna chop off your empty heads.
