…and Mr Sandman leaves hailstones
Being human can be an arse sometimes, but the right words can make it sound romantic:
Music and laughter, is what makes the hereafter, and love makes the world go round. Which is funny, because I always thought it was physics which did that.
I wrote an atheist, non-denominational, non-missionary sanctimonious prayer. It’s a total rip-off but it’s not plagiarism (so sue me God). It’s a wish from a human, who didn’t ask to be here, but who realised why I was. It’s a poem from all of us stuck here on Earth, hoping that someone’s listening…
Once upon a time, there was a day when there was no yesterday in the universe. That’s a lesson for as all.
My hope is that we can all forget our differences, at home and in the wider world, and concentrate on the one thing which ought to unite us: The only home we have, as one race, which we share with the billions who were here before us.
How can we dance when our earth is turning?
How do we sleep while our beds are burning?
The time has come
To say fair’s fair
To pay the rent
To pay our share
The time has come
A fact’s a fact
It belongs to them
Let’s give it back
We live in the final hours, when we burn humanity’s midnight oil.
I’ve called this ‘What’s the matter with us?’
The dodo died, Di died, Dodi died, Dando died, Doddy died, Dido worries the ears with her music, and my dog died. Amy died and Madness wrote a song. Kirsty died and I wrote a story, borrowing from Suggs & Co, and with poetic love in its polluted heart…
“One Day I’ll be Waiting There. No Empty Bench in Soho Square” (Monochrome.me blog)
CAMDEN TOWN TO SOHO SQUARE
An old man in a three piece suit sits in the road, by Arlington House in Camden. The first cigarette is for contemplation, of the day before and the one to follow. He looks down at his shoes, flecked with the human remains of an October night.
He tossed his cigarette end through a drain cover, a portcullis to London’s intestines below. As he rose to his feet, a younger man walked almost alongside him, then boarded the same train at Camden Town, southbound on the Northern Line. At Euston, the young man wrote in a journal.
The old boy opposite doesn’t look so good. He’s wearing an LU uniform: Kinda hope he’s not gonna drive a train. Doesn’t matter to me, I’m off soon. He’s fallen asleep.
No-one knows I’m meeting her tonight. I don’t want to be a part of someone else’s Christmas, when at home I’m just a memorial, an empty chair at the dining table, with silver cutlery and a bone dry glass laid out for a ghost.
We’ve stopped just outside Warren Street. Above me, there life walks, and the city breathes, like a heavy smoker.
Old girl, new girl;
mother, daughter, Seven Sisters.
Roaming your many ways:
Saviour, black heart;
Angel, Bermondsey, Moorgate.
All that’s precious:
West End, Soho, Arnos Grove.
Where my heart is:
We’re on the move. I’ll get off at Tottenham Court Road and walk to Soho Square…
The old man was stirred by an on-train announcement:
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to an incident, this train will terminate here. All change please. All change.”
He spotted the notebook, open on the seat opposite.
…I’ll get off at Tottenham Court Road and I’ll walk to Soho Square, where I hope to see you. No empty bench, but my London, my life.
We met and we clicked,
like Bonnie and Clyde.
Jekyll and Hyde.
We went out,
like Mickey and Mallory.
Why don’t you come on over,
We done stuff,
like Courtney and Kurt.
Laughed then slept:
Ernie and Bert.
Holding throats, not hands.
Sid and Nancy.
See you soon,
A man on the underground.
Emerging from beneath Tottenham Court Road, a young man blinked in the lights and mizzle, on the way to Soho Square. He sniffed, and snow fell in the back of his throat. He waited on the bench.
An old man in a three piece suit sits in the road, outside Arlington House in Camden. The first cigarette is for contemplation, of the day before and the one to follow. He looks down at his shoes, flecked with the human remains of an October night.
© Steve Laker, 2014.
Kirsty MacColl, 10.10.1959 – 18.12.2000
A 45 RPM I wrote, which spins for about 14 seconds. It’s about stumbling back into life in Tonbridge after ten years in London, and all that’s meant over the last five years. I made it black and orange, as a kind of reflection of a one-way train ticket. Off the rails and onto the streets, but from where I live now, there’s a direct ThamesLink train line straight back to Catford…
If I’m eating my dessert with a teaspoon, please don’t give me a big spoon. I’m having a great time and I know what I’m doing.
Prime my subconscious, one hint at a time
A potpourri of emotions
Autumn memories of longing
From soul to soul
Short Stories - Mostly dark ones!
A land of ineptitude.
The long and short strokes of the mindscape
Every now and then my head is racing with thoughts so I put pen to paper
Travel, Running, Fitness, Life, Writing.
The Region of Valencia is more than just sun and beach. Rural tourism has increased over the last years, particularly among domestic visitors. My intention is to let you known about amazing inland villages that are alternative to mass tourism.
Queer/trans identity. mental health. cats.
Freelance Writer on Garden & Home
The Author Blog of Jason H. Abbott
Girls On Top 🔥
Helping people flourish
All things whimsical
Events / Socialising / Uni life...
Fan of GOD - WordPress.com
Lifestyle - Cooking tips - Travelling in Europe- Emotional support - Integrating with locals -Easy Recipes-Gardening
America's News Feed
Stories, thoughts, and some multimedia
Understanding ourselves and the world we live in.
Showcasing the best of movies, and film festivals from around the world.
Life is a journey
Decor and lifestyle.
My Personal Space On The Web To Post Anything That Tickles My Fancy
society. politics. millenials.
Discussing All Things Psychological...
The website of Luther M. Siler, Author/Editor/Curmudgeon
GRACE FOR PURPOSE
Tales of friendship, food and a sense of belonging.
La vie est belle
Love, Peace. Humbleness
Shedding light on how we live, what we think, and why we care.
Writing is Coming!