IT IS FINISHED.
Which is good, as we too are totally fudging DONE. Like, seriously, zero brain left.
It’s been an amazing and absurd couple of days. 32 hours. 100 pieces of poetry-art. £436.60 raised for Shelter (so far, there’s still time to donate: https://www.justgiving.com/James-Webster7). Quite a lot of tea. Probably a bit too much whiskey.
So now, as I go to catch the last train home and try to piece my shattered self back together, I leave you with the last batch. 76-100.
#76 Srs Convo.
Through the paper thin walls, she could hear them…
“There’s something I have to tell you.” he said.
“What is it?” the other he replied
“I’m a were.”
“Of what? That thing with the selkie? cos it wasn’t what it looked like.”
“What? No. I mean, I’m a were-person.”
“Oh … what do you turn into?”
There was a brief pause.
“I have never found you more attractive.”
Everything after that was sex noises.
#77 Fifteen flavours of fun
1. Cool original.
2. Lazy cider-soaked days of sunshine.
4. All the sugar ever – also it’s pink.
5. Chocolate licked off your beloved’s fingers.
6. Vegan. Honestly.
9. The worst hangover you’ve ever had shared with the best company.
10. Tears at dawn when your love leaves.
11. Tears at sunset when your love returns.
12. Tears forever.
13. Losing the keys to the manacles.
14. That blue one. Is it … I wanna say Bubblegum? Is that even a flavour? Blue flavoured bubble gum.
15. Probably a tiger. This is probably what a tiger tastes like.
Special bonus flavour: Murderous intent.
#78 This does not need fixing
I have broken my heart so many times
It is pretty much dust now
Get away from me with your monkey wrench
I am not a sink
Put away your sugerglue
I am no jigsaw either
I like my disintegrated heart
Its particles dance on the breezes of me.
Have I told you about my superpower?
It’s no flight or plasma bolts.
In truth, sometimes I’m in awe of them.
The bright ones. The bold ones. The ones who shake the world by its scruff.
But when they flare out…
I will endure.
I’ll be left to tell their story.
In a thousand years when I tell their tale
My power will be resurrection
After so long
So many kicks
The decade ache of bruises
A sea of eyes so glazed
I wondered if I’d become a gorgon
I was just so happy to see an outstretched limb
I didn’t see the teeth
I don’t think I wanted to.
#81 David Attenborough Loves Faeries
David Attenborough’s calming voice flowed
out of the tv
Like a nice cup of tea in audio form.
“And here, in the nucleus of the
We see the Wild Hunt
There’s Herne, whipping the cloud-hounds
into a heavy furore
And the noble Lightning Stag
Itself, the natural prey of the fair folk
But protected by its almost symbiotic
relationship with Herne…”
The Discovery channel had got a lot more
Since the faeries came out of hiding.
#82 Hope Goblins
I woke to find the words
“WE BELIEVE IN YOU”
Carved into my chest
While they capered on my face.
When I got to work
They had tied my boss in a web of roses
As he “was too hard on you, dearie.”
I took a two hour lunch break.
They leave gifts of kittens
Outside my front door – just stunned
But I don’t know where they come from
(still, confused kittens are adorable).
They wrote “Tomorrow Will Be Better”
In flaming words across the sky
No one has yet worked out
How to extinguish them
When people ask me to pay for the damages
I say: What price can you put on hope?
I reckon it’ll stand up in court.
#83 Madagascan Cocoa Farming
It’s a strange thing to shed blood over chocolate
But we have so little
And they take so much
(because they, too, have very little)
And those beans will buy food
(for the beans are almost all we grow now)
What it comes down to in the end
Is who is hungrier
Today, that was me.
I hate chocolate with a passion.
#84 Dissolute Saturday
Saturday spent most of the week drunk
The other days did their best to concentrate
Monday powered through the migraine
Tuesday put its earplugs in
Wednesday got on with the business of hating everything in general and you especially
Thursday tried its best to be like Friday
Friday was pretty chill, actually.
But Saturday was always there
Lounging on their desks and drinking wine
Draped across their beds and drinking absinthe
Curled up asleep on their laps and drinking caviar and their tears
Doing lines of regret off their bottoms
Having noisy-but-lazy sex with Sunday.
Saturday is an asshole
But when they want to have a good time
They still come crawling back.
#85 The gods, are they evil?
What is evil?
Is it callousness?
Is it cruelty?
Is it being so far removed
You forget what humanity looks like?
Yes. The gods are all these things.
But that doesn’t mean they’re not *fun*.
#86 News Cycle
The Insects’ Republic Of New Dandelion was short lived
After all, they only had a 24-hour live span.
The new generation would do it all again tomorrow.
Luxury living domes.
The Jetsons lied.
The future did not keep its promises.
I hope the world ends in fire.
#88 Neon Gods
In every camera flash
Every on-off flicker of the neon glare
In every mayfly photo burst
A god is born
And falls when the negative burn
Dies on your retina
Seeing the ghastly conveyor belt, a little part of him died inside.
“You’re a monster.”
“Yes,” he grinned wide like a crack across the sky, “a monster with an army of chimera … what part of this are you failing to see as awesome?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
They bumped fists.
“Wait … is there anyone here who isn’t actually a hundred lizards in a human suit?”
No-one put their hands up.
It was totes embarrassing.
But, in the end, it felt good to slither out of the closet.
#91 Reaching Out
I put the message in the bottle
Whispered all my fondest secrets
Hummed my sweetest enchantments down its neck
And let it float down the Thames
I’m pretty sure it went all the way to the sea
Without a single soul reaching for it
Whoever finds it should be able to come get me.
I hope they bring a cannon.
#92 Illuminated (from: Cracks/scars filled with gold)
By the end, Midas’s skin was cracked like marble
Each fracture a swirl of gilt
Each scar embossed across him
Each tear a bead of perfect sadness
The book of his suffering illuminated
His surface a firmament of scratches
Everyone tried to avoid looking
At the shining choker round his neck.
#93 Swinging from chandeliers
Let’s make all our entrances swinging from chandeliers.
Let’s have swordfights in an opera house.
Let’s make out during gun fights.
Let’s drink champagne as the embassy explodes.
Let’s break something expensive.
#94 The Tale of Three Fish
Once upon a time, there were three fish.
The first cut through the seas like a knife.
The second bubbled outrage in fresh water.
The third was definitely not a crocodile and anyway it just wanted to be your friend, stop judging it already.
The first two fish both betrayed you.
You and the third lived happily ever after.
#95 Small Talk
We have talked about the weather
About how we take our tea
And the comings and goings of mutual friends
But none of your words were small
Every one was thunder in my ears
Or maybe that was just my heartbeat.
#96 If all else fails, bayonette the fucker.
If you’re close enough to read this
I have already stabbed you.
#97 The Secret Diary of My Arch-Nemesis
I knew I shouldn’t have opened it
But … they did leave it in their volcano lair
And they *knew* I was raiding it that day
And it’s not like there was a lock on it or anything
And you can totes buy those
I was expecting to learn the secret trivia of their life
Uncover a few machinations
Maybe get enough rage on to pop a decent hate-boner
But, instead … pages and pages of graphic sex dreams
All about me.
I can’t foil their evil schemes now without blushing.
I’d think that was their plan all along
But they’re blushing too
I don’t know how I feel any more.
#98 Champagne Socialism
“Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time.” – Karl Marx
Thus, if we agree that the creation of fine champagne is an art (which indeed it is) then all socialism is, by definition, champagne socialism.
What on earth are we fighting for if it’s not for the right for ‘everyone’ to have a sip of champagne now and again (and all that that entails)?
That concludes my lecture. You may now begin the questions and recriminations.
After the explosion, only she walked away.
She did look back though.
She was quite concerned after all…
“But is it art?”
“Well, I kind of want to live in it. Does that count?”
His harrumph was loud as thunder.
So she struck him with literal lightning.
Everyone agreed that *that* was art.