Scandal

Dead but not gone
the ghost of a convicted paedophile
metaphoric hand grenades clipped to a belt
tramps the corridors of the elite
people on which he lavished their every fantasy - scheming 
ensnaring 
hand grenades in the shape of photos,
videos,
bank statements,
paper trails like an undercover opporation the KGB would be proud of...

Boom!
scandal within a royal family
a Prince 
knocked off his throne
accusations made
rough seas
TV interviews could not calm
titles removed
evictions made 
talk of vast monies paid - the true meaning of the word 'scandal'
the pin pulled out of the next hand grenade
politicians were sought
the ghost came knocking...

Booom!
at the door of one known as the 'Prince of Darkness'
an appropriate name 
created from the murky under-world 
of political spin
the political media strategists
faceless men from the back rooms
in a return that was not foreseen 
a return which; few since said they approved of
he; twice counted out
twice out on the political canvas
a dark grey 'suit' from the shadows - ennobled,
ermin clad,
connected
dazzled by the headlights of fame
drawn in by money and influence
now within the political aristocracy 
but; greedy 
eyes seeking a larger prize!

They said 'due diligence' was done
information gleaned
research undertaken 
choices made - choices which would come back to bite
despite which
to the big league he was sent
the 'Oval Office' 
dripping with power and influence 
complete with another title
a Prime Ministers' reputation sent with him 
a Prime Minister as yet unaware
of the hand grenades still clipped to the belt of a ghost - a ghost seaking this 'Prince of Darkness' 
despatched to the 'States'
taking with him lies confessed to no-one
creating long dark shadows 
stretching far across the Atlantic
not to be silenced 
the growing noise at home eliminating from the stalking 
ghostly presence...
 
Booom!
and this dark prince was toppled
paperwork uncovered
details of relationships  
trapped
by the ghost
of a wealthy 
convincing
connected
convicted
paedophile.

The 'Prince of Darkness' - the 'come-back-kid' 
cold and callous 
taking his treachery right to the very top
no word of the trafficked and abused children
self-centred and uncaring
Booom!
they kept digging
emails uncovered
information passed to his paedophile friend 
the price; keys to a luxury flat
market sensitive information 
allowing a window in which to profit 
documents - vast paper trails
the amounts of monies paid
the lavish parties
the houses bought 
a deal for information
the hand grenades going off 
still sounding in his ears
Booom! Booom! Booom!

This trator now uncovered 
the digital media running full pelt to stand still
packs of snarling editors 
licking lips
social media full of opinion
the printed media unable to keep up
files of uncomfortable reminders
enough to feed the 'Red Tops' hunger for sleaze for a life time
yet...
another pin pulled out

Booom!!
A prime minister caught by the shrapnel 
only a lectern holding him up
flimsy explanations
a lawyer in need of a good lawyer
betrayed by a former party member 
a former colleague
friend
confident
with the whole of parliament 
under suspicion
electorate full of doubt
calls for resignations
talking heads aligning under political colours
the vultures circling
a Prime Minister 
fighting for his political life...

and if you'd submitted this 
as a script 
to a film producer 
for him to take on
...he'd have laughed you out of his office 
saying it's too bizarre
too far fetched!

...Booom!

Rain

Light Rain 
Rain
Heavy rain
A downpour
Sodden
Torrential 
A deluge 
A cloud burst
Pelting down.

Damp
Moist
Wet
Mist
​Drizzle
​Misty
​Spitting
​A sprinkle
A light shower
​Mizzle.

​Completely soaked 
​Waterlogged
Saturated 
​Bucketing down
​Chucking it down
​Teeming
​Pissing, lashing, tipping, hammering it down!

​Nice weather for ducks
​Dreich 
Soaked
​Drookit 
Sheeting down
​Raining stair rods...
The heavens having opened!

... it's very wet at the moment!
 


In sickness and in health

In the warmth of a cafe,
on a corner table
a powered wheel-chair 
out of everyone's way so as not to cause trouble,
between the clink of china
and the hub-bub of conversations,
a sanctuary built for two.
​He does not look at the clock
nor does he look at the door
his world is the distance
between the plate and her lips,
a slow practiced hand
of control and patience
​the 'for better or for worse' line
set out before us in a special cup with a plastic straw - the 'in sickness or in health' line
measured out in crumbs of cake
on the plate he holds
​the vows they spoke 
all those years ago - then just words
words spoken in a room of flowers and joy,
now it's his hand that holds the weight of the reality - the grit of the many years.
The muscle required for the staying power,
when it would have been easier to let go
​their love no longer a spark,
more the metal grate that stays hot 
long after the flames have died.
It is the quiet architecture,
buttressed by the way he wipes her chin,
by the way she looks at him - not with the fire of youth
more a profound,
reliable light - he the lighthouse on a stormy headland 
as the outside world rushes to be the newest,
to be the fastest,
the loudest,
it is not to be found here...
in here is the 'for better or for worse' line
in the warmth of this cafe,
the 'in sickness and in health' line
on this corner table
a powered wheel-chair...
out of everyone's way so as not to cause trouble,
between the clink of china
and the hub-bub of conversations
the oldest truth we have in
that - we are at our most beautiful
when we are supporting each other
support against the gravity the world exerts
pulling us all down
​seeing something so intimate,
so perfect
can really make you reflect, 
on your very own existence. 

All I Need

The world has a way of shouting
despite having nothing to say!
I want every day to have that Sunday vibe
I've done lifes chores 
I don't care about the weather 
and I am tired of bright flickering screens,
the glow that promises everything - yet delivers only a hollow emptiness, 
so I shall pull the curtains shut
not to hide,
but to see what remains
when the glare has gone.
I know my bones have found their own rhythm
one much slower than that of the clock on the wall.
I want to sit in the heart of an afternoon
where the only sound
is the soft rhythmic breathing of the dog
settled next to me on the sofa
my only pressure
our warm loyalty 
and her knowing that I'll feed her later
and knowing that my wife is sat across from me - a quiet presence, 
a familiar grace.
We do not need to cloud the air with speech.
the silence between us is not empty
it's an understanding 
an understanding between two entwined souls.
I don't care
the world can carry on without me.
Let the waves of breaking news 
break themselves against other shores - not mine!
I am retreating into the center of my life,
finding the man I was
before the world told me who I must be.
I am home,
the door is closed
and I have all I need.

Drugs

​The user.
It's all about the next fix
getting the money - by any means
locating a dealer 
maybe on a street corner 
down a dark alleyway 
and getting the deal done.
​The users future is just a map with all roads leading back to this same street corner
this dark alleyway,
with everything else erased - pointless
like a heart that forgets how to care,
a body with no soul,
this everyday ritual
is a ritual every day,
these small bags of powder exchanged for a crumpled note, 
a coin of the realm.

The dealer.
Just a middleman 
the rarely seen ghosts,
passing on the misery
often users themselves
supply to survive
selling a brief exit 
from a world that feels too heavy to bare
in a gloomy world
dealers pass on a moment of light
that eventually dims into the inevitable ending.
​These consequences don't arrive in a flash of light
more,
like a cancer
imperceptible at first
unnoticed
unfelt
in which ​the 'wallet' feels it first - emptied out until it has no reason to exist 
​like a house with no roof,
no windows
just a cold; wet pile of bricks
nothing more,
pointless
on just another pointless day 
on another pointless afternoon like any other.

The Drug Lords.
The 'number one'.
'The boss'
​just follow the money
up the chain, 
up past the dealer on the street corner 
up past the dark alleyway,
up to where the air smells of cologne and expensive cars.
At the top of the chain
the 'drugs lords' sit in their ivory towers
looking down at a city,
a city they’ve turned into a chessboard - one where it's always their next move.
​They're not affected by what they trade in
they don’t even walk the streets on which it's sold - they hover over their destruction in helicopters!
Their garages house cars that cost a lifetime of 'deals',
deals that cost lives.
Huge houses full with the 'hangers-on'
the 'hired hands'
people who look like magazine covers,
beautiful
yet false - and temporary!
​And sat beneath a chandelier made from tear shaped crystals - the 'top man'
he; never content with his vast wealth
totally uncaring,
callous
oblivious to the fact that the silk sheets on which he sleeps
were woven by the short miserable lives of the users,
who wait,
with the crumpled notes,
on the street corners,
down the dark alleyways, 
the seedy places where his deals are done.

Sofa So Good

We've got a new sofa. 
I haven't sat on the new sofa - so far
so I don't know
whether it's sofa so good
...or not!