ADHD - Bin Bags

​I sailed from Exmouth to Durham for supplies,

anchoring near a café off the high street - for bin bags.

Bin bags  - ​I was meant to get bin bags! 

I initially went so as I could drop that parcel ashore

to a cove somewhere 

somewhere between the mustard and the bread - but I forgot!

I forgot the bin bags!

It was that old salt 'Geordie' who said I was to sail to Durham,

and then sand entered my head

blown up along the seafront.

Sand. 

Which sand? 

What?

Sand?

Which..?

Sandwiches!

I forgot to wrap the sandwiches

before I stowed the cling-film below deck.

​The waves like meringues

brought the cream ashore, 

but what of the rest of my list?

I must store those bin bags, 

I must do the recycling,

clear the decks,

or those meringues;

like the waves 

are going to be history!

But look at those fence panels - sea defences toppled by the gales,

bubbles in the wind,

like...

Wait, bubbles!

Did I finish the washing up?

​Why am I holding my wallet? 

...bin bags - I need to get bin bags!

Wait - or was it chocolate? 

No bin bags!

​How could I forget?

I was moored up alongside the shop after all!

​aground -  like a yacht caught in a whirlpool

I’m standing in the kitchen with a tiller in my hand,

wondering why the lock gates were open,

and why I have my oil-skins on!

Where I’m supposed to be? 

Oh! - the shop!

...and bin bags!

Truth

Truth used to be a mountain -

elevated, 

singularly massive

something you could climb, stand upon

and from which you could see everything; clearly.

Not now.

​Now it is all smoke and mirrors

a fantasy built from pixels and electrical pulses.

It is whatever shape you wish it!

The press deals with truth through a combination of rigorous

ethics-driven reporting,

and conversely,

through methods influenced by commercial, 

political, 

and at times, 

sensationalist pressures.

Sometimes with a guided purpose,

other times caught up in the storm of coming first - where accuracy is the tax paid!

​On glowing screens which,

in our homes,

illuminate our evening faces,

the broadcast voices

dress in the costume of certainty

speaking in bold fonts and primary colours,

carving the world into them and us

'til the middle ground resembles a ghost town

leaving the facts to dress as mere ornaments.

​Then comes the mobile tidal wave!

A billion voices,

shouting in their echoy cathedral of choice.

Their chosen algorithms - the silent librarians,

whisper only what they want you to hear,

building digital rooms without windows

where those echos sound like an anthem.

​And off stage to the left - an AI chuckles to itself,

the mirror that has learned to dream,

creating the 'almost-real'

from the threads of everything we have ever said!

Something that doesn't know the taste of an apple,

only the maths behind the word 'juicy'.

​Truth hasn't vanished

it has just been shattered into a trillion pieces!

It no longer waits to be found,

it is the 'Ikea' flat-pack

delivered; to be assembled 

piece, 

by jagged piece,

with a steady hand 

...and with a skeptical eye!

Graffiti Crime

The council came and painted over

graffiti that'd been applied

all along the station footbridge

across the buildings; there outside.

The council created blocks of colour 

where the graffiti used to be

painting over political slurs 

so we could; no longer see

...then a thought 

     caught me short...

Painting over all that graffiti 

hiding a minor irritation 

now; isn't my local council 

creating a graffiti violation!

January - Dear Diary

Dear diary.

It's now the 65th day of January.

I'm going deaf in my left eye

and have just finished eating the last page of the Christmas Radio Times - I ran out of mince pies 3 days ago.

I saw the last packet of 'Christmas Brie' walk out of the backdoor yesterday,

saying it had had enough - so food supplies are running low!

I am managing to stay warm by

burning the endless supply of holiday brochures coming through my letterbox - most of them are for summer 2028 anyway!

I am now wishing I'd bought more Easter eggs before Christmas.

The five trays of clotted cream I bought have been useful. 

I've been using it to block up the draughts coming in through the gaps around the windows.

Moral is low.

I've now watched the 'Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special' for the 32nd time

and am keeping myself cheery by thinking of what I will do when my next pay cheque arrives - I believe it's due in around 8 months time!

I managed to pick up a weak and crackly signal from the BBC on my wireless set.

The announcer said something about the spring being just around the corner - I think that means three years away!

I am hoping the world is still out there.

I haven't opened the curtains for at least six months!

At least all this rain is filling up the reservoirs...

but wait,

what was that?

Was that the gales rattling the letterbox flap again,

blowing yet more snow against my windows,

piling it up against my front door,

or was it the doorbell?

...ah yes,

it was the doorbell,

it was the brave 'postie' in his shorts and T-shirt,

with my electricity bill,

my water bill,

and my council tax demand...

...oh and some more 2028 holiday brochures!

I think they'll all burn well!

I See Way

I see things way in a 

things that don't you see

Things might that - you confuse 

Tend to make sense more to me.

Perhaps incorrectly up I'm wired

Perhaps wrong circuitry is my!

I all know 

what I is sense

I have nothing to else go by!

If The Shoe Fits

Moonlight shone; as

silver spoons glance

at shoes performing

the perfect dance

sandwiches fly high

through buttery clouds,

frogs wearing neckties,

welcomed the crowds.

Doves circle; skirts

take the air!

Waltzing the ballroom 

without a care!

​Raindrops end celebrations

glass carriages; glitz!

Dark - countryside; if

the shoe fits.

​