Once upon a time I was to feature in a performance of King Lear – my only ever attempt at Shakespearean Theatre. It transpired that I actually spent the season in a hospital bed, and was thus replaced on stage (by someone better, as it turned out).

I’ve never been much of a Shakespeare sort of guy anyway, but I was rather taken by one line, because it says a lot about little boys and Gods. And I’ve never really stopped being a little boy.

‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.’

So here is another bunch of words dragged out of the past which touches on that a bit, I hope.

*

Fingers suddenly piercing cold water with youthful interest and exuberance . Left hand marrying right beneath the surface. Forming a makeshift cradle of liquid in which the fish, a minnow, finds itself elevated without warning into another world. Tiny frightened eyes blinking upwards at unfamiliar shapes through the unfiltered sunlight. Curiosity peering downward examining the mysterious creature for hints as to the nature of life.

 

The creature, in turn, gasping for that life as the fluid it breathes slips through careless fingers and lands in tiny teardrops on the dirt below. Fragile glistening scales exposed to the universe and reflecting the desperate message that life is fleeting and delicate.

 

But curiosity too, is fleeting and fades, like all things, with time.

 

Intertwined fingers separating and opening a gate into the void.

 

And from the cradle the fall begins.

*

Inspired (inspired is perhaps not the right word) from here, where mind apparently loves misery or loves, at least, inflicting it upon others, with a list of seemingly unconnected words to somehow connect.

There is no rule suggesting that the completed work needs to make sense, at least.

Did I miss any?

*

 Let’s play a game

My little dish

Reveal to me

Your every wish

Tell me what you really want

Come dine at this here

Restaurant

I’m flush with love

And extra good

Let that not be

Misunderstood

And there’s a bonus

Yes, of course!

They say I’m hung

Just like a horse

Don’t let such talents

Go to waste

Indulge in your

Expensive taste

Don’t be embarrassed

Just have faith

I’ll keep you warm

And snug and safe

Please, no laughter

Just come across

Where you’ll be working

With the boss

 *         

Here’s todays resurrection from the tomb of shitty stuff I’ve written.

I think it’s about consent. But even with all the education and publicity there seems to be a grey area in there somewhere that we can’t define. So, with absolute respect (I mean it) for the #metoo movement, maybe it’s time some of us look back upon past behaviours and form a #youtoo sort of movement.

There’s a bit of nastiness in there somewhere, and that’s not autobiographical I wish to stress. I am not perfect, but I’ve never really got a handle on the ‘bad boy’ persona.

*

I am a rogue

I cheat. I lie.

A fact to which

You’ll testify

For you are weak

And I am strong

You felt beneath me

All along

Did not repel

My crude advance

Did not hold tight

Your underpants

Did not protect

Your fragile pride

Did not eject me

From the ride

But now you know

Just who I am

A substitute

A fake. A scam.

Do not assume

I feel your pain

You won’t make this mistake

Again

*

Here’s another one dug out of the depths. I’m not sure what it was originally about, but now it’s about meeting an aging prostitute on a street corner and finding a beauty more than skin deep. Maybe it’s also about recognising the prostitute in all of us. Or just in me – I don’t want to point the finger.

*

 

 

Look at you there

With your thinning  grey hair

A body to share

But no-one to care

 

Lift your skirt, feel the air

A tired old dare

Little boys stop and stare

Without seeing who’s there

 

These boys are your honey

But these boys have no money

They look at you funny

And run home to their mommy

 

Me? Old and wiser

An emotional miser

Out of date womaniser

But no compromiser

 

And the Gods have conspired

That we’re both sad and tired

Pretence not required

We’re no longer desired

 

We both understand

We’ve become old and bland

We have tarnished the brand

And no more in demand

 

Let it be no disgrace

That we’ve slowed down the pace

It’s the end of the race

Might we now just embrace?

 

Let me lay down my head

Let me sleep in your bed

While we’re not yet quite dead

And our blood still runs red

 

Just this moment we’ll steal

And just do as we feel

We’ll pretend that it’s real

And then call it a deal

 *