Tescos ran out of loo rolls and soapboxes. Stay-at-home politicians with keyboards and opinions screeching their how-to, quick-fix slogans. Have you not been told? Fake it till you make it means everyone’s an expert. No one wants to say, we’re all just fucking lost. I’ll just slink back off to my grump little hobbit hole. Rant over in just forty-four words.
Syrup thick the evening slides in, through an open window, past clinking blinds left low. Settled in the heat of floorboards, today edges towards tonight uncertain of any other name. Could be Sunday for all its softness, its lifted underbelly showing to a glow on the horizon. Even the birds seem distant, their swooping songs drifting deeper into the quietness. In other poetry news, guess who finally had time to work out kindle publishing! ‘It’s All In The Blood’ can now be purchased on kindle through the amazon store. Feeling more than a little smug with myself I must say.