ON READING EMILY BRONTE

It began with a copy of Wuthering Heights.

Echoes of intrigue lept out of the pages.

I felt them weave themselves into my being.

Another's creation. But where is she now?

Death cannot erase greatness. It is

her immortality, her irresistibility. Why

not before? Had I lived then, could I

have known her, perhaps better understood?

Imagination. So she first entranced me with those miniscule

booklets: Gondal resurrected in my psyche.

Now, when I move, her pen moves with me.

Just out of sight, she directs my life, ever watchful.

And if, as she claims, Heathcliff truly loves Cathy,

then what kind of love is so obsessive

that it rips both Souls to shreds

and condemns them to eternal unrest?

Or is it my unrest - her words merely evoking

my deepest, most tormented desires?

If, as I suspect, I am Cathy; then I must find him -

he is the prize within the maze of words.

But, why should I read, when living it is more persuasive?

Or long to touch, when feeling without touching

is so unexpected, so exquisite and so rare?

Today, his proximity. Ecstasy is in the air.

VISIONARY

Call me boring, but I'm never predictable

when I sit down to write. What is it 

about that particular activity

that triggers such dramatic transformation?

Weekdays, admittedly, I'm conformity's slave,

with kohl-lined eyes and high heeled shoes -

ostensibly fitting in with society's expectations. You know,

it's taken me twenty years to perfect

this duel identity - the near seamless balance

between civil servant and poetic visionary.

No one has ever known me, not really.

As soon as they think they do, I confound them.

I cannot fully live up to another's ideals,

so I vanish into thin air; feeling my way,

intuitively led, into the Lands Adventurous;

deeper and deeper until my head spins

with a million and one impressions

that condense themselves into my pen.

And I just scribble, scribble; letting them flow

unedited, cascading like a waterfall

of emotions issuing from the memory banks

of the Cosmos itself. Perhaps

I'm a part of that macrocosm - or, maybe,

simply it's messenger. Either way,

I am mere flesh and blood - but inside

something colossal is stirring:

an irresistible call to the Quest

for universal empathic connection.

So sorry everyone, but I'm running late this week...will catch up with you all tomorrow hopefully! Have a super day xxx

SCUM

My apologies, guys - but I simply HAD to vent my fury after seeing this on the TV news...

You conned her out of her savings -

a lifetime of toil erased.

You stole her independence

without a care for the effect

on her sense of dignity.

All you've left her with is fear - of people,

of even leaving her home. A frail

elderly lady of ninety-two.

Oh yes, such easy prey

for you, wasn't she - to

pose as a doctor and inject

into her arm God knows what,

professing it to be a Covid vaccination

and then charge her a fortune for the privilege.

And, furthermore, to have the audacity

to return again and demand extra payment!

Oh you're so cocky, aren't you,

so fiendishly clever...

Ah, but you were caught on camera.

Yes, you - you heartless, worthless scum!

Think your sweatshirt hood pulled up

will protect your cowardly identity?

No chance!

Just think on this...

There is a Universal Judiciary System,

way above the scope of mere CCTV

and earthly Judges and courthouses,

which observes all, is all-knowing -

and it is closing in around you.

Better be afraid, moron, because

there's no escaping the consequences

of your inhuman criminal activities.

They'll rebound on you

as precisely as an echo, only

ten-fold.

And just one more thing, creep,

before I conclude.

A quick check to ask

how you're sleeping at night?

Have you noticed and changes yet

in your dreamlife? No?

Well you will. Believe this, 

you will!

Soon it will begin: the demons

rising up out of the bowels

of your nightmares' darkest recesses.

And they won't ever go away.

They'll pursue you day and night,

will eventually drive you insane.

What, then, of your ill-gotten gains?

What use will they be

when you're locked away

in your lonely, claustrophobic,

padded cell?

VALVE

The replacement valve that saved him 

was crafted from tissue of pig, so

he no longer ate pork. It seemed inappropriate 

to be devouring his benefactor's relatives. 

The heart specialist concurred,

but for a different reason - namely

that less animal fat would mean 

a much healthier cardiac system.

He also developed a strange compulsion

to visit pig farms - to the extent of once 

sneaking into a pigsty and sleeping there overnight,

just to gain an insight into how it feels to be a pig!

Perhaps, one day, he could even learn 

to communicate with them, a bit like

the legendary Doctor Doolittle!

Sometimes he'd sit in front of a mirror

and almost convince himself that his features

we're gradually changing, were becoming

more and more pig-like: his nose snout shaped

and his ears like those of a pig.

And he dared not admit to anyone

that he had an increasing fear

that he'd wake one morning, to discover

he could no longer speak, only grunt - and that

he had trotters instead of hands and feet!

And even worse - what if

the metamorphosis eventually became total?

What then?

He considered his wife and children, his friends.

What would they think?

Would they even realise he was him?

He would have no way of letting them know he was.

And what if he should fall

into the hands of a butcher? Surely

then there would be the horrifying possibility

that his family may inadvertently consume him! 

And still, today, the paranoia continues to escalate...

for there is no escaping

                                       the pig DNA inside him. 😉😉