The four wise men stopped and rested, They knew their efforts would not be wasted. The sat and talked about the marvels to come, Knowing the prophecies were doubted by some. The first weighed in that a king was here, A new ruler for the lands far and near. The rightful heir to lead the people, From temples and synagogues to the church steeple. The second listened and gave a nod, Then continued, talking of the son of God. A spiritual leader that could raise the dead, Walk on water, heal the sick, fill the devil with dread. All of mankind would kneel in prayer, Feel the love of god and be rid of every care. Even though the messiah might meet a nasty end, It would surely be worth it for the joy he’d send. The third also wanted his visions to be heard, How this man would bless believers and make them cured, Of any illness that afflicted their soul, Piece together the broken parts and make them whole. Not only saw his end but could see further, Saw past the life and death and religious fervour. Children studying before they go to bed, Marvelling at the things they read. The fourth wise man spoke so strange, His view of the future was quite deranged, A midwinter festival to celebrate the king, A show of frivolity and display of sin. Indulgence, materialism, gorging and greed, Excessive drinking and immoral spreading of their seed. A fat man taking pride of place, Ahead of the saviour of the human race. An illuminated reindeer with a red nose, Lined up with others in neat little rows. Houses with tinsel and stockings above the hearth, Somehow to signify the virgin birth. The fourth wise man was left in a bind, The other […]
The room was quite spacious, but everyone was sitting in a neat circle in the middle of the room on uncomfortable chairs. Melissa leant forward, brushed some stray hairs behind her ears and started. “Thank you all for coming, I think we all know why we’re here, gathered in this circle of understanding. The death rate in this country is frankly unacceptable. “The statistics speak for themselves, as recently as 100 years ago, 100% of people in this country suffered from death. We must act. “We’ve created an anti-death movement for people to sign a pledge that they won’t die. You see, we’ve identified the leading cause of death as people dying, and if we can tackle this issue on an individual level, then we can start seeing the results on a larger scale. “Now, we’ve had few designs for t-shirts with slogans on them, ‘If I don’t die today, then it’s another victory over death’, that one is pointing out the flowing of time, you see, that tomorrow becomes today, so if you say you won’t die today, then it means that tomorrow you won’t die, because by the time tomorrow becomes today then it will be today and you’re saying you won’t die today. Do you understand? I thought that was, rather clever. ” A few people nodded that they understood, the idea, if not what Melissa just said. “We’ve also got ‘Kill Death’, which is a bit confrontational for my liking, but the design guys like it and it seems to have some traction. “My personal favourite is ‘Die another day’, but I’ve been told there may be copyright issues with that one. “We’ve also created a Death Awareness Month. A single month of the year where we get people to make a special effort not to […]
Santa’s Image 18 November, 2013 at
In a statement from a leading health agency, the new European Regulation regarding the healthy body shape in merchandise is to be strictly enforced. This regulation means that the officials can force retailers to remove any product or display which shows or encourages bad health. Some campaigners have welcomed the news in a bid to get rid of anorexic promotion in clothes shops, but others are more sceptical about how it’s started to be taken. Numerous stores in local High Streets have been forced to remove Santa Claus merchandise and Christmas displays due to him be clinically obese. With an average estimated BMI (Body Mass Index) 5 times about the threshold to be a health issue, it is clear that most representations are unfit for public display. A spokesman said “It is clear that the lifestyle chosen by Santa, spending most of the year with very little exercise, is something that has caused massive health issues, and it’s something we don’t want to to be seen as a positive image. When there’s an image of Santa at a sensible weight, we will be more then happy.” It is thought that people displaying Santa as part of their festive decorations, either outside their houses or visible through the windows, are infringing the regulation and liable to fines which could be in the thousands per representation. Church groups have welcomed the developments.
Surrounded 7 November, 2013 at
Surrounded by breasts. A cock, surrounded by breasts. It was like some kind of hell. He pecked himself in a a bid to wake up from this horrendous nightmare. He wandered up and down, head darting this way and that, looking at the rows of dismembered parts, all nicely laid out and presented like seed in a trough. Some packed into groups of two, others more. All in the same trays with the same transparent sheen over the top, as if they were going to escape, as if they still had life. He felt some corn rising inside him and gagged. Was this a torment of his own creation? Were his promiscuous ways responsible for this sick torture? Yes, he slept around, but what self respecting cockerel didn’t? Walking along further, one careful step and then the next, eyeing the shelves, high, low, left, right. He found thighs. Then whole chickens. Well, in a way they were whole chickens. They weren’t dismembered, but they were nothing like the graceful honeys that he spent his days wooing. They were naked, beheaded, and gutted. Just a hollow puppet of the form he had chased. If it was just a lesson, some omniscient being telling him to right his ways, then he could cope with that, at least then he could return to his life a changed bird and know that none of this was actually real. His mind wandered to all the chickens he’d slept with, all the girls he promised his heart to. He couldn’t even remember their names, he didn’t always ask. Each one thought they had his heart, but each one he just used like meat. Guilt shot through him and made each step wobbly. He had to change his ways, he couldn’t go on like this, he had […]
Okay, so here’s an odd one. It’s not intended to be a poem, so it’s not presented in that way. But it does have some symptoms of a poem. It’s inspired by spoken jazz. If it reads well, then great! If it doesn’t, then you’re just reading it wrong…honest. Anyway, enjoy: Saturday was a real wild cat. The kind of cat that really knew where it was at. Everybody loved Saturday, he always found the fun. Any party would be dull until Saturday arrived, and then wow. What a change. Everybody loved Saturday, that is, apart from Thursday. She would always sit in the corner when Saturday entered the room. Perhaps she was jealous, he’d out shine anyone. Perhaps she just didn’t like his jib, or never really found him fun. Who knew? no point asking Saturday now. Thursday was holding a party, to celebrate her anniversary. Two years of marriage, to lovely Tuesday. They were the perfect couple, always so sweet, everyone thought so, they’d say “oh, aren’t they sweet” Before looking at their others, or dates they pulled from the crowd, and let out a weary sigh, as if their own happiness could never be found. Two years to the day, and never so proud had Tuesday been. If you look at Thursday, a huge bump can be seen. She was beaming, beaming with light, beaming with joy, beaming with all her might. Until that time of the night, when in walks Saturday. Already tipsy, and a little bit frisky, he was quite a sight, brilliant white suit, and a brilliant white shirt, a brilliant white collar, with a brilliant red mark, another on his cheek betrayed where he’d been. Probably with Sunday, the cheap little slut, they say she never leaves her bed and is common as […]
Well, let me just tell you how it is. From my point of view. Not that I can tell it from anyone else’s point of view after all. I was leaving work as usual, going out the back door. If you use the back door you pass the outside of the loading bay, and onto a lightly used road. The loading bay was all locked up, but there was still a crate left outside, quite how the idiots doing the loading forgot it I don’t know. So I had a little goosey and it was a whole crate of ink cartridges. Branded stuff. I don’t know if you know about ink prices? They’re ridiculous, and this whole crate of them where anyone could pick them up. It may have been ink cartridges, but I just saw money, so I picked them up and carried them home with me. They weren’t in work, so it wasn’t really stealing. Not really. I put them all on eBay and by the morning some of them had been sold already and some others had bids on. Being the efficient kind of guy I am, I went to the post office on the way to work and got some of them sent off. Thinking nothing of it, naive perhaps, I went into work and continued with my job. I hadn’t stole them after all, so why would I feel guilty? After a while, my manager, George, took me aside for a chat and after the usual chit chat, he asked me straight. “Did you take a crate of cartridges from the stock room?” “No Mate, I didn’t even go onto the stock room” “Cool cool. Just needed to ask. Hope you don’t mind” That was the end of it. But at the end of the […]
“A middle-age man is waiting at a bus stop. He has just learned that his son has died violently. Describe the setting from the man’s point of view WITHOUT telling your reader what has happened. How will the street look to this man? What are the sounds? Odours? Colours? That this man will notice? What will his clothes feel like? Write a 250 word description.” The news fell a blow upon me, physically knocking me back onto the bench. The world turned into a blur, it appeared to slow down, but it was only I who had slowed. A bus arrived, passengers boarded, and then departed before a moment had passed in my eyes. Despite the hour approaching lunchtime, the day grew dark and took on a more sinister hue. The once fluffy clouds became dark rolling waves of doom. Each passer by seemed to be passing their own judgement. Mature gentlemen shot me blades full of blame, accusing me for my part in the tragedy, all the things which I could have done to alter the chain of events but didn’t. Kids seemed to be laughing in scorn. Mothers seemed to try to distance themselves, worried my foul influence may bring the same fate to their offspring. A pidgin pootled around looking for scraps, it got as far as the edge of the bus stop before it caught sight of me. It only took a moment of starring before it realised the evil inside me and flew off. Sun seemed to suddenly break through the darkness. I looked towards the sky and a crack in the clouds allowed what seemed to be a sole ray to beam upon me. I’m sure I heard a voice as I looked to the heavens “I’m safe. The blood’s on your hands”
Jeff needed to get on television. That was the sure fire way to get noticed, thought about. Even if just for a moment. Sure there had been a lot of people on tele that had been forgotten about completely and vanished, but it was rare. It could never happen to someone on air though. The simple act of being broadcast to thousands of homes was enough to make the most translucent person as solid as a rock, because it was almost impossible for them not to be noticed and thought about, even if only for the brief time they’re on air. Not to mention the crew, presenters and audience, they all think about everyone on the stage, perhaps not after they left, but at least while the people are on stage. But here he was, walking down the high street with people looking right through him. Occasionally someone would notice him and he’d throb a little bit brighter, but it wouldn’t last long, it never lasted long. He knew someone who had vanished, Clive. Poor Clive. Poor nondescript Clive. He’d met him the day before he went and he was almost non-existent. The guy was an orphan, and wasn’t very good at making friends, that was something they had in common. But after he left the orphan house where everyone is surrounded by other people and keepers, it wasn’t long before the people who had grown up with him, or worked at the orphanage, started to forget about him, and why shouldn’t they? There were hundreds of kids that passed through that place, and sure, there were some stand out cases, but most just go in and out, then forgotten. After leaving, Clive managed to get a job without too much hassle, but he wasn’t the most noticeable of people. […]
Merry Whatever 25 December, 2012 at
As the snow settles on the ground, And there is good will all around, I think of the festive Christmas bunny, And go out to search for eggs while it’s still sunny. No, wait, that’s not right. Too many of us in the kitchen, Making sure there’s nothing missing, From our pumpkin carvings for all to see, Which we then place on our tall tall tree. No, wait, that’s still not right. As we sit at our feast, And thank the lord for this delicious beast, We hope some invisible source, Will forgive our gorging and rude discourse. No, wait, that can’t be right. We tell the kids to look to the sky, Say thank you and wave goodbye, To the fat monster that just snuck up to our beds, And left superficial products and distractions while we rested our heads. No, wait, tell me that’s not right. I don’t care what you think, Where you go or what depths you sink, But good for you if there’s family around, And my only hope is that smiles abound.
Santa 10 December, 2012 at
The task was to write something with a festive theme to be read out at a Christmas party. This is about as festive as I get. The Santa that you know has abandoned you! Nay! The Santa you know has never existed! Let yourself not weep for this political creation, and mourn over something that was so invented. But let us strive to remember what Santa once was, what he should be, and lets hope that he can still exist for us once more. Of all the sources in which he appears, not one depicts the man you know. Not one is what you believe in. Not one is the fat jovial demon glaring at you today. Instead you must go back, go back to the origins for your belief. Let us not mix stories and once more create a monster to be shaped by the consumerism that has engulfed us. Instead, let us rise above that, and clutch a legend, a myth, a story, which is honest and true. Something that is complete enough to survive. Something that we can turn to and say, “This is our Santa, and this is no lie”. A Santa that no faceless entity can twist least we say “nay, that is not my Santa. For my Santa is the Santa of old. The Santa of truth, the Santa of honesty” Be it Odin the Norse God, or be it Saint Nicolas of long ago, or be it a myth from any of a thousand sources, as long as it be something true, and then, perhaps, we can all believe in Santa once more.