Poetry Friday 18

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So we've reached number eighteen. Will the ever end or will it roll on like the Trump for President bandwagon. It can only end in tears. 

The tramp at my window

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep at night.

I imagine the scene

from outside.

Twenty blacked out windows

and one bedside lamp burning

brightly, fuelled by insomnia.

But tonight, I’m not the only one

observing my window.

There’s a knock on glass.

I’m scared at first, then

intrigued, I pull back the blinds.

A homeless man smiles.

Can’t sleep? he mouths

I nod

Me too,

I open the window a crack.

What’s keeping you up? he asks.

I sigh.

I know the answer

but there are no words.

I understand he says

and I think he does.

I can’t sleep with the light on,

he points at the moon, 

nature’s bedside lamp.

In between kisses

A shared bag of chips and

a couple of silk cut.

Blowing smoke rings

in between kisses.

Smiles in our eyes,

and smiles in our bellies.

Then with salt on our fingers

I walk you home.

Laughter in the air,

whispers on the doorstep

in between kisses;

Trying not to wake

your mum and dad.

One long lingering kiss.

then the landing lights comes on.

You turn the key,

I skip home.

A Plethora of Platitudes

At the end of the day

it’s just a plethora of platitudes.

Empty words from empty brains.

So take each day as it comes

in this clichéd world.

Shallow thoughts from shallow minds.

Our destiny is in our own hands

but meaning is lost in spin.

Hollow ideas from hollow eyes.

Join me next week for Poetry Friday 19

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The Twin

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Nathan was just about to take a sip of the disgusting filter coffee when he saw his own reflection in the thin layer of scum that had formed on the top of the brew. He threw the coffee across the bar surprising the bored looking waitress. 
“You okay honey,” she said in her fake American accent. “Let me refill that for you.”
“Leave it!” Nathan barked. “Just leave it.” He put his head in his hands and sat stock still. 
He could hear the waitress mopping up spilt coffee. He’d have liked another one, but he didn’t want to risk seeing his lousy, lonely good for nothing face again. He heard the sound of crockery and then the glug of the coffee pot pouring new liquid into his cup. She was a doll that waitress. 
“Thanks,” he said through his hands. 
The coffee would cost a pound, that would leave him with fifty-three pence in his pocket. Fifty-three lousy pence. It should have been five-thousand pounds, but that damned bank clerk had decided to play Superwoman and had refused to hand over the cash. He’d held the gun right up in her face and threatened to pull the trigger, but she called his bluff and he’d only had a seven high. He’d left the bank with his tail between his legs and his pockets empty. He’d walked for miles and miles expecting to get picked up any moment by the police, at least he’d get a hot meal. But the police never came. So he was drinking bottomless filter coffee in a faux American diner that sat on the cliff looking out to sea. 
“Bollocks,” he said making the bored waitress jump for the second time. He’d made a decision. He got out his phone and dialled the police. He’d hand himself in.  
Nathan took a swig off his lukewarm coffee making sure he didn’t look into the cup. At the same time, the man opposite him took a swig of his coffee. Nathan felt like he was staring into a mirror. Both men’s mouths dropped at the same time. They both rested their cups back on the saucers and laid their hand on the counter like a snooker player’s rest. 
“Mark?”
“Nathan?”
They said together. 
Nathan got up and went around to the other side of the bar. 
“What on earth brings you here?” They said at the same time.
Brotherly love, twinerly love, has a strange effect. At first, Nathan felt nothing but affection, love, longing to be back in the womb with his twin. But soon reality started to drip feed into his mind. Mark was not only his identical twin but also the bastard who stole his girl. He hated that git. 
They slapped backs and chatted for a while; Nathan hiding the contempt he felt for his double-crossing wanker of an identical twin brother. 
“Well,” Mark said. “I’d best be off. I’ll just nip to the loo.” He slid off the bar stool and headed to the door marked John Doe. 
Nathan smiled and slipped on his brother’s jacket, picked up his brother’s briefcase and headed for the door. Gently tossing his brother’s car keys in the air as he walked. It wouldn’t take him long to find the car, there was only one in the car park. 
As he was driving out, a police car turned in. Nathan could imagine the scene. His startled brother being confronted by the cop. 
“Excuse me, sir, a man fitting your description attempted a bank robbery today.” 
He smiled, by the time his brother had talked his way out of it. Nathan would have sold the bastard’s car and emptied his bank of cash. It was turning into the perfect day.  Please if you enjoy these stories share them with friends, family, book agents, etc.. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram :-) Thank you.  

The Grey Boots

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“Oh my god,” Georgie said, “there’s this woman in work right, who’s been wearing the same pair of boots for the last two years. Two years one pair of boots. Winter, spring, summer, autumn, the same boots.”

I shrugged.

“Can you believe it?”

I shrugged again. “Maybe they’re comfortable,” I mumbled.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if they were a nice pair of boots, but they’re gross,” Georgie mimed putting her fingers down her throat. “They were gross when she bought them and now they are uber-gross, mega gross, two-year-old gross.”

“What do they look like, these boots?” I said, not really believing a pair of boots could be uber-gross.

“I just told you, they’re gross,” she said.

“Well, I get that, but describe gross.”

“Well, first of all, they’re grey! Who wears grey boots? Not even a nice grey either. Not like a dark misty fifty shade of grey, but a light Ford Cortina grey.”

“So silver then.”

“God no! Not Silver, Silver is nice. They’re grey. And then they’re tatty, scuff marks on the heels and the toes, and along the sides.”

“Well they are two years old,” I said, “They couldn’t have always been tatty.”

“They have been. Tatty, old, grey since grey one.”

“Knee length?” I asked.

“No, get this they are dodgy ankle height boots. Her legs look like tiny bonsai trees in huge, ugly, grey flower pots.”

“I need a piss,” I said and hobbled over to the toilets. As I washed my hands I stared into the mirror. The water ran over my fingers and I rubbed them together over and over like Lady Macbeth staring, staring at my reflection. I was replaying the conversation with Georgie through my mind. My reflection, grey.  The story about the boots, dodgy ankle. My reflection, tatty and scuffed. The story about the boots, two years. I counted up the months we’d been together. Twenty-three. Georgie hadn’t been describing a colleague’s boots. She’d been describing, me.

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The Custody Battle

From my nephew, for my birthday I got a little book of writing prompts. This was my first attempt to use it. 
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Being a Nobel prize winner isn’t all it’s cracked up to be you know? I mean, yeah it’s great to have the recognition for your life’s work. Yes, it’s nice to be invited to different conferences around the world and be introduced as Nobel laureate. Yes, it’s nice to have something in common with Bob Dylan, but it doesn’t make you any more money, you don’t get recognised in the street and it doesn’t stop you from coming home one day to find your wife in bed with her gym instructor, and his friend.
I suppose it had been coming, I should have read the signs. Looking back there were plenty. Furtive phone calls, late night dog walks, those exercise retreats she used to go on. But I was too busy with my work, and was happy that she was enjoying life. 
Anyway, this story is not really about the reasons my marriage failed. It’s about what I’ve just done. 
For one reason or another, we never had kids that I’d prefer not to go into now if you don’t mind. But we did have a beautiful Golden Labrador called Einstein. Einstein was the love of our lives. We both doted on him, and so it was no surprise that he became the very epicentre of our increasingly bitter divorce. 
She argued I was away too much to look after the hound and that she would give him a happy home. I argued that as it was her sexual gymnastic that broke up the domestic paradise in the first place, she couldn’t be trusted to provide a happy home so I should get custody of the dog. I thought I was bound to lose when I saw it was a female judge, but she decided in my favour with Jane having visiting rights. In other words, Jane had to look after the hound when I was away. I could have kissed her wig when she read out her findings. 
The look on Jane’s face when she handed over the leash was priceless. How I stopped myself from putting my thumb on my nose and going ner ner ner ner ner I shall never know. Childish I know, but hey I think I deserved a little victory dance.  Jane was spitting feathers; she’d never considered she would lose.
Now though, well, I kind of wish she had won. Because if she had, Einstein might still be alive to tell the tale, or at least wag his tail and I might not have killed him. 
Normally, I don’t let the dog out until I’ve backed the car out of my garage, but this time I can’t have closed the front door properly. Usually, I’m extra careful when reversing, but I was talking on the phone to Lisa, a woman who is becoming more than just friends. So anyway, one thing and another and suddenly there was this yelp; like a screeching train door. I knew immediately what I’d done. I jumped out of the car, ran around to the back, but there was nothing I could do.  Einstein was already dead.
Distraught, inconsolable, grief-stricken. When I’d seen that man with his paws all over Jane in our marital bed I felt bad but nothing to how I feel now. When Jane left I felt loss, but now I’m heartbroken. I’ve lost my best friend. And what’s more, someone has to tell Jane, and that someone, is me. 


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