The Bullet

When will that elusive one turn up, when will that gun be fired and the bullet caught between the teeth? Lord, the government and the guy who works at the supermarket only knows. I’m sure they don’t really, but saying it makes me feel better. A long time spent on a short trip, that’s what it feels like, the long way round to the shops. Three times. Make that four. And then you forget to buy the tea bags, so you have to go back. Twice. Oh life what twisted fun you must be having with us all. Glad you’re enjoying yourself, leave the back door unlocked for me, would you? Thanks, you’re a star. SH.

Ribbons and Lace

There is nothing to weep for, the time has long past us by. There is nothing to stamp on, the the creatures have scampered away. There are no tassels on the edges, no ribbons lined with lace. The day is off, tomorrow is on. Cross your heart, hope not to die, no precious words, no useless cry.

If Only

Of all the McDonalds in all of the world, she had to walk into mine. It had been a full two months since the business in the countryside, and only now, once every day rather than once a minute did her face ever stampede into my mind, like a herd of wilder beast, and I had called myself quite settled. I was sat to the side, but quite near the front, so could see who came in and I could see who ordered. I myself was on a steady diet consisting of a large chocolate shake and an similarly named potato prepared side. I was at the end of my fries and was fishing at the bottom of the brown bag they had been sat in, searching for thy cheeky bonus you usually find, a few stray chiplets that have dived out of their red and yellow cardboard home. It's at a time when you think you've had the last, but a quick rummaged gifts you a welcome little surprise. But today, as if a precursor, the fortune telling fries, there was nothing at the bottom of my bag but emptiness. And then she walked in. Irony complete. What was it first that I noticed if not just her essence? It wasn't a mere feature as it was the conglomerate. If held to sword point I'd say it was the hair that first set it off. But on the canvas of a Van Gogh is it not the brightest colour that the admirer is first drawn to? Then the rest of her being flew into the space like a rushing skylark, simply beautiful. Her eyes did not see me but there presence was never a tone to be avoided, as it rang through the air so sharply, the sight of them both filled up my stomach and emptied out my lungs, a withered shell repaired now faced with what it was that shattered it in the first place. My skin contracted in a million different ways and the crackling fireworks retuned to my veins. I have no recognition nor inclination of how her head might have risen if she had seen me that day, if anything, and most likely, not at all. But all this was there for but an instant, a pure second, a fair blip that flashed indeed months of feelings all by my minds eyes with insurmountable speed but for an infinitesimal crumb of time. It was over. That was how things would most certainly stay. Time to get along with my day.

Call Me Anytime

You’ve still got my number. It’s the only thing you can’t take from me anymore, because you’ve already got it.

About A Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue tights.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.

Pudding Pie

He shook his head, like pudding pie, a jumbled sludge of softened crust and doughy centre, clear thought at the minute a figment. ‘No time for this,’ he thought, his mind too tired for words or thought or anything of use. Use. It was useless to think of how she had done this, what ‘this’ had been. He knew it was coming but still he had sat, atop a horse made of mashed potato, the tidal wave of gravy so ready to come. She'd rolled him, kicked him, thrown him all over and out. He wouldn't do it again, he wouldn't wait, this was something that did not need to be undone, but something to be built upon.

Cafe Sahara

How do you make chance encounters happen? Being by definition, chance, it would seem that it's not really possible. I, however, would like to take a more positive approach. Being in the right place at the right time is not something that is seemingly left to chance. For example, if you live in the Sahara your whole life, you are unlikely to run into Simon Pegg in an Islington cafe. This is simply because Islington isn't in the Sahara, it's in Islington. And as far as I know, nor are there any cafes in the Sahara at any case, although I would love to be proved wrong on this one. The idea of sipping a freshly brewed Earl Grey whilst trying to keep sand out of your sugar bowl is something that is strangely appealing to me.
But to chance, and the simple theory of mine that it may still be inherently random, but you can always increase your chances of making the odds a little fatter, like the returns line at Target after Christmas. This can be done, I hope, but putting yourself out there, in the proverbial line of fire, ready to catch the bullets in your teeth with a smile, wholly with the belief that the risk is more than worth the reward.
To say I believe it is one thing, but to clearly know how to do it it but another of life's questions that no one ever seems to save the answers to on their portable hard drive. But worry not, I shall blaze a trail of my own, make the steps and lay the plans, hedge the bets and continue to use worn out metaphors to explain why I want to take the fight to Chance, raise my sword in glory and take what's rightfully mine. Wish me luck, it can't possibly hurt. S.H.

Sail Away

I've been de-friended. One of my few followers has jumped ship; left the keel; deserted the crew; bailed out; hit the spits; cracked the wobbleys; left the ranch ... not too sure about that last one but the picture is crystal I'm sure. I can't work out who it was, which in itself is probably the reason, but hey, each is each. Tally ho, ta ta, farewell my internet friend, as you cast yourself back out into the raging wilds of the vast sea of online communications. May your life as a cast away end with you landing on the desert island that you seek the most. However, if you ever feel need to set sail in web that is as wide as the world, know that there will forever be a place among the crew that it balderdash, ever ready to welcome you back into the fold, like a shipwrecked companion once pulled of course by the shining light of treasure, but now with their matetys, home again on the seven billion seas. S.H.

I'm Not Gonna Cry

I'm not gonna cry today, I won't shed a tear,
even if some milk is spilt, I won't dilute my beer,
I won't use a tissue, my pillow will stay dry,
and I won't need a shoulder, 'cos I'm not gonna cry,
I'm not gonna snivel, and I'm not gonna sob,
Both my eyes will remain dry, and I won't have to dob them,
Move me with a tragedy, just go ahead and try,
Play me a tear jerker, but I'm not gonna cry.

I'm not going to weep today, I will not wet my cheek,
I'll count to ten and I'll hold it in, I'm not gonna leak,
And I'm not gonna loose it, though I may want to die,
They say it's good to let it out, but I'm not gonna cry,
I'm not gonna blub today, I'm not gonna bawl,
And I'm not gonna fall apart, even if you call me,
I could not cry for forty years, I was to tough a guy,
Now I can do it any time, but I'm not gonna cry.

I must have cried a million tears, at least ninety-six,
I cried me a river, and an ocean just for kicks,
Listen to the thunder, dark clouds fill the sky,
Well it looks like rain, and I hear a train, but I'm not gonna cry.

Yeah, well it looks like rain and I hear a train, but I'm not gonna cry.


Alas, this is not mine, but belongs to the great Mr Wainwright. Big respect goes to the man, the myth, the legend. S.H.

Thou Shalt Always Kill

Thou shalt not question Stephen Fry. SH

I Shall Be Released

And to business. Fettered utterances were the call of the day as most of it was spent reading. Either that or basking in the sun. Or gazing out at other things as they basked in the sun. The day was partly cloudy and mostly quiet. But only where I spent it, as I imagine a building site or the playground of the nearest McDonald's was probably anything but quiet. As one would imagine they would be on most days they were in active use. The afternoon past, a sunset appeared, and soon after nighttime ensued. It still continues as I speak, but for the most part the day has drawn itself to a muted, if not regular conclusion. Excitement did not really rear any of its heads for me, but dare I say it may well have done for several others. Most of these people I will never meet, so the height of their excitement on this day would seem to be interminably unhelpful. Except maybe as serving to brighten my outlook on the day that yes, good things do happen if you are only in the right place when they happen. I will await the proof of this dizzying theory with most eager open-mindedness. Probably. SH

The Summer

Salty skies, air like warm honey. A tethered breeze seems hardly enough to carry anything of worth my way, but still it cools the sand, cools the water, cools the earth. Withered tales crumble and break up above like fallen leaves of autumns long passed away. They turn to dust like decayed vines, no longer snaking their way around and into recesses they should have never found, now blown away by the breath of something new.

I realise this is utter drivel, but something has to fill up this cyberspace, so until I become involved in anything more interesting, this will have to do. SH

Of The Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue stockings.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.
Who tells me the truth, even when I don't want her to.
Who knows it's only just rain.
Who walks like she means it.
Who forgives but doesn't forget.
Who bangs her head to every thick drum beat.
Who has a jacket made of red cotton.
Who speaks like a thunderstorm and sounds like a rainbow.
Who is just around the corner. SH

The Broken, Beat & Scarred

Leave your line of silk, your tawdry tale. Bereft the rest of us your lies, your sullied maze. Take the time and make it yours, keep your clock away from gaze. No eyes of mine could wish to see, nor care to look upon, or wist to be akin, to anything of your own entropy. SH

What Is He Thinking?

I find it hard to turn my mind off. The problem with this is that my mind usually controls most of what I do. Wherever I am I am usually thinking about something, and believe me, this is not always a healthy pursuit. It leads to the all too common 'over thinking'. Which in turn leads to the also all too common 'some more over thinking.'
If you have heard of or know of, anyone that has in their possession or is aware of how to get their hands on a button that not necessarily turns the mind off but more putts it on mute, then I would be more than obliged if you could pass on their contact details. Thank you and good evening. S.H.

You Don't Know Me (Yet)

Your tales are told with marble eyes, a whistled promise, the perfect sigh.
The day's away, the night is here, a crumpled hand, unwelcome tear.
The trees can fly, the birds can sit, there's nothing more, you're here, you're it.
Settled skies have never grown, I'm delicate like a glass gnome.
With silver shoes and patterned dress, you walk along and I'm a mess.
The cloth of time upon my face, I'll rip it up and make my chase. S.H.

Ta Douleur

Ta douleur, ta douleur, never do we bleet more than for the shackles that hold us to be lifted.
A common occurrence among many is to feel the worser for our wear. For some this sense is a justified, if not still unhelpful way of thinking. But for many of those that crow the call of the wounded beast hard done by, a heady lesson in deference would do all their hearts well.
Often it is unfair how some have some and some have some more. But while this state of affairs may cease to breed humility, it is all a statement of the past and the present. The future is there for the victor to evolve, the canny to manipulate. What is now can be shaped into what will be. And while a certain nothingness may house the scene in front of our eyes, it is the warmth that exists behind the trees that can be seen but not yet visited that will forever be all one will speak of and know. S.H.

Soldier's Poem

I saw the plastic soldier man today. Walking to and fro along the beachside path, dressed in uniform of baggy tracksuit and clear thin poncho. He marched a steady beat, step by step and heart to heart, thickened eyes gave me a careful look. We passed a second time, his form irresolute, and I left him on his way, moving off to make the world a better place, and smote any new rain drops that dared to splatter his transparent plastic poncho. S.H.

How To Explain

Concerning those ladies with the microphone and speaker in front of the jewellery or clothing shops. Are they aware that every one seems to be ignoring them? This one I saw today was all smiles and radio voice with the volume on eleven. Everyone in a six block radius could hear her, but they were trying desperately hard not to show it. Even the people that had their hair parted as they walked past the speaker blast held a resolutely passive facial expression, continuing on as if they had not just temporarily deafened.
The lady doing her thing today was outside an upscale jewellers. She was busting out the latest offers on top form, but had to unfortunately compete with the loudness of her trousers. It looked like she had stabbed a male peacock to death and then sewed the poor creature's tail feathers together, wrapping them around her legs and finally securing the whole lot in place with a Pritt Stik. It wasn't pretty. S.H.

Great Southern Land

The lightning is painting the night sky in flourishes, the air is warm and the insects are singing. Great Southern Land. S.H.