The Curious Arena of the B & B Breakfast Room

The curious arena of the B & B breakfast room. One enters into the womb-like world of crushed whispers and ornate china, to be greeted by older folks, sipping silently from serious spoons of cereal, whilst watching the world through tiny, tired eyes. Amid jugs of juice and novelty salt and pepper pots, beneath scenic landscape paintings, young couples, carefree and freshly buttered from love making, discreetly scatter words across dry-cleaned tablecloths, like toast crumbs. The only real noise of any note is that of plates being cleared, the footsteps from their host going back and forth, and the departure of gloomy guests, as they rise, their chair legs scraping across the floor. This is the awkward munching of minds and individuals: creeping, crunching, strangers dining, most amusing, bodies cruising through a breakfast room, where they who are nearing the end of their adventure collide with those who are just about to embark on theirs. 

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Valentine's Day - It's a Mixed Bag

Billie Holiday was saying good morning to heartache, whilst Leonard Cohen was a thousand kisses deep. Nick Cave hated them all, for what they went and done to you, but Morrissey wouldn’t let them touch a hair on your head. Kurt Cobain felt stupid and contagious, just as Brian Wilson realised he wasn’t made for these times. Meanwhile, Jarvis Cocker thought the drink wouldn’t do a thing for him but revive some stupid memories. Nina Simone got that mood indigo, yet Jim Morrison was busy turning keys and setting people free! Martin Rossiter felt he could only be normal with you, as Elvis posed whether you’re lonesome tonight? A friend of Noel Gallagher suggested, don’t look back in anger, only for Jeff Buckley to cry, this is our last goodbye. 

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(all lyrics property of their rightful owners) 

A City In January

Call girls wait, frozen in leaky phone boxes.

Homeless wait, leaking in frozen doorways.

ATM’S wait, too, 

Sporting cold, thin metal lips that wish to feed

Upon frozen bank balances.

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Holes

Holes? Don’t talk to me about holes. I once met a man who had so many holes, he looked like a block of cheese from a cartoon. He had holes in his holes. Holes in his shoes where things got in, holes in the lining of his coat where things got out. Everything was the wrong way with this guy.  He’d lose money with one hole and take in water with another, but gee, I think it might have been all those holes which made him so damn wholesome. On the one hand the guy never got too attached to things, you see, but, on the other, he never took them for granted either. He kept things close to his heart, when he had them, graciously accepted it when they were gone. He appreciated a sunny day; he understood a rainy one. He was full of holes, but he was the most complete man I've ever met.

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Lisbon

Cobbled chaos,

Vehicle horns,

Dark living rooms. 

Caged budgies 

Looking outwards from within.  

Old ladies that once sprinted 

Over these streets, 

Hobble arthritically through splintered 

Pavements with walking sticks. 

Clothes lines and flies, 

Buzzing and tied 

Between broken biscuits of buildings; 

Craggy faces broken, sleeping, 

Woken, 

By mid-afternoon sun. 

Trams rusted and rattling and squeaking, 

Turning dust 

Over wonky steps 

Only just swept.

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First Impressions

The moon rolls her winter tongue

Along the spine of the tide;

Both are as cold as bare feet

In frozen sand, and

Just as equally beautiful,

For at this time of day,

Before even the sun shows up,

Everything is new; and 

We and the waves and 

The gulls and the shoals,

Are all the first to witness it:

Cottage lamps stir

Like candle lights

Overlooking sheets of sea,

Compressed between clouds

Of gravestone grey, and

A beach, the colour of tea.

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Memorial

I was very proud to be asked to write an original piece for the village memorial garden. It's a very serene spot, where people can be with their thoughts, and I'm honoured to be a part of that process. 

                                                                                                     property of silver4chris protected by copyright 2022