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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