We read fairytales to find our prince.
We listen to music to find our soul.
We post to social media to be seen.
But why, when we're alone, do we stare at the stars?
From afar, mere specks of light fighting to shine against the abyss surrounding them. But up close? Beautiful and dangerous. Too close, and you burn away.
Is that why we distance ourselves? Why we keep our heads buried in the books we envy? Because why do characters get to have what we can never find? Why does Cinderella get to find her prince, and Rapunzel get to let down her hair, while I'm still stuck in the tower, scrubbing away the mess others made of me?
The beginning always on repeat. Stop and rewind. Never seeing the end credits of “Happily Ever After.”
No. Never.
We were on a side quest. I wanted some cool, fresh
cherries to savor as we strolled hot Saint Tropez.
So we were in a grocery store, in the township,
I was pushing a shopping cart along the frozen food aisle
when suddenly my feet flew out from under me and I
took a hard, embarrassing, backward spill.
Peter was shocked - “What?!” He exclaimed.
One second I was up and the next I was on my back.
It was like a lightning strike or a film edit, I was like WTF?
I was in flip-flops and there was a puddle of water.
I was fine, if scuffed up - thank god I wasn’t in a dress.
I got right up, I mean I’m not a 90-year-old lady.
And after a second we walked on, only to be swarmed,
a moment later, by the store manager and his minions
- “Are you ok?” He asked, scrubbing his hands.
“Yes, I’m fine - no, I don’t want to fill out a report”
My left big-toe was swollen and bleeding - so no running
along the beach this morning - now THAT seemed weird.
I guess it was more of a back-side quest.
.
.
A song for this:
Helter Skelter by the Beatles
Trouble Me by 10,000 Maniacs
Knock-knock, hello ma'am! Take a look at this shine,
a brand-new skillet to make your dinner divine.
I see you’ve been working and slaving all day,
with pots that turn gravy, charcoal and gray.
But look at this surface, so sleek and so smooth,
designed for your kitchen, with patterns that soothe.
No butter, no grease, and no scrubbing the sink,
it cooks up a steak as quick as a wink.
Your eggs will slide out like a puck on the ice,
your hubby will swear, the chicken tastes nice.
It's forged out of steel that was meant for a jet,
the sturdiest tool that a woman can get.
So toss out that iron that weighs down your wrist,
an offer like this is too good to be missed.
Just sign on the line and I’ll hand you the best,
and give your old cook stove a much-needed rest.
After the sirens fade
and the yellow tape is gone,
the street breathes slow again
as if nothing went wrong.
Neighbours close their doors,
windows shut tight,
no one speaks of the blood
that was here last night.
A mother wipes the floor
where her child once stood,
scrubbing and scrubbing
but it does no good.
The stain does not leave,
it lives in her mind,
repeating the moment
time left behind.
Morning still comes,
people go to work,
but under the quiet
the memory lurks.
The dark seeps like oil in cloth
Never finding its way out
Scrubbing and scrubbing
But never leaving
Im impure like that cloth
I lay in bed and fall
Falling farther and farther
The hole is nothing but soft feathers
I have no grasp no way out
No matter how comforting the feathers
The fog rolls in and I cant see in front of me
Cant think of whats next
The fog settles low and heavy
Never leaving
It starts to seep
Just like that damn oil
I am a forgotten home
where people fall through slats in
floors wooden, scarred by pulled
furniture. Footprints lost under dust.
I am a derelict building
where industry once flourished.
Fires raged and pallets stacked.
Assembly lines ran in humming circles
eternal now form static loops lost
without worker. Ghost metal halos.
I am a garden overgrown
with crisscrossing blades and
thorns cursing from shadowed trenches.
Mud slops over once shining
pathways like greasy suds spilling from
sink, scrubbing at stains immortal.
I am a hollow man,
a hurt man.
I am a man devoid.
An airless body.
scrubbing a floor
a repetitive chore
dusting a table
I do as I’m able
vacuuming
a boring thing
highly paid worker
housekeeper, no shirker
many of us despise cleaning
cluttered houses are where we’re leaning
washing dishes
rounded swishes
I clean with distaste
do each job in haste
repetition a bore
I have done it before
Celtic fans thought their team was due for a right gubbing
To the Gers' fans the first half was a Celtic drubbing
And the Celtic fans were so close to blubbing
Rohl was close to kingship with the Gers' fans him so dubbing
That second half with O'Neill's adroit subbing
Saw Celtic give the Blues a thorough scrubbing
With cheers unheard from the Green Brigade out happily pubbing
At the final whistle Celts with glee their hands were rubbing
While the home crowd felt like their team clubbing
And angrily their season tickets stubbing.
From the tips of my toes, to the end of my nose,
I probed for reactions, without any pain.
With a drink to my lips, I examined my hips,
But my efforts, again were in vain.
While scrubbing some skin, on my double chin,
I found nothing to make me complain.
Then with one final check, I felt a pain in my neck,
Which left me, simply feeling insane.
Without any doubt, I was suffering from gout,
That starts when I'm drinking champagne.
10 / 9 / 2025.
the 1950 housewife wears her best dress to clean
and pearls from Hawaii with a slick dazzling sheen.
In her polished high heel shoes, she prances in the kitchen.
Making food for her family without help and never ’n.
The 1950’s housewife cleans and vacuums with delight.
If there are any messes, she keeps them hidden from our sight.
She is gloriously giddy to spend her day mopping and scrubbing a sink.
In the evenings she goes to nightclubs wearing diamonds and her mink.
The 1950’s housewife never complains a bit about her marvelous life.
So eager and thrilled to be called Tony, Larry or Dickie’s little wife.
Anticipating her husband’s needs, putting them in front of her own each day.
If you cannot find the 1950’s housewife, perhaps she has run away.
Circling the drain my world’s changing,
trying to salvage the best parts.
Naiveté and those soft hearts,
they slide down disintegrating.
The hardest fist is now banging,
this is how sour becomes sweet tarts.
Circling the drain,
a potent aroma’s stinging.
Dingy is how all the growth starts,
everything’s fresh after cleaning.
With focus you’re harshly scrubbing,
circling the drain.
Your hands would bleed from endless days,
Scrubbing floors to hide the stains.
Three kids hungry, three kids cold —
You broke yourself to keep us whole.
The cupboards echoed, barely fed,
But somehow we still had a bed.
He drank the money, smashed the walls,
Turned our nights to drunken brawls.
I heard you cry, I heard him yell,
I lived with you inside that hell.
You stood between his fists and me —
A shield I never thought I’d see.
No medals hang, no one applauds,
For nights you faced down all his flaws.
You took the blows so we’d survive,
The quiet war that saved our lives.
We’re grown now, Mum — and we are good,
Just like you prayed we always would.
Your hands still shake from what they’ve known —
But Mum, you never fought alone.
looking back to when I was a lad
They said times were hard, They said things were bad.
Picking up tatties, the pulling of peas
Coming back home with scratched grimy knees.
Screwing the Beetroot, yes that is right
Removing the tops from morning till night.
You couldn't cut the tops off, that made them bleed
Keeping your eye out for the sharp stinging weed.
Finger nails were always full of mud
Scrubbing hands would do no good.
Summer break were still lots of fun
When working the fields were almost done.
We didn't have computers, four channels of TV
Top of the pops were the highlights for me.
Kicking the football out on the street
A clip around the ear from the bobby on the beat.
Looking back it wasn't that bad
Lots of fond memories when I was a lad.
Holidays were over it was back to the grind
Wondering what lessons the teachers had in mind.
I didn't mind maths and history was great
The adventures we made up me and my best mate.
Now that I'm older looking back realise
My whole life's been an adventure through this pair of eyes.
We know the secret to winning
The sweet fennel sausage with
sweet relish and eggnog yeast rolls.
The toll of the roll
with caramelized onions
The dungeon were the tomato's
Ripen is scrubbing
Perfect lettuce ooh the sweet relish
Is it delish love your relish
Peggy rolls takes the tolls to another
Level
Sausage sammish and fries damn I
Love your sandwich
Oniony buttered rolls
Like a grill cheese sandwich
I am in love you know
I gotta have it
Tickle me
I am your fool
Staula
The perfect fool
Cheese me up
To a whole new level
Feenl sweet
A seductive devil
The spicy red pepper flakes
Oh foo goodness sakes
We gotta good thang
Going on
It's my song
Won't stand a chance
Music by
Galveston Sweetie
Food by "Greasie"
Courtesy of
Soothing Sounds
And by "Hot LOVER"
OF SHORTIE RICO LLC.
and the Sounds of
Black Music On nc.
death isn’t some big affair
like in the movies
they romanticize that
there is no music
swelling in the background
no heartfelt words or gifts
or sudden miracles of life
it’s just sad.
deep, heavy sadness
that digs so far into you that
you feel like you’ll never get it off
sadness that seeps into your skin
until no amount of scrubbing
under hot water can get it out
sadness that becomes a part of you
sadness that becomes you.
death isn’t some big affair
it’s just sad.
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