I'd been sleeping poorly what with my agonies
needed an early morning nap but
at a ratatatat on the front door I jerked awake and
obediently open up, a respectable couple not
this time trying to get me to switch my energy supplier or
join the young communists but
'We're from The Sun'
asking me if I had any thoughts on the 'Love Island House'
Excuse me what
She mentioned a house number and I blearily
glanced across the road at
the house recently painted in blue and pink
mumbling, I really don't care about it
'Could we use your name'
but I'm not deranged enough to give them that, and
It turns out it wasn't the house opposite but further along
beyond my eyeline,
I'd seen it tarted up with lights
seems it's been called out by a disgruntled neighbour
"The house is lit up like a building from Las Vegas"
and The Sun was frothing at the thought
of a Love Island related story and bothered me
Lee Holloway Towers in his fretful slumbers
Not my problem baby and
I will never sleep again
Categories:
tarted, home, house, light, sleep,
Form: Free verse
Too young, they said
We get very upset and loudly condemn men who have
sex with women at seventeen or younger.
Our vehemence against men who sleep with under-aged girls, in our Western society is, quite frankly, not honest
Our ostracism is also fake, it is designed to show that men
side with women in this immoral matter.
Many men have also unwittingly slept with mere “girls”
especially in the bar and nightclub milieu, where women tend to, when tarted up, look older than their years.
In some cultures many young women get married at fifteen, (Romeo&Juliet were 15 and 14)
I think in these cases, say like Edward, the prince, we must forgive and not condemn men to forever be
excluded from polite society and not succumbing to the hatred that lacks charity towards the trespassers.
Categories:
tarted, anti bullying, candy, cinderella,
Form: Blank verse
The street where I live
is where rich people
have holiday haunts,
or investors have airbnb houses to rent.
The little old lovelies are
tarted up with a lick of paint
stuffed full of
period matching furniture
and nick-knacks,
to charm the socks off
the visitors flocking to
the seaside for short stays.
Mid-week outta the holiday season
my little old street is a ghost town.
Only 5 of 34 houses with lights on
at night.
On the week-end its party time,
with parked cars choking the roads.
The kind vacationers tell me
when there's a party on
across the road,
and ask if I mind the noise.
Fortunately, though unfortunately,
I'm deaf in one ear,
and so with curtains drawn
and good-ear down,
it's sweet dreams
and memories
for long-stayer,
party-animal
on the outta,
little old me.
Categories:
tarted, celebration,
Form: Free verse
Lonely birds of our time
Took off from the tarted lands
of narcissism and neglect alike
Flapping wings to no rhyme
Struggle over the low grounds
In depravity and high self spite
When the mountains rise high
The cheery lot from nice homes
Put their merry hearts in it and fly
Lonely birds dread the climb
For their souls are scared and hearts beat up
And bearly hold any life
Categories:
tarted, anxiety, childhood, depression, psychological,
Form: I do not know?
Avec Amour
softly seasons change
melting into one another
winter to spring
Sping to summer.
but fall strides
in seven league
ice boots, hugging
trees so tight
they blush crimson
drop their tarted leaves
like brilliant skirts
around their ancient ankles
then sleep sated
through the winter.
Categories:
tarted, autumn,
Form: Free verse
Foreign Devils
There’s an Indian
in a Indians world.
As crooked as a walnut tree,
but more devout than you’ll ever be.
I’d love to be a ships captain
sailing o’er the sea,
dwell in eternity,
aside a mermaid.
Here come the unforgiving Englishmen
all dressed up in red coats,
liken little tin soldiers,
come over in boats.
Here the sun burns everything to dust
It’s no place for the righteous or just.
So with clamour, sound your battle horn,
certainly not an invite to tea.
Watch out for Allah, Muhamid too,
lest cut ye all ta pieces,
Stick ye back with glue.
Infidels
Mine tears are for Moses,
all thine prophets too.
Mine tears are for Abraham,
wasn’t he a Jew?
Heathens sharpen up your spears.
Wanton harpies tarted up with paint,
go tell the foreign devils
to pray for their saints.
Categories:
tarted, philosophy,
Form: Ballad