Monday, 29 August 2011


I can see you,
I can see you coming. 
Your dark shroud
hides you not from me. 
You look at me,
weigh me up
From every angle,
every corner.

I see you,
I see your mean thin smile
split your loathsome face –
Not grey, worn or lined
with the ready burden
that you carry
(and dispense with eagerness,
malignant pride
to those to vulnerable to resist).

like some awful alien sun
your face glows, cheeks puff,
eyes glint and draw me in. 
Your court me easily,
embrace me in
your malignant charm,
embrace me close
to your awful malformed chest,
your parasitic heart
roots into mine
feeding on its frightened rhythm.

Your deep dark thoughts attempt
to penetrate my flesh, my mind 
and nauseated by your
rancid breath,
oh how I try so hard to resist,
to fight you off
to save my very self.

But your gloom drip, drip, drips
like some eternal icy shower
and protection down
like some collapsing umbrella
rent asunder
by your perfect, perfect storm,
resistance done
you finally penetrate,
penetrate my very heart and soul
and saturated, drowning
in your gloom I descend,
into a deep depression.

Red Umbrellas, Christopher Shay
This time
you have worn me down
and won
but then you always win.

Anna :o]

With thanks to the good folk at Magpie Tales and dVerse for the inspiration.

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

The Death Of The NHS

Read  this and weep.  Cry your bloody eyes out.  You were warned.  You did not listen.  Apathy is easy.  Murdoch provided an ideal opportunity to bury bad news - and buried it was.  I totally missed it.

Your future in health provision is to be changed.  You will allow it as it hasn't touched you yet.  It possibly/probably will  in the future when you are needy - and your needs will not be met.  Visit NHS Support Federation, read all and act.  It is up to you.  Only you can effect the halt of privatisation.  Do something for Gods sake!

Anna :o[

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

The Painter

He is gone now,
The slick artist
Who painted my dreams,
Coloured my vision,
Decorated his intentions,
Papered over the cracks
Of his little sick schemes. 

He has stripped me
Bare of my ego,
Left my heart bare of trust,
And scraped the hope
From my soul
As my dreams turned to dust. 

Yet I still love him,
My faux painter,
My forger, my faker
And I gloss over his faults,
For he is etched deep in my psyche,
My handsome heart breaker.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the inspiration.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

What is this?

What is this?  
What is this that ails us? 
This malady,
This malevolence,
Which infects us easily
When wounds laid bare
Become easy hosts
To societies ills,
This sickness sweeping
Disaffected youth, hotheads,
Pyrexial with adrenaline
Light bonfires, bonfires
That fan the flames of racism,
Burn bright the beacon,
The bloody beacon that
Lights the way to bigotry.

How easy
They succumb to stereotype,
The looters, the arsonists,
The bigot's fodder;
The bigots dream gifted,
Gifted by the very underclass
They wish to further

Black, brown, white –
The underclass,
United by deprivation,
Divided by difference. 
Hooded they roam the streets;
Pack mentality
Supersedes rationality,
For rationality
Has no business here
As they scavenge
Like hungry primeval beasts
On looted goods
And feed on the
Adrenaline rush of anarchy.

Oh how this anarchy,
This pleasure
Of fleeting power
Runs fast through veins
Infecting systemically
The very body of
Our nation,
Its fever flares
In new hot spots
As hooded youth
Copycat, mimic
The initial opened wound
And light fires to their freedom,
Their awful new found freedom
Where death has become
Its awful victim.

Yet not all this underclass,
This nations poor of hope
Run riot
And watch instead,
In utter disbelief,
As seemingly abandoned
By enfeebled,
Directionless police
And the distant leaders
Of our troubled state, 
They attempt to
The incomprehensible. 

Soon the infection
Will be treated –
Yet the patient
Will not be cured. 
The virus will hide
Under its own hood,
An opportunist,
Watching, waiting
For a fresh new wound
On which to reek its
Destructive qualities,
The qualities of a sick society. 

It will come again.

Anna :o]