Hand puppets

You take my hand in yours
Digits interlocked
Entwined
With palms together as we walk.

Each step brings
A caress
From your guitarist fingers.

Step and slide
Step and slide

A circle
On the back of my hand
Makes your thumb a tongue
And our hands mouths
Kissing en Franҫais

Ross Sutherland piece

Stunning piece by Ross Sutherland here. Backstory from his live performance: he found his grandad's old video tape that he'd use to record everything, full of little clips of shows, here the start of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Ross was obsessed with repetition as a kid and he went to see Ghostbusters at the cinema with his grandad 7 times
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rD--Tc752n8&t=2m7s

Re: steam

Let's consider steam a work in progress? I like the theme, but think it's something I'll have to come back to.
Maybe a short story...

Steam

He'd wished it was fog, swirling and twisting

Draping over the unkempt garden.

He needed the gravitas,

The fallacious pathetic fallacy,

To cover his callous lack of emotion in what

He was about to say.

But it was just steam

From the back of her washing machine.

He'd wished that the piercing cry

Screeching over the roof top

Head turning

Ear splitting

Was the cry of a hawk

Punctuating his sentences

With portentous drama

But in truth, it was kids

Fucking with the car they'd nicked.

He wanted so much to care

Because once

He had.

Once he'd loved and once he'd sworn

That he would never have this conversation.

That he'd laugh in the face

Of anyone who'd even suggest he would.

Sworn time and again that as long as the sun shone

And the Earth spun

He would stay with her.

But times they change

And so do hearts.

He'd wished that it was foggy

Thick and enveloping

Holding them together

As once he'd held her close.

But it was steam

Disappearing, evaporating.

Just steam.

okay okay

Obviously the last post doesn't start until next week..... that's honestly what I meant.

But have a slightly sad poem instead.

New challenge!

I'm going to write a drabble (story of 100 words) every day until I don't. Based in some way on the dictionary.com word of the day.

Canine Time

Time seems concentrated.

Compressed and condensed
like sweet milk.

Each second
Ticks the tock
Of seven.

And each minute
Has six more
Stacked within it;
A Russian doll of understanding.

Each hour
Is seven fold with
Tales told of experiences
That by location were divided but
Through emotion were shared.

And each week
Stretches time further.
Back before the gig when we first kissed
Beyond the corner table and
Folk inspired cider
In the pub where you thought you worked.

Our paths have crossed before
As we laughed together
Drank together
In a cellar bar years ago
Before I even knew you.
And I still don't believe in fate, or gods or qi,
But you... I believe in you.

A poem about Oxford

I have called many places home,

I have laid my hat in run down, north-west houses

I have broken crusty baguettes in a broken, crusty Paris flat.

I have called many places home.

I have called many places home.

But only one has called me back.