Tag: Pensive

(if we’re very lucky) Death by DS Maolalai

it’s wonderful, frankly,
being comfortable.
and I spent so long
in search of suffering
to breed a poet’s
soul. I had – and we all have –
my romantic aspirations,
but there’s nothing else
like this, or shouldn’t be;
like falling over

Autofictive Athletic by Matt Fallaize

This is a work of fiction.

I need to clarify this, as there’s been quite the fashion of late for novels based, with almost no alterations, on the minutiae of the day to day life of men.

Nearly always men.

And in these alleged fictions they catalogue their bowel movements and fear of death and there’s generally some tedious byplay about the taut flesh of much younger women. None of it is terribly edifying, but then they call it a novel and everyone falls over impressed.

Yellow Light Hue by Brandon Cole

It’s a quarter to twelve and I’m staring at this yellow light
Not sure if I’m looking for food or something to think about
I’m not hungry, but I’m certainly not full
A midnight snack fool with yellow light hue

The greens that occupy my bottom two shelves
Beach Boys asking about my favourite vegetable
Its aubergine if you must know, brain at quarter to twelve
But greens aren’t what I’m after, I’m in need of something else

The Fish and My Father by Kevin McGowan

On a moist autumn day, long before the nicotine dressed his lungs in black for his funeral, my father severed the line with his pocketknife, set down his rod, and lit another cigarette. Mayfair from the newsagent: he had always been a man of quantity over quality. I traced the castoff line, limp in the water, back to the tree that had claimed it. Neither of us could fish, but fishing, maybe for reasons of primal origin, was seen to be one of those father-son bonding experiences. Well done, kid, you killed something. High five.

Certain Stories by John C. Krieg

Certain stories are supposed to have certain endings.  The die is cast.  The storyline is set in stone.  To not follow the plotline could almost be viewed as a sin, and to go off script oftentimes invites disaster.  Sometimes you just have to go with the flow, and sometimes the flow can cause you to drown.

The day after Luke died, there was a puppy roaming in the driveway, maybe eight weeks old, but probably closer to six and just on the edge of being appropriately weaned.  She was cute, as all puppies are, but there was a sadness about her.  She had obviously been dumped upon us by someone who just didn’t want to be bothered anymore.  Judging by how skinny she was, they most likely didn’t spend any money on dog food.  I could envision her masters ripping apart the litter, separating the young and innocent from their mother as soon as possible, and putting their concerns behind them as they dumped their problems on to someone else.