It was the taboo of the touch and although it was her habit, it still held the power to thrill me to comfort my distance.

We chatted as she scanned each item , especially the contraband cake, and it was as if we were conspiring, masking our planned insurrection.

I obeyed the card-only directive and, as the till printed the receipt in a flurry, she reached over, stripped it away and pointedly
held both hands out toward mine.

And just there – as I reached around the screen, she cupped my hand in hers and she gifted me her “Look after yourself, luv.”
- while I choked on my goodbye.

Don’t tell our parents, but I think I’m ready
for the next step, I want to hold your hand
and perhaps walk the longer way home.
I’ll shorten my stride and keep in time with us
because it all slows down when you’re talking
when you lick your lips to keep them moist
and they manage to reflect the dipping sun.

I’d like to sit face to face with your face
while you talk about the sky and the stars
about the horizon and what lies beyond
the slow canal and the horse that’s pegged there.

But let’s not tell our parents yet,
I’d like to find out what this is like
before they talk and spoil it for us.

If pain was a friend instead of a burden
– if I could make peace with the unwelcome
– if perhaps I could see it as a teacher, not in a lecture theatre (distant and with sharp echoes), but in a private tutorial with soft furnishings and perhaps a vase of flowers.
– If her lessons came with handouts, exploring with pictures the reason for the searing , the overwhelming

– but no, my pain is that annoying parent on a pointless trek, refusing to stay silent, incessant in her insistence that we can’t part ways

– if we came to a fork in the road and after a heated debate I could go left, and leave her wounded and helpless
– if I was free to explore the trees, to dance, to run and bask in the sunlight, confident to climb down every crevasse without fear of the return journey
– if on the path from the forest, when heading back to the city I saw her again, would I pass on the other side or would I Samaritan her, bind her wounds, carry her back with me, better able to support her after the respite?  Would I better appreciate her for who she is, or would I continue to carry her with resentment?

- If I came across the fork again, I think I would disable her as before and happily leave her bleeding.  I would lose myself in the forest once again.  

But I’d still be able to see the city.

As I wait, I see on an uncomfortably high stool
the grandmother perching opposite
the comfortably bored teenager
replete in his distressed Ramones tee shirt
and ripped white jeans.

She holds her black coffee with both hands, while he plays
with the long spoon in his tall glass of hot chocolate,
her eyes focused on the top of his head,
his engrossed in the puddle of brown milk around his saucer.

Below the music, she pleads for a friendship that he
shows no interest in until she reaches into her bag
and emerges with perhaps something that he’s been waiting for –

And beyond the counter, shielded by formica, the percolators and stacked cups, the apprentice barista drops his tray and from the back two men in ill-fitting suits give a half-hearted cheer, while his boss withholds her anger in front of the paying customers, but judging by her face she would gladly take her protégé by his stained apron and string him up – I think this isn’t the first time she’s taken the cost of breakages out of his salary.

And I’ve missed what it is grandma has presented to her grandson
– all I can see is a suggestion of his fingers playing with silver,
a ring perhaps? The hot chocolate is pushed aside and his shoulders straighten.  
She still looks uncertain, and the seconds drag until his face seems to soften.
He looks up and mouths what might be a thank you.  

And he doesn’t withdraw his hand when she covers it with her own.

Margy shouts her advice from outside Greggs
unsolicited, but often needed
usually it concerns fashion
- the choice of a scarf
- inappropriate shoes for the weather
- or the state of a pair of trousers, hanging and baring a cleavage
(“No one wants to see that, dear.”)

Margy can be relied upon to wear the same distinct socks
– draped around her stocking feet, their multi-coloured design now greyed
by wear and the Uxbridge Road.

Margy is more reliable than her friends and she tells them as much
(“You’re all a bunch of time wasters.”)
demanding more loyalty and demands from me enough for a cup of tea
- a very expensive one apparently.

And on a Sunday, she’ll kneel and pray throughout the early Eucharist,
declining the bread and wine
(”On, no dear.  It’s not a habit I want to cultivate.”)

In another life, my father
must have been a blacksmith.
Essential in his village
Essential to be needed
(otherwise what’s the point?)

Swinging his hammer in heat, in smoke,
content within his St Bruno haze, suspicious
of anything lighter than black leather
anything lighter than brass fittings

- comfortable with sweat stains and scattered ash,
scars and deep bruises marking him
a man’s man and breadwinner,

- relaxed with the air blue, the tribe white
and his iron laughter echoing with every strike,

every blow shaping his son
into his family’s likeness.

I breath in to find my inner Geezer
ready to speak with a more common vernacular.
I channel my South Londoner
and ensure I have my chipped mugs
ready out on the counter.

I pull the Nescafe and PG Tips forward
from the dusty recesses of the top cupboard
and locate the white sugar, checking that I have
at least five heaped teaspoons’ worth
for the coming encounter.

Later, from behind the net curtains,
I see him sizing up my roof from his van
and I wait for him to walk up the drive to push the doorbell.
Oh, no, THE DOORBELL!

And, too late, what credibility I had pieced together cringes
at the anticipation of the Batman themed doorbell ring,
which until that morning had seemed an appropriate ice breaker.

She chose me from among the younger boys to cross the long floor
and on the far side, in the half-curtained sunlight
she took hold of me and my innocent limbs

- she helped me reach up her long back, guiding my trembling hands -
and then she enveloped me, joining her body to mine.

I could feel the damp of her warmth,
our bodies rolling together while her music set the pace
which I struggled to maintain, but somehow I kept in step
with her rise and fall, with her supple flow,
navigating this complex dance,
deep in this safe space
in the circle of her practiced arms.

The pre-pubescent boys looked on
and the teacher's graceful Foxtrot took me
across the full length of the room
from boyhood to something new.

I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.

My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.

I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,

(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.

Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.

He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.

I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.

I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.

Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?

And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?

One click of a radio button and I’m back

in the back of dad’s Hillman Minx estate,
to journeys once forgotten
DB5 in my right hand, Lady Penelope’s Rolls in the left
- both harbouring hidden missiles and secret missions,
racing to grandma’s baked cherry biscuits
deep in darkest green Tonbridge.

Now give me the right Junior Choice tune and I’m back,
staring at the back of my dad’s Brylcreemed hair,
breathing in his rationed St. Bruno flakes,
while keeping a careful eye on Jenny’s
wicked swinging skin-breaker buckles.

I’m nose deep in my latest I Spy, ticking off far more
than I see, in a race to complete the list
before we leave the A23,
while nodding to the rhythm of mum’s
monochrome, high speed knitting.

2 minutes 20 later the song closes
and I’m back from my 60’s jaunt, back in my 50’s,
with part of me still back there,
one back seat song away from long family car trips,
back where a large part of me still belongs.

In her previous life, my mother
must have been an architect.
She brought to each family occasion
her vision, her love of precision, her stability
- ensuring the family structure
was sustainable and capable
of longer-term development
- and we still bear her signature style.

In her previous life, I’m sure
my mother was a portrait painter
- able to take a fresh canvas,
such as mine and my sisters’,
and add layer upon layer
of colour, of texture, to portray
what she saw we would become
– each proudly bearing her inscription.

In her previous life, I expect
my mother was a pioneer
– not of paths yet travelled,
but of more frequented avenues,
boldly exploring the details and intersections
between friends and neighbours
helping us rediscover what we had in common
- each fresh bond bearing her seal.

In this life, my mother
was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef,
a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor,
an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller.

In this life, she was my mother.

Mr Parsons made it sound exciting.
But mum told Joan that she was wicked.

She wasn’t allowed her dolls for a week,
a week she spent bemused and resentful
and she refused to poo for three days
until mum relented and gave her Barbie back
– but the rest would have to wait.

It had begun with Mr Parsons at Sunday School
with the story of the blind man and the mud and the spit.

We’d sat on the adult chairs in a circle
Me, Joan, Gemma, Charlie, and the Brown sisters.
knee to knee in a circle in the corner of the hall,
the one with the draft and the stacked chairs reminding us
that we were the remnant of a once thriving community.

He told us how Jesus made a paste of mud and spit
[Charlie thought this hilarious and spat at Gemma,
so he had to stand with his nose on the wall for the rest of the lesson]
and how Jesus slathered it on the man’s eyes and then told him
(unnecessarily we thought) to go wash it off.

It hadn’t worked first time – was that a first for Jesus? we speculated
and the second time the bloke saw people again
but he was told to keep it secret, which made no sense.

So that afternoon, after dinner, Joan got mud from the garden,
and pasted it onto Barbie’s legs which were abnormally long and made her topple over
and on my action man’s face on account of his ****** scar
which I thought looked cool, but was curious to see what happened.
She pasted it on Ken and Sindy too, but not for any specific ailment.

She followed the prescribed method, slather, wash and then repeat
(which I think she enjoyed a little too much to be honest)
but after the second wash there was no sign of any healing,
perhaps because, like mum said, she was so wicked,
unlike Jesus of course.

I’d never seen mum go that colour – she was livid,
she told Joan to go wash the mud stains off her hands
and to put her dress in the wash.
Joan couldn’t be Jesus and it was wrong to think she could.
That sort of thing wasn’t for little girls.

The next Sunday Mr Parsons seemed a little miffed.
He and dad and mum sat in the hall, knee to knee for ages.
I thought we were for the high jump,
but afterwards mum looked like a school girl caught stepping out of line.

Mum was very quiet and at dinner dad said that she had something to say
- to our horror, she apologised in front of all of us
and she told Joan it was okay to try and do what Jesus did.
It was what he would have wanted.

We were so ashamed for my mum
- neither of us tried to be Jesus ever again.

He tilted his head “Okey doke, it’s almost time to go
– I’ve got a yoga teacher next, down in the Grove.
For you, it’s time to write the silence for a while,
to write the unsaid, to shelve meek and mild.

“Write the inner anger, the notes of distress.
Write what it was that you wished you had said.
Write all the things you’ve been meaning to say.
Write all the feelings you’d wished you’d conveyed.

“Write what it was you had meant to do,
what you intended that so frightened you.
What was it that you’ve let fall in between
your long dead silence and your unsaid scream?

“See if your volume will go above minimum
without it scaring you and leaving you frozen.
Go shape the words and say them out loud
find what it’s like to make fiercer sounds.

“Cos I’ve been so bored, sitting here listening
to nothing but you sat saying your nothing.
Go write your silence and come back around.
And let’s see if you’ve something worth writing about.”

He sits quietly while she explains patiently
what it is that he really wants.
If only he'd listen, he'd not have the stress
of second guessing himself.

In his quiet, in the soft breeze
of her advice, he runs
through perfectly good past menu options
and again considers how their taste
had readily agreed with him.

He resolves and waits for her
to finish her salad,
and before dessert he explains
he needs to leave and walk the dog.

And once safe home,
old Pippa loves him for who he is
and he gratefully takes the lead,
while blocking one more number on his Nokia
and pocketing a mini mars bar for later.

She could have sworn Charlie Chaplin was French.

She had thought so since childhood -
there was something about his movies being sub-titled,
his ****** hair and (she lowered her voice with some shame)
his trouser.

She had loved his films since watching them with her dad
and he never had mentioned the silent star's heritage.
I mean, why would he?

She looked again.  And again there was something
'continental' in his eye liner, in his gait
and in the way he gracefully pivoted
that still fitted her misconception.

But now that she thought more about it,
it made perfect sense,
of course he was not French.
He must have been German.

"I'll leave you all the weapons for that",
Pat smiled and perched the two too-tall cinnamon buns
down beside me on the windowsill,
as promised fully armed with knife, fork and serviette

I entered the fray and caught the eye of the postman
as he fought with his cart along the too narrow,
not-quite-cobbled path, slick with rain,
and then he nodded and gave way
to the guy in the slow sports wheelchair

while the young mum on low reserves
wrestled with her twin girls
up past the town hall and gallery,
perhaps with the promise of grandma's cookies

- all this while Jill's coffee brewed patiently alongside the buns
as she and Deb re-ran long laughter of past adventures
and plotted paths to future endevours.

Welcome to the pharmacy, for poetry.

The angel's nose is in the dirt.
His sacrifice apparently saving us to our grief.
He lies there broken for us, prayerfully still,
there for the sake of the children,
for the sake of decorum,
protecting us from the accidental,
from the potential risk of an angelic fall
crushing the griever as they stoop
to place their flowers.

My sister chose the flower arrangement
from the top table of her daughter's wedding
where the fallen should have been
and perhaps could have stood
giving a heart-felt and gently humorous speech,
offered a toast to beauty and happiness,
but instead lies emotionless

in the dirt.

You didn’t realise just how easy
it was to slip
how you can lose track
lose count and how quickly
a habit can become addictive

Once you get the taste for the hit
you find yourself reaching for it
and before you know it, you’ve slipped
into a dependency - fortunately
this time you’re only a *****
for Lemsip

I read my favourite graphic novel and I see
I need more breath between the panels
The images come too quickly
They combine with the dialogue to overwhelm me
and my ability to process, to ingest
the action and our conversation

Can you afford me more breathing space,
more margin in my morning kitchen shuffle,
can you allow me the time,
maybe as much as the day after the night before
to properly process without the stress
of having to readily express a miserable conjecture
of what I’m feeling, what I'm missing

Then I can signpost where I'm heading
I can pause and recap, provide an opening to map
where my story is going
and then perhaps I can take us with me.

Quote from Paddington in Paddington the Movie

“Mrs. Brown say in London everyone is different, but that means anyone can fit in.  I think she must be right because, although I don’t look like anyone else, I really do feel at home.  I will never be like other people, but that’s alright, because I’m a bear.  A bear called Paddington.”

No, not a melting ***
you know, the kind you get in industrial kitchens:
heavy, stained, covered and sealed,
left to boil and bubble, leaving questions
about herbs and spices and what we’ve concealed.

No, not a melting ***
but a large, glass salad bowl, the kind you place
in the centre of a garden trestle table
glistening in the sunlight,
with two oversized dark wood serving spoons
and a glossy drizzle of vinaigrette dressing.

The glass revealing every shade
of green and black and red, yellow and white
teasing us with every crunch of each anticipated bite,
each variety and shape, inviting us to participate, to fill our plates
and in this feast of an adventure, to celebrate
what we are - together.

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

Whether you know it or not
There're those who look to you
Give them something worth seeing
Something honest and true

All of us carry our scars
Some costly, all hard earned
Don't waste the sweat and tears
Share the lessons you've learned.

We've all got younger brothers
We've all got younger sisters
Take some time to walk with them
Shake off the doubt that hinders

We're all disciples here
We're all disciple makers
We're all apprentices
We're all apprentice takers

His name is Magic -
not because of the wand,
the battered pointed hat,
or his habit of not letting dragons pass,
but because, time and time again,
he was there when needed
and did what was required
to make life go a little smoother.
- Magic.

I felt my self mix and fold
equal portions of opposing selves,
a mix and fold of savoury and sweet
dark and light, crunchy and smooth
intrigue and delight
until the sweet hit of my self doubt
eventually cloaked the savoury of self knowledge
creating a disturbing after taste, which blurted out:
"Surely not me, Lord?"
And he handed the bread and the wine to me.

I want those years. Promise me,
cos I want those years - it's not a lot to ask.

I want the years when you tell me our stories,
when we laugh and you sing our song,
when we dance slow and you breath on my neck.

I want those years and then we can sleep
together on our old bed. And we can keep the space
closed between us. And between us
we can have those years.

Please. Promise me.

A pick up at Gatwick
at way past midnight
is a glimpse into the void
tempered only by the joy
and delight of family
reunited

The sun is down
It's been down for a while
and while she hasn't said outright,
we think it might
be a power play
for a perceived lack of praise

The sun is down
We have been discussing
ways to raise her spirits
without out and out worship
(which would set
an unhelpful precedent)
And so we start with a song
A homage, thanking her
A call, asking her to rise and smile
And it only takes a child sacrifice
once, twice and thrice
to coax her back - a small price,
and before long she's her old delight
and we tell ourselves it's not worship
it's just the just payment due
based on the new tarrifs
for light and heat
and the cost of living
in this solar energy
over dependancy
greener economy

Let's raise our glass to the many and the few
and far between two stools waiting at the bar
with contaminated peanuts
for company and an empty
beer mat ready for the happy
hour rush. And only the lonely truly know
hurt only makes you stronger
and the truth of needing
a glass of something stronger still.

I’m 59 ¾ in my socks, passing older in my dreams
waking in the throw of that first roll out of bed
in my scrambled strike of the percussion snooze button
and my prayer for a delay of the inevitable.

I’m 59 ¾ , but arguably younger in polished shoes,
a pressed whistle and flute
(my creased cover for my wrinkled birthday suit),
and with the adoption of a purposeful stride
to a cramped train ride, a half empty office
and a hybrid solution to a healthier space.

I’m 59 and counting, giving me a final warning
and a diary alert reminding me I have 3 months
to write my bucket list, 3 months before I’m due to kick,
to tick-off my been-meaning-to’s.
3 months of prep, 3 months to lose weight,
get fit, work out, work up a script
for an epic epitaph.

3 months, then I’m in the last quarter – maybe.
Or maybe that was it.
Maybe I’m too late for this pep talk.
Maybe too late by 10 years.
Maybe I should have just hit snooze
and stayed in bed.

Live by a compass of purpose
Not a map of achievement
Celebrate the discovery of the quiet
and challenge the call of the loud

Live by a compass of purpose
It does not circumvent the turbulent
But culverts the tempest of highways
where rage and impatience rule

Live by a compass of purpose
Point yourself to the path home
where you belong.

don’t look at me like I don’t belong,
like me and my kind ain’t full welcome

We're all immigrants, no-one's born in this kingdom,
We’ve got the same grace-rights, as full-fledged citizens

We've each got eternal leave to remain
and have done since the day we came

We have full access, we're all V-I-Ps,
us and the King, we’re real family

me and mine are all around His manor,
if you don’t like it, take it to Father.

He's my Uncle Steve -
he rhymes with make believe.

I never see him, but I believe he's there,
sitting near with his low hum,
refraining from making a show,
rather staying below, but making enough for me
to know - comfort, making me safe,
making the difference between sleep and awake,
between making zeds and making a peep,
making space for me
to make myself at home,
snuggled deep, quietly full of the stuff
that makes great mischief.

And when I awake I know he's gone,
taking his low hum back to where he came from.

He's my Uncle Steve -
he rhymes with make believe
and he'll make a return when I need him.

My kids, they prophecy daily,
young men recount their visions,
pensioners dream their dreams,
fired up for holy mission.

I wonder about those like me
caught in our middle ages.
What did Joel have in mind
for men in mid-life crises?

God tells me I'm still chosen,
I still do qualify
to bear ripe fruit, to share good gifts,
to live without compromise.

So as the last days come much nearer,
as our mission nears completion,
you'll find I pray more readily
to herald his coming kingdom.

What choice of paint
Which layer of wallpaper
What chance haircut
will you dig down to to find
the former you -
the era that feels most
like arriving home
after night-turn
to a crazy-paved front,
a pebble-dashed alley
and tea and toast
and sisters' shouts and laughter
and Rikki's cold nose
against the house wake-up
and the cold bed waiting
in the sunlight,
offering the prospect of quiet
and space to process
the night's violence
its ****** silence and chaos.

6 nights to go before
a quick change
to afternoon shoplifters,
junction prangs
and more palatable stories
to take home with white lies
and shielded emotions

Casting my cares,
but not on Him.
Casting down river -
holding the rod,
keeping watch on the reel,
on the bob of the line.
Angling to reel it in when needed.

I'm not letting go,
not for a second.

I do not mind carrying you,
you carry the conversation while I breathe
and your breath warms my ear

I do not mind the angle at which I hold you
as I bathe you and listen to you sing
and your arms soap my cheeks

I do not mind the slow fall onto the bed
your light keeps us aware of the night
and your dreams bruise until you forget

I do not mind,
but I wait for a dawn alone.

London 1

It’s a jigsaw
an impossible jigsaw of irregular shapes,
no corners and no box.
A spectrum of letters and codes,
numbers that don’t add up - in any direction,
no apparent design and no consistency,
a ring and a circle offering a little diversion
and a blue-brown vein from top left to far right
meandering unhelpfully.

It’s a jigsaw.
Ten million pieces
and every - fragment - fits.

London 2

I was born in South London.
No.  South-East London.
I have lived in North-West London,
in South-West London
and in West London.
East London is a place of work.

These are miles apart.

Codes and customs disconnected
by a river (which was here first)
and by motorways (that came much later).

and I remain.

If you want to learn to play the guitar, you find a tutorial book, you learn the chords, the rhythms,  the techniques and you practice, practice, practice.  Sometimes its hard work.  More often it's fun.  

If you want to write songs, you write. Some are just play, with no real meaning;  some songs express your heart.  Both are worthwhile.

Some sound good and connect with others.  Some don't.  That's fine.  

If you stop playing, if you stop writing you will get rusty.  But you can pick it up again.  

Poetry is the same.

Keep writing.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace, the prince to get tricky,
one lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, the other stood guilty,
one spoke the truth, the other just lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears, one empty of pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought the war had been won.
The King rose on Sunday, his reign just begun.

I focus on the apple, the glint
the fleck of gold on green
glazed and blurred with lashed tears
even as his gaze runs off to
the middle distance soon to
come round for its next lap
and our eyes will meet
for the first time
again.

Sometimes you won’t be, oftentimes you will
see spots and feel lost. If they persist make yourself
an appointment with a quiet man with unremitting sentences
and cold fingers which will explore new fears, fresh cul-de-sacs
leading to excision by a woman with a practiced smile,
knife-thin latex and a distance
that prevents inappropriate contact.

Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you find a new lump -
don’t wait, make an appointment
with the quiet man and he may say something
you won’t hear above the screams swallowed by old nausea.

Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you let regret rise
and tell your daughter all the too lates
that wait unopened.

And one day you will.

My life, at this stage,
had worn paper thin
- clipped to a board, hung
at my feet, open to review
with scant reference
to the source material.

My body had been fragmented,
parts selected and cut -
the changes tracked
for future reference.

And there were end notes
(if you were interested).

I was saved for later.

How much do you value
weight loss on a scale
of 1 to 20?

22

.
#morethanchocolate
#morethanbunnies
#morelikelove
#morelikebloo­dy

Poetry can hand me
a hand rail for the steps down,
can steady me for the unexplored depths.

Poetry can hand me confidence
that I am not alone
that there are words
gifting markers of hope
leading me back to the surface
should I choose it.

The first lesson is to be still
the next is to wait
while you look long
and listen deep
that you might love all the more.

You complete me
in every sound you now mouth,
every movement of your tongue,
every muscle’s adjustment
to effect fresh shape to each phrase,
in every quick, shallow breath
giving sudden pause and turn
to the next silence.

You complete me at this reading.
I had been deaf to the closing,
blind to the ending you now gift me
and ignorant of the next stair
with no balustrade to steady
where you leave the first me
to rise to find, first-hand,
the landing that now completes me.

Fight fire with water
Not with fire

Who would do that?

Apart from those
investing in ashes
Reaping from rapes
Taking from trauma
Gaining from guns
Winning from wars
Paying the ferryman
under the table

Who would do that?

Something is better
than nothing
Nothing is better
than stupid
Stupid is just
stupid

Give me a grain
of gravity, in a moment
of space time, tied to a thread
of string theory,  soaked
in one long figment
of my fantasy

and I will give you
a multi-verse.