As I sit here, gaze flickering,
From pool to people, beautifully blond beaus
Pushing prams around tiles soaked in cloud, not sun,
(Because it’s November so go figure)
The pangs of loneliness surface
But then promptly retreat, like smiling Pennywises
Dipping back into a drainy kingdom
Tag: holiday
Outside and warm
There’s something to be said
For sitting on rattan chairs and looking up
At a tie dyed sky
The same inky blue I saw in a dress earlier
The one I added to basket but never checked out
This is a sky of another era, a time
When we rode like ghosts on American highways
Legs pressed up against the dashboard
Podcast blaring nonsense
Gently slipping into sleep
Half expecting to hit a deer
That fear every time we rounded a bend
Or you vroomed a little too callously
A cacophony of screeching, and my brain doing somersaults
Playing out the poor deer’s death
And this balmy air also smacks of times in Spain
By the sea where we built our lives
And had a fridge full of food
And money in the bank
Dusted pink sunsets trickling down to the seafront
Paellas baked fresh, inches from the seabed
Tummies content and hankering for margaritas on Friday nights
Warm all the time
Flip flops flung over shoulders
Walks down to the beach and then back to Lidl
For a feast
Work was still a drag, head filled with dread
Every fucking Sunday night
Like some stupidly mundane weekly ritual
The brain bashing, self inflicted fear and loathing in Las Palmas
I was still afflicted like I am now
But those balmy sun dappled evenings
Grinning on terraces
Stuck like insects in a treacly loveless web
Boy was it good sometimes.
Florida dreams
Driving around Florida was perhaps the happiest I’ve been.
This was back in June when responsibilities were low and expectations were high
when the orange-clad Disney-donning streets always led us to Chick-fil-a or Moe’s at the height of hunger
stomachs beaten by pangs, the allure of burrito bowls and buttery milkshake broths awaiting.
We stopped in at all the parks and scaled iron-fisted fortresses and dropped
down vicious clanging paths
took oodles of pictures for the ‘gram and drank pint after pint of poisonous soda
to ward off the southern sun, bleeding onto our skin…
while fabric Mickeys and Minnies gasped for air
through the winter-laced fibres of their bulbous heads
probably paid a pittance
to stand in the sun and boil like broccoli
skin wretched and pasty at the end of the day; ours firetruck-red.
We went to Medieval Times because you said I ought to get a taste
of American pastimes
there we watched horses charge up and down with stout little fellows on their backs
wielding sticks and swords
jousting like they might have done back in the day
while we hunkered down over a medieval meal
turkey leg, garlic bread, tomato soup and enough Coke refills
to disintegrate a steak, and rot my molars.
Planes, trains and automobiles
People rush to shove their bags overhead Like a herd of wildebeest and you’re mufasa.
They prance and prowl about in this tiny aisle, knocking you sideways.
Before reaching far-flung corners of the world,
They’ll fling their luggage tags at you,
Run over your big toe
And elbow you in the cheek, arm or collar bone
Without any sort of apology.
Overhead space is like prime real estate
Because we’ve got so much stuff,
So many creams, so many serums,
So many outfits and hair products
A ball of mad capitalism.
Tall, quick-footed parents step over you to claim their space,
Older lemon-faced ladies moan at the lack of legroom,
Children sit scared in their seats and tap away on their Samsungs.
And the stuff piles up, high above our heads,
Weighing us down both here and there.
The sun and old people and the madness of fashionable burning.
What is it with old people when they come on holiday.
Mister, to achieve the shade of “pink” you’ve bravely opted for,
You might as well have stuck your head inside an oven
And roasted like a turkey.
Put some sprouts around your mouth
Stick some ‘tatoes round your buttocks,
And a pretty pink gobbler you’d make.
Mrs Saggy Bottom, do you not KNOW the danger of too much sun exposure?
A dollop of cream might banish that neon red line
Around your neck.
And to you Sir, the one I spy
Sizzling away on a sun lounger slumbering,
Haven’t you a bed that could provide more comfort,
Or do you delight in dyeing your back a deep shade of lobster red?
Sore in the morning, blistered to touch,
And yet you’ll get up and do it all over again the next day
No wonder you look like an old leather boot.
talking to my pillow. 