SITCOM CITY (a.k.a. A Poem I Wrote Over the Course of Months - Still Not Happy)

I know a guy
in Sitcom City.
He knows bookshops,
coffee shops,
clean bars
where single women congregate
alone, free and
hot.

I knew him from his laughter
that follows him, swallows him.
He never learns 
but that's the line,
ratings are high
in the limits.

He can't guarantee much,
he might even ruin you.
Your chances are weak
while the writing is kind.

It's this city, he'll tell you,
this rosy city
with its made-up figures
that dance among the arcs
of men like him
and some women too
though he's never met them.

I'm not sure if he cares about
the cigars he can
always afford or
the friends he
often fails.
The rain comes out through nozzles.

Everyone's open
while the city is clear.
The women smile,
await their cue
and go.
He sets them off.
We watch.
We've seen them.
We've seen this one.

The titles.
The laughter.
Run it or can it.
He's smoking jokes
and here we are
only listening,
listening hard.

THE BRANCH AND THE BABY BOOTIE (a.k.a. An Image from a Dog Walk)

          The hedge was messy at the bottom: twigs and leaves nuzzled into the cracks on the pavement. There was even an overgrown branch, curved and upturned, that hooked on to people's trouser legs as they passed by.
          One day a pink baby bootie slid out from one of those trouser legs. The branch was almost ripped apart. It fell limply on top of the fallen item until another leg snapped the branch clean off at the end and kicked it into the road.
          The branch continued to grow. It gouged its way into the bootie then slowly retracted, footwear still attached. In the wind, it kicks.

SHE COMPOSED HER OWN EPITAPH (a.k.a. A Rather Bleak Cut-and-Stick Poem I Made to Stem off Boredom)

She composed her own epitaph
to 'Black Los Angeles'
before the judge,
that child,
used her rage to seize
the endless hours.

Slickness,
he says,
is art.
Compose and you
kill it.

BOTTOM OF THE ATTENDANCE SHEET (a.k.a. An Exaggeration of Things I've Actually Written as an Exam Invigilator)

Tom arrived five minutes into the exam -
he had no extra time.

Corin turned up half an hour late -
she had no pen, black or otherwise.

Rufus went to the toilet for fifteen minutes -
he came back with a limp.

Corin asked for a calculator -
she was doing the history paper.

Emma was called out of the exam -
the man said he was a teacher.

I stepped outside the room briefly -
noisy hallways - adults this time.

Corin tried to trip me up -
she still had her bag beside her.

They all finished ten minutes early.

BASEBALL VOWS (a.k.a. Marital Sentiment Corrupted or Chipped Away into Confusing Sports-Like Talk)

My daring,
Oh, my daring battercap,
you teak me every day.
Each wood is as sweat as
the leaps that deliver them.
You growl,
I growl.
Your hind,
your delegate paddle,
lay it in mine
and let's fend our feature,
our feature that shuts up and be earned
the spouting bubs we've become through
funding each other.

SMOTHERING AND BEAR HUGGING (a.k.a. The Third and Final Entry for the Creative Writing Ink Writing Prompts Competition)

Third time's a charm, a magic number and three times a lady - http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

            The thing about sci-fi conventions is that they always expect you to wear the costume. Regardless of the heat, your mood and how far you need to walk to get back to your bloody car. This costume is surprisingly movable in the lower portions but the feathery volcano that is the head has only very thin slits to see through which can, and usually do, cause dizziness. Not to mention it's sweltering in here.

            I'm not sure how this particular monster has become iconic in the show's history, it's lumbering with limited movement and it doesn't even have any claws. I asked for claws on the first day of shooting but they told me to leave it off. Well actually, what the director said was, 'the monster is like granny's knitted jumper or a big teddy bear at first but then reveals itself to be a rather crafty predator, smothering and bear hugging. What we're wanting here is for no-one to look at anything fluffy in quite the same way again.'  'Fair enough,' I said. Work was hard to come by in those days so I left it at that.

            When would be a good time to take off this head? There seem to be fans everywhere, I can barely distinguish them from average citizens anymore. There's a short cut between those two buildings if memory serves, I'll probably do it there. Unless I'm followed. Unless one of those fan boys has a thing for fuzzy monsters. Wouldn't put it past a few of them.

            Just a couple more crossings. The eye slits seem to have shrunk, filled up perhaps. I'd be able to gouge them open again if I had claws but no. The heat's getting ridiculous now, all over. Just like grandma's knitted jumper. Only four more conventions this year, a month before the next. Sheffield, posh hotel. Should be nice.

            That car's coming up rather fast. One headlight on full blast. Ha, that rhymes. I'm a poet. I'm a teddy bear. I'm a fucking fuzzy monster.

            It's swerving. Oh shit.

            'Hey, mate.' that a man's voice? 'Hey, mate. You're from that show, aren't you?'

            'Y-yes.'

            'Awesome.'

            Right. Off with this bloody head. 'You missed the convention, mate. Now I'm just a bloke burning up.'

            His face falls. 'Oh. Okay.'

            'See you next time.'

            'Yeah.'

            I step back up onto the pavement, let him past.

            The car's not too far from a petrol station, is it? I'll change there.

THE SHAPE AND THE SHELL (a.k.a. Another Entry for the Creative Writing Ink Writing Prompts Competition)

Here's that link again - http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/
I'm posting these here because them's the rules.

            The golden shape was within reaching distance of the shell. It hadn't decided precisely what shape it wanted to be yet, but its arms certainly needed to lengthen. The sand was no ground to stand on and the waves certainly couldn't be trusted.

            The shell wasn't it's shell: the golden shape had no intention of hiding within it. In fact it wanted to break it. Somehow. It had a few ideas but was still thinking them through.

            The shell reflected only some of the golden shape's light back; it was bone dry. The shape tried to ignite it remotely but it was too far away. It would have to get closer but its limb-like rays were already boiling through the soggy sand. Giving in to temptation, the shape started to float. Not too far off the ground, barely an inch.

            The golden shape loomed over the shell. It was illuminated, no shadows, the sand baking beneath it. One of the shape's blobs sprouted into an arm which simplified into a tentacle before touching the top of the shell. Nothing more than a touch, a lick of radiation, and the shell crumbled. The golden shape dimmed. The waves hissed beneath its emanating heat.

            Sparing only a moment's pause, which sounded rather like a sigh, the golden shape ascended into the fading sky, breaking large clouds with the force of its frustration. The waves retrieved the bits of shell one at a time.