All to the Right

Fake it till you make it

with that tan you didn’t have yesterday

making all the fake news

and spraying it across the media

in between adverts for platform trainers

that you can’t run in

unless it’s in an election

where there are only two clowns to vote for

who make each other look good

yet no one is laughing.

Someone call the cops

in the middle of the night

and stop the circus

before the big top comes crashing down

or let’s all head to the ocean

and feel the spray for real.

© Ash Cheyne – 27 June 2019

Word of the Day Challenge – Spray

FB and the Lighthouse

Shuffling through the warm surf towards the lighthouse

thinking of Kenya and the giggling boys

jumping into the sandy brown estuary

to cover their innocence from the sudden white man.

Trying not to remember the look on your face as I slipped that day

smacking my head on the wet boulder

hearing you shouting at me that I looked old

wiping the red trickle angrily away from my fat lip

helping myself up, the sand grinding in my teeth.

Whispering something softly to your sister’s man

in French of course in order to conceal the sting

walking into to La Mer and thinking how much I hated you then

not in any foreign language but in spite of everything

you thought I didn’t understand.

Like how all those years ago

Lydia, used to turn my bed down each night

in return for very little and the hope maybe of a big tip at the end of it all

and how she slept in a hut outside the grounds with the others

whilst we complained about the insects and the lack of ice in the gin.

Smelling sweetly despite all that, she was a pretty girl with a kid

and no real future without the likes of  us who keep coming to get away

standing all day in the scorching sun

selling her wares for a fiver and a big bottle of beer.

Leaving me with something like pity and a note to say thanks

I know not for what except that I hardly knew her

but that she would have held my head I’m sure

and gently dabbed my salty cuts, like everything and nothing.

Ash Cheyne  – © May 2019

Jocasta

He lays in the empty French bath

with his torn suit and dirty boots on

a rolled up cigarette hanging from his cut lip

making him wince when he tries that endearing smile of his

in the cracked shaving mirror.

Paul Kelly on vinyl hisses and jumps

the aroma from the lavender field outside the window

penetrating the stale booze and the memories

of a night that went predictably wrong

the moment he fell off the red rusty bike

trying to avoid Jocasta

and one too many shots of Dutch courage.

Bad luck in the right place at the wrong time

a word or two out of place

a punch in the face

a shotgun blasts

he pulls his jacket over his head

but it’s only to scare the birds

away from the grapes.

She sits on the ledge staring at him

like he should know better

than the last time

they crossed paths.


© Ash Cheyne 2019



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