We are all philosophers now,
Socratic in one-forty characters or less.
Diluted in thought and consequence
Words drip from our fingertips like venom from a viper’s fangs,
Immeasurably toxic.

No more delightful anticipation of human contact.
Substituted symbiosis through a three-and-a-half inch window to the soul.
Pennies in a wishing well without the goodwill,
Instant gratification, lust, avarice,
False idols reciprocated.

There is no need to be alone anymore.

Social Media, Oakeswell, 2013.

I dream of taking her to see all the things I’ve seen,
Places I called home,
Where rapturous moments were spent
Treading gravelled earth,
Cutting virgin paths in wild heather.

I want her to feel the wonder I have felt,
Taste the sweetness that caressed my tongue,
Drink deeply from my cup,
Savour knowledge frittered and people spurned.

For she deserves to live a wealthy life,
Her luminosity destined for greater things than I could imagine.
I will bask in her adventure,
Reborn a better man,
Grateful for the existence I tolerated then,
A glorious memento of riches forsaken in the mists of time.

Day Tripper, Oakeswell, 2014.
Spring through autumn
The weekend was filled with anticipation
Of familiar jingle jangle in the distance.
Growing louder, inescapable,
Provocative with its clarion chime.
We scramble into the street, answering the call to prayer,
Clasping shiny coins that tarnish our palms with their metallic tang.
Our reward for sunny disposition.

Eager faces beam with impish glee.
Stand on tiptoes to reach the counter,
Swine-like impatience,
Gorging on the kaleidoscope of treats with keen eyes.
Screwball, sparkle, strawberry split,
Calypso cup, tip top, feast, rocket ship.
But our amrita was found in the swirl of a cone
Topped with nameless sweet jus and bayonet of flake.

Victorious, we hold aloft our trophies
Before settling the craving.
Lizard-like tongues flicking greedily,
Tainted white, sticky and wordless.
It was always a race against time
As the sun boiled down on us.
Fingers wrapped tight around the base
Of our confectionary volcano.

Thick demulcent oozes downwards,
Clotting between thumb and forefinger,
An ox-bow lake of sweet addiction
To be sampled after the main course has been devoured.
Satisfying crack as we bite with newly-mustachioed features.
A glop dribbles down a syrupy forearm
Landing with a splosh between sandaled toes.
Such a mess for such fleeting pleasure -

Rest easy,
We have the whole winter to get clean.
Ninety-nine, Oakeswell, 2013.