Old is Just a Mood.
Waiting for someone to take her t-shirt off,
that girl with pink hair and black caterpillar eyebrows she just met
or the guy who sells her pizza at 2am on saturdays with an eyebrow piercing that manages to be sexy,
she has been wearing the same t-shirt for six months now.
Since she walked out leaving a ruby earring behind & a note that said ‘xxx’ in purple biro pen.
She learns to never leave rubies behind.
OLD IS JUST A MOOD
written in bold on the front, let thoughts go floating into sentimental collage.
She’s sitting on a London park bench, no notation where, just that she is under a leafless grey tree,
staring at the photo on her phone of Doron Baga, the latest Boko Haram onslought.
‘I walked through five villages and each one was empty except for dead bodies’.
The accompanying photo cause you to look to long at it and not the article. Isn’t that was beauty is?
blots of ink smoke stains in that red you only get from a homemade Tikka Masala curry.
You could project the photograph upon a large white wall in a Palais de Tokyo and everyone would think it was art.
All the wooden fishing boats of the destroyed villages have fled off down stream,
leaving the villages ablaze, each house empty except for debris that hands couldn’t grab.
Any hands left behind linger as daydreams of death in a survivors mind.
She sees the movement of alive bodies around her.
Fluro pink shoes running laps around the park. Shadows of ponytails that bounce left to right with the prance of feet.
She takes of her t-shirt. She’s not wearing a bra. Folds it. Leaves it on the bench.