F is also for Fridge

Inside my head there is a fridge. Inside the fridge are four shelves. On the top shelf there is nothing. On the second shelf down, in the centre, a mobile phone lies listlessly on its side, its front and back bending away from one another like the half peeled skin of an unripe banana. On the third shelf, there are two things: an unglazed Earthenware bowl filled with assorted potpourri cuttings, and a blank DVD. On the bottom shelf there is a very strange thing. Curled up, right in the corner at the back on the left hand side, partially covered by a tissue-like membrane, a very small hairless dog. Upon close scrutiny its stomach seems to be rising and falling, or it could just be my imagination.

F is for Fantasy

I’m standing in warm rain.

Let my head fall back.

Above me towers a long, smooth, shimmering EDF finger which seems to be leaning right over and rubbing its façade against the CNIT building; just below, a wash of precipitation on glistening walls, the great open interior of Tête Défense, and deep magenta the sky through its arch.

Sonnet with Rhyming Handicap

Again there is no answer to the prayer.
I bookmark the page in Revelation
And step out to watch the heavens shimmer.
I see my soul drift in isolation
Amidst the wide infinitude of theirs
And close my tired eyes in supplication.
I sense a haunting presence drawing near,
And through the darkness discern a figure
Hovering aloft in the cold night air.
She glimmers and beckons me to join her.
As I move her aura dims and flickers,
A knowing smile and then she disappears.
I stand, blind, a victim of self-taught fears,
Agnation’s failure falling to despair.