"So.... it talks to you?"
"Yeah. Whilst you eat it."
"Surely that wouldn't happen"
"Well no, no, it doesn't usually happen does it?"
"I mean, you're busy eating it, like, your tongue would muffle it...wouldn't it?"
"Really?"
"What?"
"You're really believing me."
Showing posts with label Meg Burrows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Meg Burrows. Show all posts
Friday, 3 May 2013
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
Exit Wounds by Meg Burrows
Sometimes words don't get into their lanes. They turn a U bend and get stuck in one way traffic. Mine certainly do, you've always known this. This particular time its 6pm and we're cutting it fine. Discussions have split themselves into statements, one easy declaration after the other. We're sitting in the brake lights, fighting about little tittle tattle that battles with things we should have flung away with your thesaurus, you know, the one that made everything so damn complicated.
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Wind Chime by Meg Burrows
Morris was not one to take a challenge lightly. It was to be met with precision, conviction and pride. It was his moment to shine in the Edwards household; it was a chance to prove to the family his worth, his purpose, his superiority over the Dog.
He had been perched on the chair for around seven minutes. This position above ground had proved a great place for hunting, not to mention allowing him to see what was being prepared on the counter for the family meals. His favourite so far had been the lemon chicken he swiped Thursday evening.
Kneading slightly with his black sleek paws, Morris twitched his nose upwards at the dangling feathers of the wind chime. They were so close now, the cause of great irritation was in his sights. He followed them swaying in the slight wind with two wide eyes. Left, right, left, right, come, here, you, little, feathery, feather, argh!
Morris, in one sleek movement, propelled himself from the chair. Spreading his paws wide so that he resembled something of flying squirrel, the ball of black fluff flung himself passionately at the feathers.
Shame that there was a glass window in the way.
He had been perched on the chair for around seven minutes. This position above ground had proved a great place for hunting, not to mention allowing him to see what was being prepared on the counter for the family meals. His favourite so far had been the lemon chicken he swiped Thursday evening.
Kneading slightly with his black sleek paws, Morris twitched his nose upwards at the dangling feathers of the wind chime. They were so close now, the cause of great irritation was in his sights. He followed them swaying in the slight wind with two wide eyes. Left, right, left, right, come, here, you, little, feathery, feather, argh!
Morris, in one sleek movement, propelled himself from the chair. Spreading his paws wide so that he resembled something of flying squirrel, the ball of black fluff flung himself passionately at the feathers.
Shame that there was a glass window in the way.
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Flamingo Fun by Meg Burrows
Pink ruffles,
men in neon tights,
people all smiling wide with
touchy tongues.
One step, two step, three step,
Floor! Holding a bottle of tequila.
men in neon tights,
people all smiling wide with
touchy tongues.
One step, two step, three step,
Floor! Holding a bottle of tequila.
Friday, 18 May 2012
Volcanic Splash by Meg Burrows
Volcanic Splash is like…..
short fused bubbles,
the inside of a circle of consuming fire,
an erratic ripple of flames,
a fractured iris looking into the sun,
chilli face paint that’s spilt on a bare arm,
the split second of ignition in a lava fuelled DeLorean.
short fused bubbles,
the inside of a circle of consuming fire,
an erratic ripple of flames,
a fractured iris looking into the sun,
chilli face paint that’s spilt on a bare arm,
the split second of ignition in a lava fuelled DeLorean.
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Russian Velvet by Meg Burrows
‘Russian Velvet – eugh, it makes me feel so cheap!’
‘Anything’s going to make you feel cheap from here, besides, its for one time and one time only – just get it and we can go.’
‘What the…. What is a ‘Coxy Harrington’ meant to be?’
‘I have no idea. No. Sorry’
‘That just looks wrong – where are you meant to put things in that?’
‘Maybe you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not meant to put them anywhere… you just, well, let them hang.’
‘They hang enough by themselves, the whole idea of this was to give me some oomph, some POW WOW – not POW – looking –like – a – cow. Oh, let’s just forget it.’
‘No, come on look, this ones ok. ‘Champagne Charisma’ – not too bad, not too many buckles, not too colourful…’
‘There’s no colour. It’s like cat’s sick or old porridge. No, I’d rather just leave it – if I can’t go with what I’ve got, there’s no point is there.’
‘Totally. Go with it, let it all hang – I mean flow, go with the flow.’
‘Anything’s going to make you feel cheap from here, besides, its for one time and one time only – just get it and we can go.’
‘What the…. What is a ‘Coxy Harrington’ meant to be?’
‘I have no idea. No. Sorry’
‘That just looks wrong – where are you meant to put things in that?’
‘Maybe you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not meant to put them anywhere… you just, well, let them hang.’
‘They hang enough by themselves, the whole idea of this was to give me some oomph, some POW WOW – not POW – looking –like – a – cow. Oh, let’s just forget it.’
‘No, come on look, this ones ok. ‘Champagne Charisma’ – not too bad, not too many buckles, not too colourful…’
‘There’s no colour. It’s like cat’s sick or old porridge. No, I’d rather just leave it – if I can’t go with what I’ve got, there’s no point is there.’
‘Totally. Go with it, let it all hang – I mean flow, go with the flow.’
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Picnic Basket by Meg Burrows
In my picnic basket I put……
apples and strawberries and cream that I spread on scones and wash with lemonade.
Scotch eggs, salad cream, ham and lettuce that all lay in a nice duvet of bread.
Juice boxes of elderflower and turkish coffee that envelopes my nose.
Chocolate cake with thick buttery icing that serenades my taste buds.
Plates to pile it all on, cutlery to scoop it all up with and a blanket to blubber out on afterwards.
But lets not forget…..
bread for the ducks, slug repellent for the kids and a fly trap for Uncle Gerald.
A bird cage for the rats, a potted plant for melted ice cream and a spanner to throw at the mushrooms that look at me funny.
apples and strawberries and cream that I spread on scones and wash with lemonade.
Scotch eggs, salad cream, ham and lettuce that all lay in a nice duvet of bread.
Juice boxes of elderflower and turkish coffee that envelopes my nose.
Chocolate cake with thick buttery icing that serenades my taste buds.
Plates to pile it all on, cutlery to scoop it all up with and a blanket to blubber out on afterwards.
But lets not forget…..
bread for the ducks, slug repellent for the kids and a fly trap for Uncle Gerald.
A bird cage for the rats, a potted plant for melted ice cream and a spanner to throw at the mushrooms that look at me funny.
Monday, 14 May 2012
Mademoiselle by Meg Burrows
She was always a little girl, with little things and little curls and a little mind. People would say there goes the girl, the one that will brighten your day. (But maybe not so bright in her mind.) She would take little steps, with little shoes, that had little journeys and little tales to tell. But she wouldn’t mind. Because little things, made the bigger things, which led to the great things and in time, these things brought her to one of the best things.
She had become a woman. A woman who knew her mind.
She had become a woman. A woman who knew her mind.
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Brooklyn Nights by Meg Burrows
Brooklyn Nights shy away from me,
I burn too bright for the street lights
and I hold things down too hard for the cement cracks.
Brooklyn Nights keep away from me,
they know I’d influence the nights monster,
I’d throw a tea party and have him all eating the cake.
I burn too bright for the street lights
and I hold things down too hard for the cement cracks.
Brooklyn Nights keep away from me,
they know I’d influence the nights monster,
I’d throw a tea party and have him all eating the cake.
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
Japanese Maze by Meg Burrows
Origami turns left and blossom drifts right
and we are left clueless in a pink sky.
We no longer have the fruit, we’ve eaten it all along the path
whilst rearranging faces of pain to beauty to regret.
and we are left clueless in a pink sky.
We no longer have the fruit, we’ve eaten it all along the path
whilst rearranging faces of pain to beauty to regret.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Sunday Best by Meg Burrows
‘Pass the roasts please.’ Paul held out his hand to his son sitting across from him. He was aware of the silence that had filled the fourteen minutes of their dinner so far. The cutlery had been making extra loud clangs on the plates this time and there was only so many times that you can shuffle around salt and pepper.
‘Did you finish at three today?’ Paul cleared his throat, eyeballing his son. Now was the time for him to come clean.
‘No, half four.’ Sam kept his eyes on his food.
‘I thought it was three.’
‘Why ask me if you want a different answer Dad?’ Sam looked up briefly. ‘It was half four. I came back here.’
‘I was here at five and you weren’t back. First time I’ve seen you all today has been this meal.’
Sam reached forward for the ketchup bottle. Shaking it vigorously he opened it, letting the red sauce spill out onto his food.
‘I was out around that time.’
‘What were you doing?’ Paul’s knife and fork hovered over his half eaten roast.
‘Nothing’
‘You sure?’
‘Yep’
‘Sam.’
‘Dad?’
‘What was it?’
‘Was what?’
Paul stared at his son.
‘Ah don’t even go there Dad. I wasn’t doing that.’
‘I just thought –
‘You don’t think, you assume.’
‘Well what do you expect me to think Sam, you say you’re home and then you aren’t, you keep coming in later and later –
‘Just because I want some time to myself doesn’t automatically confirm your fears Dad. I said I wasn’t doing that anymore. So I’m not.’
Sam pushed back his chair, taking his plate to the sink. Paul watched him fill the washing up bowl. He always used too much fairy liquid.
‘Well tell me what you were doing then, if it wasn’t that.’
His son kept his back to him.
‘Sam?’
‘Nothing, its fine.’
‘It’s not fine, if you’re back on that crap again –
Sam paused washing up.
‘What Dad, what?’
‘You can see yourself out of the door that’s what! We’re not going through all of that again I’m telling you now.’
Sam flicked down the knife he was washing up, turning to face his father as it plopped into the water.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Yes I am Sam, if you’re under my roof, it’s my rules – you promised me and your Mother at the time they’d be no more.’
‘I wasn’t Dad.’
Paul raised his voice.
‘That’s what you used to say all the other times. And then we’d get a phone call in the middle of the night telling us -’
‘I was taking the dog Dad! For a walk!’
Sam turned back to the sink, ringing his hands of soap suds. Paul, clearing his throat, laid his knife down.
‘Righ- ah rig –
‘I don’t do things, you complain, I do things, you complain –make up your mind Dad.’
‘Sam, look I - where are you going now?’ Paul watched as Sam picked up his coat from the back of the chair and walked towards the kitchen door.
‘Out’
‘Sam it’s nearly Nine, I thought we were watching –
‘I’m going out.’ Sam shut the door behind him.
‘Did you finish at three today?’ Paul cleared his throat, eyeballing his son. Now was the time for him to come clean.
‘No, half four.’ Sam kept his eyes on his food.
‘I thought it was three.’
‘Why ask me if you want a different answer Dad?’ Sam looked up briefly. ‘It was half four. I came back here.’
‘I was here at five and you weren’t back. First time I’ve seen you all today has been this meal.’
Sam reached forward for the ketchup bottle. Shaking it vigorously he opened it, letting the red sauce spill out onto his food.
‘I was out around that time.’
‘What were you doing?’ Paul’s knife and fork hovered over his half eaten roast.
‘Nothing’
‘You sure?’
‘Yep’
‘Sam.’
‘Dad?’
‘What was it?’
‘Was what?’
Paul stared at his son.
‘Ah don’t even go there Dad. I wasn’t doing that.’
‘I just thought –
‘You don’t think, you assume.’
‘Well what do you expect me to think Sam, you say you’re home and then you aren’t, you keep coming in later and later –
‘Just because I want some time to myself doesn’t automatically confirm your fears Dad. I said I wasn’t doing that anymore. So I’m not.’
Sam pushed back his chair, taking his plate to the sink. Paul watched him fill the washing up bowl. He always used too much fairy liquid.
‘Well tell me what you were doing then, if it wasn’t that.’
His son kept his back to him.
‘Sam?’
‘Nothing, its fine.’
‘It’s not fine, if you’re back on that crap again –
Sam paused washing up.
‘What Dad, what?’
‘You can see yourself out of the door that’s what! We’re not going through all of that again I’m telling you now.’
Sam flicked down the knife he was washing up, turning to face his father as it plopped into the water.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Yes I am Sam, if you’re under my roof, it’s my rules – you promised me and your Mother at the time they’d be no more.’
‘I wasn’t Dad.’
Paul raised his voice.
‘That’s what you used to say all the other times. And then we’d get a phone call in the middle of the night telling us -’
‘I was taking the dog Dad! For a walk!’
Sam turned back to the sink, ringing his hands of soap suds. Paul, clearing his throat, laid his knife down.
‘Righ- ah rig –
‘I don’t do things, you complain, I do things, you complain –make up your mind Dad.’
‘Sam, look I - where are you going now?’ Paul watched as Sam picked up his coat from the back of the chair and walked towards the kitchen door.
‘Out’
‘Sam it’s nearly Nine, I thought we were watching –
‘I’m going out.’ Sam shut the door behind him.
On the Rocks by Meg Burrows
On the Rocks is where we sat until the sun said goodbye to the day.
On the Rocks is what Aunt Zara says every time she goes to the bar.
On the Rocks is when Charlie Griston can no longer stand upright outside Benny’s.
On the Rocks is how some people see their marriage.
On the Rocks is here in the tumbler.
On the Rocks is that bloody seagull again.
On the Rocks is supremely wonderful feeling of euphoria looking out onto a deep canyon of unaltered bliss.
On the Rocks is what Aunt Zara says every time she goes to the bar.
On the Rocks is when Charlie Griston can no longer stand upright outside Benny’s.
On the Rocks is how some people see their marriage.
On the Rocks is here in the tumbler.
On the Rocks is that bloody seagull again.
On the Rocks is supremely wonderful feeling of euphoria looking out onto a deep canyon of unaltered bliss.
Monday, 7 May 2012
Rodeo Drive by Meg Burrows
Rodeo Drive. A place where we went as kids. It was never that big at the time, we seemed to complain about it a lot. But still, we’d go. They’d be Jim, always in his polo shirt and jeans, always sitting at the base of the tree. Boy, would you move if you sat in his place too long. Penny, Jim’s girlfriend had a tendency to stick her chin out when she laughed. I think it was to get Jim’s attention. She would always sit to his left, her well toned legs leaning into him. Josh, who Jim would always tease, would be sitting in his pa’s fold out, drinking from a thermos. Sammy would be closely by, sprawled out on the ground, completely at ease with everything, watching the world go by behind his glasses.. Tom would be first in the river, or up the tree. One year he made a rope swing, how us girls screamed on that thing. Sandra was the worst, she’d dilly dally for so long, deciding whether to swing or not. Jim would get annoyed at her but I don’t think the other boys minded her squealing, in fact, I think Tom liked it. And then there was me, Bumble.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
Champagne by Meg Burrows
Six Champagne Bottles sitting on the wall
Watching over the family having a merry ball,
But if one champagne bottle should accidentally fall….
It would be a royally expensive pile of pooh to clear up,
the kitten would be drunk by noon.
Watching over the family having a merry ball,
But if one champagne bottle should accidentally fall….
It would be a royally expensive pile of pooh to clear up,
the kitten would be drunk by noon.
Friday, 4 May 2012
Luna Landscape by Meg Burrows
Page. 4 Arrival Procedure
On arrival guests will receive free steam masks; a unique method of both oxygenating and regenerating the skin, this mask will offer guest instant rejuvenation and refinement of those tired eyes suffering from the thirty-eight day trip to the planet.
(WARNING: we advise that guests await instructions to use these masks, there is risk of offending the local community by wearing them in the initial zone of Luna.)
Winds can be moderately high here; guests will be provided with small weights to attach to their boots (please read instructions of use on page 17) and also small, foldable hats to tie hair back and under (this is VITAL to health and safety of Luna, human hair can cause severe diarrhoea epidemics to the Lunui.)
Please trade in your ID discs at the entrance of Zone 2, this will determine where you will be housed for the period of your stay (Luna Logs have selected availability, please make sure that you have clarified your booking order online before your depart from Earth.)
A regular shuttle service will run throughout the lunar cycle, every fifteen minutes, travelling the entire circuit of the complex. Children under eight MUST be accompanied at all times by an adult and with their personal guard. Any child that comes to harm during this time who is WITHOUT their personal guard will NOT be medically covered by Luna Lakes ltd.)
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Fireside by Meg Burrows
Reduce, change, revolve and lift,
you the flames of tumbling wit,
do whisper me some stranger’s sighs,
all in secret, at firesides.
But swift and quick, the embers growl
a jealous heat does smother now
the beauty that lay in the smoke
that held the words, the flames you spoke.
you the flames of tumbling wit,
do whisper me some stranger’s sighs,
all in secret, at firesides.
But swift and quick, the embers growl
a jealous heat does smother now
the beauty that lay in the smoke
that held the words, the flames you spoke.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
High Society by Meg Burrows
The Smiths
‘Bloody Hell! Not another one of your fucking nip – tuck, plastic pushing, botox spunked Barbies! No Harold, No! I won’t have it again!’
Here they were, in the middle of the Salt House Restaurant, having yet another discussion about Harold’s tendency to jump ship of the marriage boat. This time, he had dive bombed splendorously into foreign waters.
‘Oh Sandra, please, let’s not make a scene…’
‘Make a scene? Sorry, sorry…. You think I’m making a scene?’ Sandra spat out a tiny bit of the Salmon she had been eating. It landed a few centimetres away from Harold’s pudgy hand. ‘Oh, I can get a lot worse than this, believe me!’
Harold, reaching for his brandy glass, sighed.
He didn’t understand Sandra’s behaviour at the moment. This had all been happening for years. And she knew about it. So why all of a sudden is she starting to mind?
‘Darling, darling – why are you getting upset about this? You knew that I liked her.’ He took a sip of his drink, watching his wife carefully. ‘Besides, I can’t go back on my word.’
Sandra flickered her eyes to his. She could feel her face and neck growing hot.
‘What do you mean? What have you done?’ Sandra gripped tightly to her knife. If he’s got her pregnant I am going to castrate him right here, right now.
‘I felt sorry for the poor girl. I, well, I like her. I think it’s for the best, she needs looking after.’ Harold emptied his brandy glass. ‘I didn’t think you would mind, seeing as you’re going to be away in Italy and that.’
‘What did you say to her Harold?’
Stretching back into his chair, Harold’s shirt stretched alarmingly across his round stomach.
‘I told her she could stay.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)