Monthly Archives: June 2013


It’s white-van Hell even at dawn,

but then 9-to-5 long ago

lost its meaning as

prices pushed people further and

further from work, wives

working for Gas Board or

gas bill, children texted, Skyped,

rarely seen except at weekends when the

phone still rings with demands and

threats, so I understand if you

cut me up, tailgate me, want me to

get out of the fucking way, so you can

get where you are going and

get back, hating that after 9,

after the school-run,

King Prius rules in Troy-Town.

A Question of Sport

When did love become a game?

Of two halves? Four quarters?

Five sets? Five days like a

Test Match? Is there a

referee, and is that person

impartial? Do I have to

suck an orange at half-time?

Are there training-camps? With

sit-ups and rabbit-jumps and

biometric measurements? Is it

something the unsporty are

excluded from? Can I be

penalized, sin-binned, cited?

Are there big-screen replays? Is

punishment retroactive? Might I be

banned? Permanently?

Prevented from playing?


Hang on,

have I ever been

shown the rules? And

wasn’t I supposed to just enjoy

taking part?



I watched my house dissolve,
part earth, part water, part air,

Gaseous Heart

Gaseous Heart

I know I’m nebulous but
still I feel the sting of your
spiralled barb piercing my
gaseous heart.



The flower propels its nacelle earthwards,
fired and forgotten,
protection once, now
refuelling the relentless launchpad.

The Repossessed

She had just done the school-run, so

I was still warm when he took me,

gunning the engine (which was

cruel) to check the levels but I was

gassed, oiled, moistened with

anti-freeze, looked after, because they

relied on me, they

needed me, and I could see her

crying in my mirrors as we roared away, a

lost toy shaken out of the now

redundant child-seat.


In a Fowl Mood

Tired of the endless round of

washing, drying, ironing, I took a

fine fowl, dressed neatly,

stuffed its innards with

fresh thyme, then

squeezed a lemon over all,

cramming the halves in with the

crushed stalks, more herb stripped and

sprinkled on the wet flesh with

coarse black pepper and a

knob of good butter, surrounding

said bird with semi-boiled,

roughed-up potatoes, the whole then

moistened with a little oil and

well-roasted: thus a

King’s feast was made, and enough

time-scented sandwiches to last me

several days while I

wash and dry and iron.


A Tear Shed

The smell of long-dead grass, slowly

rotting wood, creosote, faint

hints of dangerous chemicals,

various –cides for the

plants in the wrong place,

cobwebs shredded by

sudden intrusion,

garden implements hidden behind

garden furniture, one improbably

pink chair unfolded, the

tang of burnt tobacco adding

Autumn to Spring and Summer, whilst

implacable Winter parks its 4×4

against the shed door.

Unfurl a Flower

Unfurl a Flower

What could I not do, what
wonders could I not achieve, if
I had the strength to
unfurl a flower.

Ghost of a Good Night

Ghost of a Good Night

The table is set but
there are no guests, no
food, no bonhomie, just the
ghost of a good night.

Sara in LaLaLand

Welcome to my world.

LittleSwitchBitch - An Irish Lass blogging about all things sex

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