Category: Weakness

Who Climbed on the Climber?

False accents stretching truth-scraps into webs
that glitter prettily, are only meant
for social climbers. Conversation ebbs
if ego-boosting isn’t the intent.
Zirconias and diamonds side by side
convince the group you fit. You love those props –
French nails and French knickers worn with pride
are waggled as you taste the gossip crops.
Your thoughts are all of silly secrets shared –
from partner swopping with the richest men,
to chins that electrolysis has bared.
You’ve long forgotten comments like one when
a friend’s mum saw your house, “I can’t allow
my daughter to attend your party now.”

Who Lost the Loser?

The weedy girl who longs for Mr Right
to pluck her off the wall, would be all eyes
if he approached her late one dreamed-of night
and tried a pick-up line. He’d mutter lies
her mirror could deny, so doubt would lock
her tongue and legs – until defensive mode
began to sabotage her chances – mock
his words, avoid the eyes where interest glowed.
That glass of foreign courage doesn’t quench
her thirst for confidence… but one more might…
She wants to be a player, leave the bench
to join the game, instead of feeling fright.
But contact sports are for the fit and strong
and she has been a loser all along.

Who Whined to the Whiner?

She reapplies her lipstick and her smile,
resigned, although she’d rather be in bed.
Her queries act as oral stand-ins while
she waits to whine of stressful work instead.
The prize for being put-upon is hers
and cronies understand each time a tale
reiterates her grievances. Their purrs
are grumbles that reveal they’re growing stale.
The music frees her head from knee-jerk fears
and she can twirl in complicated moves;
pre-disco steps she hasn’t changed in years
are comforting. Age settles into grooves.
She’ll dance around the issue with old zest;
her worn-out mother also knows what’s best.

Who Heard the Listener?

Subdued, you stand and sip your sparkling wine,
suspecting huddles (loudly unaware
of your arrival) guess that magazines define
your conversation. Turning, you compare
the weather with the forecast, then you ask
a sour woman who she knows. You chose
so well, she’s glad to have the chance to bask
in some attention; an alliance grows.
The mention of a filmstar scandal sets
her off. You nod and murmur, leaning in,
repeat a phrase on dieting. It whets
her appetite for quotes on staying thin.
You parrot what you’ve heard, safe from attack.
No father lets his daughter answer back.

Who Used the User?

One wicked eyebrow lifts and captivates
the audience by daring what they dream;
pretending to be careless titillates
the ones who dread they’re losing all their steam.
Manipulation is a spoon you stir
to mix reactions where you have a stake.
Perhaps a counter-plot nonsequitur
will be an unplanned icing on your cake.
Your boredom drives creative urges that
develop into private broadway hits
where players follow scripts that leave them flat
on faces you forget. You live for skits
and you don’t understand what pathos means.
You’ll stumble solo in your future scenes.

The nectar of emotion overflows –
her molten fears unfrozen in full force;
a tidal wave, then ebbing, as her woes
escape between damp lashes on their course;

A brimming sap, each seeping droplet lost
like precious pearls he’s stolen from her heart –
to live a life with passion there’s a cost,
when bonds of love and need are torn apart.

Remembrance of a thrilling timelessness
may temper tears as she recalls devine
fulfilment, such a flood of happiness,
that also lent her eyes a liquid shine.

To taste the wine of love needs sacrifice:
an altar will await the weeping price.

Some moral fibre stretches in the dark
that offers us a cloak in which to stray.
Temptation circles, dolphin turned to shark,
as black and white merge into silver grey.

These shadows shine like treasures beckoning
but greys of in-between will only gleam
for tempting moments, then the reckoning:
when consequences shatter such a dream.

Beliefs are founded on a culture changed,
so many now pursue what once was wrong:
priority for choice is rearranged
in shady corners when the light’s too strong.

We weakly claim to satisfy a need,
betraying with a self-indulgent greed.

She’s started wearing skirts again. And heels.
Her lips are lick-bright crimson; what they say
is whispered promise… even while she reels
off information (with an overlay
of laugh-congested, low massaging tones).
Professional and married, she’s confused.
A neck caress still fuels her daydream moans-
but was it only friendly? She’s bemused
and wonders if his mouth stays sweetly curved
for her, or is that just habitual charm?
She meets his eyes but shies away unnerved,
then chatters on with business-minded calm.
She’ll dwell on tiny incidents for days
but guilt won’t let a hint infect her gaze.