img-saving-lives-under-fireA pawn in an incomplete game of static insanity
Your blood-letting, tongue-tied grimace has you blind
While humanity’s serpents serp and singers sing
Of all the reaping things.
Madness’ descent pauses on this: it had no reason to exist
Until now, when it persists.
After spending too long in the half-life, you reach out and geiger-count your blessings


So you reach the total sum of zero
A clickless life, a tickless existence
Bricked up in the wall of political persistence
There’s to be no saving of your soul – it’s only morose code for you
This is a remorseless dry, brown experiment
White helmet knights would save you from the rubble
But trouble is, they’re under it too.



There may be lesser-crying, better-trying women,

Much more fun and better at puns than me.
And if you were a man for simple things,
Like flawless lives and smaller baggage,
My dearest, you might have no more to do with me.

But I know well enough that you are much more choosy.
I want day-to-day to find myself with you.
With the hand-in-hand, the word and song,
The songs and poems and the laughs and stories,
You surely can’t want anything to do with me.

A romance is supposed to go like happy-ever-after network,
Marking things with a regular ping  of “I like you!”
But there are days enough when the like is racked and pinioned,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.

There may be better-placed and better tasting women,
Or toned and sightly girls more tight than me.
And if you were the simple sort of bloke
For Whisky sour and Rum and coke, oh
Dearest, you would have no more to do with me.

But there’s no such dependably stupendous man,
Hot as Hell, you can tell that I fell for you.
And lip to lip or cheek to cheek
Playing with toes or rolling some playdough,
My dearest, I hope you want every thing to do with me.

A romance is supposed to go like happy-ever-after network,
Marking things with regular pings of “I like you too!”
But there are days enough when the like keeps coming and coming,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.

There may be smoother-talking, ruder, squawking women.
Better-spoken, much less baggage here than me.
But they’ve all got, as like as not,
Less love for you than I have got
Dearest, I hope you shall just make do with me.

There is just one-caress-and-leave-you-breathless woman,
One such tender, godless friend: that’s me.
And not now and then, nor if and whether,
But time and again for ever and ever,
My dearest, I hope you want everything to do with me.

Original words: Jake Thackray

Reworked badly by Linda Angel

Sonnet 1,108


No sorrow here – no reason to console
I saw his eyes the moment I awoke
And spent an hour just looking at his soul
Which, made for me, is perfect and bespoke
No sadness now – no reason left to cry
I held his hand and pressed it to my heart
And spent the day just holding him real tight
So musically sweet, like life’s guitar
No fretting left – no reason to despair
He woke a girl who chose to hibernate
We spent our life just being who we were
Instead of making do with second-rate.

For once we had the first of fifty years
We lived a happy life, no room for tears.

Sonnet 1,002


I’d hold your hand and talk with you all night
And stare into the heart that’s on your face
On bed, on floor, so we’d be the same height
Just lying there and soaking up our space
We’d laugh and cry together at our lot
And notice all the differences were nowt
As miles and metres mattered not a jot
For now you’re here, and I can’t do without.
I’d stroke your hair and whisper to your skin
And tell you just how much you mean to me
As lips became new ears to take words in,
Our eyes would teach each other how to see.

Our poetry’d be easy to recite:
You’d hold my hand and talk with me all night.

Sonnet 909


Awakening the senses that did rest
Reminding me I was indeed alive;
He came to me and fixed this mournful mess
And set my mind alight with sweet surprise.
Where hope had died, there now was hopeful glee;
And where was sorrow, sat a mended place;
Our words they worked without the need to plea;
And shoulders they were freed of heavy weights.
So where’d he been and how could he be here?
Could not another woman keep him tight?
His voice is music playing in my ear;
As songs be sung he makes the wrongs be right.

I look outside and see the world anew;
With life and love created by my muse.