Prose Poem

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Photo by Daniel Jensen on Unsplash

I am dressed. I am going somewhere. It’s a new early. It’s a new morning. The day is fresh. I rush out of the house towards a purpose. I can see my breath dancing in the cool air. I walk towards the tube. I’m surrounded by commuters. This almost feels nostalgic… but their faces are now foreign. We don’t show them anymore. We are scared of spitting on each other or worse, talking. On the plus side, the mask saves time. No need to smile politely now, or waste expensive Makeup.

The lie is elsewhere now. Under the fabric. …

Short Story Chronicles — The day the perfume oozed

A present she bought for herself while on a date. The one they both pretended not to be interested in.

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Photo by Siora Photography on Unsplash

If this was a film, I would speak in Voiceover, (V.O) to bring Melissa into your day, the way that she is embedded in mine. If this was a T.V. Series, I would remind you that in the last episode, we learned Melissa is a mix of leather and perfume. I would explain again how this throws you off and you would come to understand that this is what being single minded smells like. …

13 February 2021 Saturday Poetry Prompt: insomnia

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Photo by Callum Skelton on Unsplash

Thoughts are hyper. They are intrusive. Most of the time, they are noise. Loud to the touch. They roar around until they have my full attention. Until I am sucked into the vortex. They are unwanted. They know they are unwanted. This makes them angry. Vengeful. They keep me awake, pricking my feet and my palms until blood spills on the sheets.

These little objects lie around. Cluttering and quaking and quickly graduating to adolescent emotions. They operate at an illusive capacity. Too constant and too intense to put to bed. This is where they linger. Here. Void of sanitation…

A Love Poem In Lockdown

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Photo by Ben Rosett on Unsplash

I never thought
A Happily was real.
Love always seemed
An illusionary concept
A thing to chase but never get
I knew no happy women.
None married or unmarried
Content was confused
with contempt.

The life imagined
Was lonely.
A sting of bows at best
Never did I think
I would be, A Lucky
A girl to be envied or loved.
I didn't think I had
A future worth imagining
Destined for the shelf instead.

My dad was wrong If only he could see me now. How happy I’ve become How you have made by love A home Built so…

Short Story about Confidence

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Photo by Dainis Graveris on Unsplash

I want to introduce you to Melissa. She dips her nose into everything just to seduce you. Melissa is sweet fragranced like a Gucci bottle tipped upside down in a new handbag and she oozes into the lining. She is a mix of leather and perfume and this throws you off. The smell is a little too masculine for you. Perhaps that is what being single minded smells like.

The backstory — Melissa is dedicated to her own desires without shame, this makes us like Melissa. This makes us want to sit and swell with her for a while. Sniff her silky skin like a little puppy. I notice you thinking out aloud about what makes her skin glow…you imagine her at home, exfoliating her thighs, her cheeks, wondering if she started when she was in her 20's, or if she was simply born to look like a god.

Wake up sleepy head! No-one is born like that. Melissa spends hours looking after herself. She learnt at a young…

A free-verse poem

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Photography by Author, 2020

The package looks perfect with the glow of the lights the dog growing old the baby sleeping through the night the heating on a chicken in every pot a car in the drive. Capitalism looking good for hours living in auto-drive not in the driver's seat. As you walk closer you see the cracks you just glazer over them with time as quick as a click on Netflix the lounge position is the most common sinking into the sofa as we make love sand in our hands to slow things down. Of course I’m happy pulling at my ear like…

Prose Poem

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Photo by Inja Pavlić on Unsplash

The rag trade was stitched so neatly into my early fibers that the smell of new clothes follows me around a room like a moth in a closet. Fat and sluggish from feasting on old ideas and tasting identities as if they are fashion.

The ritual of thought possesses magic, or comfort, or space to experiment while the summer lasts, the days are long, the skin is plump and delicious. One's own garden is full of limitations, but across the vast blue anything is possible.

The shadow on the floor that glides with me across the walkway, is…

Poetry Sunday

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Image created by author.

“ I have everything I need,” I yell.

Unrehearsed but not unprepared for this vast white, this new day not yet in full swing but still in motion. I am ready for it. I stand in front of my reflection waiting for the wave to immerse. My whole body is wet. I am awake. I am standing erect. Hands out. Spirit aimed for the stars. This is love. It starts here.

“Come on, make my day,” I yell.

Drawing in the steam, I breathe it in. It is mystic power. I am more than flesh. I am wizard. I have everything I need. I’m ready to begin again, like your supposed to. Every day.

“Begin!” I yell


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Photo by Logan Clark on Unsplash

Photos of each moment passing were recorded constantly capturing every element of a child's birthday so that it can be savored years later. Desperate to save the memory of this day. Desperate to make it memorable for her too. The party started at 7 am. Why wait. What are we waiting for? Let the celebration last for days. This feeling of turning 7. The year the golden thread is destined to break.

I shared each moment on a stream, sent the images up river so as to bring you along. Who would have suspected this act of generosity would be…

17 February 2021 Wednesday Prose Poem Prompt: What does your world look like?

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Original Image is a print of Pablo Picasso’s 1937, Weeping Woman, which has been reappropriated heavily via a phone app by Lennie Varvarides

The lens is focused but the world is hazy. Time neither exists nor is extinct. Here, horizontally, body to the ground, she looks up and you wait for her to blink.

Others circle like little vultures, eager for a peck of time, a moment to offload a task, virtuous in reason. How sweet they are to start with, “How are you?”

Shouts through the weeping. Watery eyes thicken the gaze, sharpen each sensation into sparks of light that dissect plains of color across her skin. Absorbed into the day like the tissue she gasps in her hands.

Here, horizontally, in…

Lennie Varvarides

London based dyslexic creative, working in development. Founder of DYSPLA

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