Watch it burn

That day

In LA

Jack burned

The contents of the bin

By the roadside

On the 405

Not because he was cold,

It was 100 degrees

In the shade,

But just to watch

It burn.

So after he lit her up

He stood there by

The roadside

While cars and trucks

Whizzed by,

On the 405,

Watching flames

And dirty smoke

Sputter a tower

Into a blue sky.

-Job

Marmite on toast

So wrong 

but right. 

Hot and comforting. 

Not sweet or 

Sour.

What’s in the middle?

Umami. 

It has to be 

created with care. 

Toast brought to the brink 

of being burnt, 

but saved just in 

Time. 

Then the butter spread 

while the toast is hot-hot 

so it melts completely.

Lots of butter! 

Marmite added then, 

a good Goldilocks layer, 

neither too thin, 

Or too thick. 

Spread to all corners

of the toast. 

Served with a hot mug 

of sweet milky tea 

in the sitting room while 

we watch Labryinth. 

Again.

-Job

Iuvenes Deos

Oh, those new

divine ones

Bored of the world

They give birth to

destruction

Their lives a silent art.

They laugh at death

That single

final

end

And barricade their world.

Burn as bright suns

till the end of day

Living,

Dying,

not recording,

each his own Schrödinger

breaking bones against a blood sky

Never allowing compromise.

They refuse the world

And it’s comforting

photographs.

– Job

In another life

In another life I am

a collection of sea shells

Scattered along

an alien shore

Distant light years

Away

I go along my merry way

my day – to – day routine,

Staring at a gold sky

Washed by dry waves

wondering how

I ended up this way.

It is a utopian life

I suppose

where all my needs are met

I don’t have to worry

about things like work

Or school

on my planet of pink penguins

and gold skies.

In another life I am

a graveyard.

Bursting with bones,

some of them very old.

And moss grown

headstones

With faded names

Of long forgotten

loved ones.

I’ve been this place

for a couple of months now

never told anybody

where it is.

I feel safe here

The only other people

here are bats,

two of them.

I watch them at dusk

Their flittering

skin thin wings

Cutting arcs above me.

In another life I am

a boutique,

and my customers

Are professional women

who love my clothes but

can not afford to buy them,

So they try them on

And tell me

their stories,

all about the

pressure

they are under to be

thin and pretty,

So I give clothes away

because they need

something

without

any strings.

But it seems to me

that there is nothing

I can give these women

that they do not

already have

in their lives,

but they don’t want to hear that

So they return

Day after day

I give

And listen.

Until there is nothing left

And they move on.

– Job

Page of Pentacles

Overwhelmed by emotion,

Too many screens,

He runs to nature,

Soothing his soul

Among trees.

He finds

Clarity,

Perspective,

Joy,

In stream, moss and leaves,

Life wants to grow.

It’s not time wasted,

No,

On the contrary.

This is human.

This is home.

– Job

Prophecy

Eight hours from now

Life’s simple

pleasures will be

denied.

The mob will rule

The mind police sanction.

Pity the poor

Man who strays from

the designated path.

Eight days from now

We will greet friends by

ignoring them

condemn opponents for

Their secret thoughts

In our new reality.

Eight weeks from now.

The repeated gesture,

the quiet pause,

the attentive and,

encouraging nod,

the gracious thank-you,

and the measured response

Will be banned.

The willingness to stop and breathe

The desire to put the pressing

task aside and help.

That too will be

Gone.

– Job

Translucent

Today I am
translucent.
Flickering in and out
Of emotional
existence.
Longing to be held
Solid and safe
In a vase, or jar.
A Bronze Age burial
Of sleeping bones
Curled up
tenderly
In foetal position.

-Job

I love you, green Pringles

You slouch
On the couch,
You and your

Clean,
green tube
Of Sour Cream & Onion

Do it,
Pop the plastic,
Peel the foil.

Yes. Smells sweet
Artificial
Onion & Sour cream

First bite,
Crisp salty sharp
On your dead tongue

Then you can’t stop,
Just one more
Crunch, crunch, crunch,

Until you feel
Sick and
Happy.

-Job