Gina Wants to Die of Old Age
I can’t hear Bon Jovi
without being seventeen again,
singing, “Gina wants to die of old age,”
like it was gospel.
My friend stared.
“What did you say?”
Laughed so hard
she nearly peed.
It’s “Gina works the diner all day,”
but my version stuck.
Wrong words, right feeling—
and I still sing it that way.
Because maybe,
deep down,
Gina wants that too.
Plinky Songs
You sing of sirens,
riding the tides of green tea
soft myths for hard days.
Books on guns open,
strummed with lullaby fingers
truth wrapped in a tune.
Sugar Loaf goodbye,
falling feels inevitable
getting up: a choice.
Music as ritual
1.
Chant as we exit
this coiling labyrinth path,
fire transform us.
2.
Herald the May Queen—
flowers tumble at her feet,
a crown in full bloom.
3.
Crystals hum above,
Himalayan bowls sing low,
ground us to our bones.
Don't deep fry the gulls
First beach hut picnic, sun’s warmth on our skin,
A spread laid out, fresh breezes fill the air.
Salad, couscous, hummus - let’s begin,
Followed by doughnuts, a sweet joy to share.
Crackers, cheese, and vegan ham to taste,
Another doughnut, light as clouds above.
We talk of books, and work, and life laid waste,
While crows come close, as though they too could love.
A child suggests deep-frying gulls for fun,
To stop them stealing chips, but I remind
That they're protected, off they them run -
Their thieving ways are harmless in our mind.
The day stretches, slow with nothing left,
But good food, good friends, and the sea’s soft breath.
Not my scene —
but my best mate turned thirteen
and bought me for my birthday,
tickets to New Kids on the Block.
I liked books. She liked Donnie’s socks.
Halfway through,
I hit the floor —
not in awe,
just a seizure.
They thought I’d swooned like a proper teen.
Next night, pity tickets.
I went again,
mortified but upright.
That’s girlhood, isn’t it?
Doing things you rather wouldn't for a friend.
