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.
The Choir Ineffable
We are four-part harmony,
in theory.
In practice,
we know four lines—
maximum—
of any given song.
But that doesn’t stop us.
Not when the kettle hisses like a synth,
or someone says “Don’t lose your head”
and suddenly
we’re queens of our own kitchen stage.
One of us struts into verse,
another tries the harmony (wrong key),
the rest chant the title line
like a warning
or a dare.
We are the choir ineffable,
not angelic—
we're chaos in black boots
the soundtrack to train journeys
and spontaneous choreography
on slippery pavements.
Suggestible as shadows,
we catch each other’s tunes
like colds,
passing them back and forth
until someone breaks
into "Don't stop me now"
and then,
of course,
we don’t.
It's not about knowing the words.
It’s the ritual of repetition,
the rhythm of togetherness,
the magic in misremembering
exactly the same way.
We sing in shops,
at bus stops,
in toilets with decent acoustics.
Always just the beginning,
never quite the end.
Because the song
is never finished—
only passed on
like a crown
or a chorus.
A Cacophony of Corvids
Chack-chack-chack rattle,
black and white in morning light,
looking for salutes
Crow
One harsh caw breaks through—
a sharp cut in the still fog,
truth with feathered edge.
Chough
Red-beaked chattering
Chee-ow calls on the wind,
cliff-dancer’s bright cry.
Raven
Deep bell in the bones,
echoing through ancient stone—
a voice older still.
