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Ottie Whittle

Updated: Mon, 4 Mar 2019 10:41 am

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'The Thinker', name of my first book, self published, second book 'Bad friends, good drinks & expensive taste' is finished, with 101 pages of words plonked on them, these are observations, optimism, rants, some gloom and sort of poems.


THE BLACK CAR The mind goes its own way, it departs on its own journey, it takes the rocky road up and down, with many more red lights than green. There are no services or exits, the wheel can become too heavy to turn, and the road is in complete darkness with no room to perform a U turn, and reverse gear does not exist and the doors are welded shut. At that point there is no way back, and they are lost forever. But it was not anyone's fault, it was out of our control, those left behind are tortured that they could have done more, shown more love or been kinder, at the very least noticed. But the truth is once in that black car, there is often nothing that can be done, better to watch out and see if anyone is reaching for the keys. They will be grey, and the key ring black, and will be marked with just one word, help! VICTORIAN VALUES The working class curse, a sows ear for a purse, holes in pockets, hungry eyes popping out of sockets, holes in shoes, and too much gin for booze, outside privy, maids that skivvy, sharing beds and nit infested heads. RAGE Bomb out, kick my arse and shout, make a face, join the race. Its tough up hill, so see a doctor and take a pill, you will need the energy, aim for synergy, take big steps as always an emergency. Running hard, with body scarred, little love, not white but a dirty grey dove, swooping like a vulture from high above. It’s a nightmare, its despair, happiness is rare, find a mirror and smash it then look and stare. A million pieces, crazy paving, never stopped misbehaving, give it up, slow down, not worth all the raging. FLASHING AMBER For those that want to speak from the heart the lights are often on red, for those that talk out of their arse, they always seem to be on green. ME The iPhone, my new home, it’s where I write, as try as I might I cannot do this in any other place, a thought comes into my mind and for the iPhone I race. On it I write at a furious pace and then later I read it as if written by someone else, and wonder who is this writer, this sometimes funny, often angry blighter. But it must be me, as here’s a hint, this iPhone has my finger print.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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