Recrimination

Recrimination

This ageing body is my coat of retribution,
grudgingly worn, familiar, but of no comfort.
I find myself sniggering at my fingers’
attempts to rub out the years,
The touch itself feels leaden and crude.

Again I recite the caustic words to the mirror,
picking out my crimes one by one.
Is this contempt or disgust?
Either way, I dress to the sound of recrimination,
and paint a smile on my thinning lips.

23 thoughts on “Recrimination

    • Thanks Mike. I think a bit of Botox might be the order of the day, either that or scaffolding!

      This is the result of Assignment Number 1 from my poetry class. She seemed really pleased with it, it was just my dodgy grammar that I needed help with.

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      • A tannin allergy works a treat! My wife recently discovered she had such an allergy. Noticed it at first when drinking her beloved red wine…a few days following diagnosis I had had a couple of glasses although by then she had given up the red for good. A small goodnight kiss was all I afforded her yet in an instant her lips came up thus that I was inclined to affix her to a shop window! Regardless it took years off her and she has even been offered gainful employment on the Muppet Show!

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        • Where I’m from (Oop Norf) a tannin’ is a hiding (beating). I’m not sure I’m up for that Mike. Hahaha!

          I’d gladly have the lot done, the other half just won’t agree to it. He wants to keep me (natural) ie….old and ugly…the weirdo! 😀

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          • So there you are with your carpet beater, clad in ankle socks and a woolly hat (obviously a yokels tunic also) on the moors in one of those frequent summertime Pennine blizzards craving for an avocado face mask and a slice of black pudding …having said that my own wife is, as I write trying to fork over our chalky soil with a pitch fork wearing her slippers and what suspiciously looks like my favourite fedora…what with her being accident prone to start with I fear the worst!

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              • I’ll have you know I was Aleksander Solzhenitsyn’s assistant cabbage soup taster in our days together in the frozen hellhole that was the Gulag Archipelago. What I’d have given for a rabid anything back then. You have no idea just how very, very easy you had it in the frozen north…my diet consisted of just a sneaky swallow of the soup I was supposed to be just tasting, a nibble upon my own finger nails (those that were not frost bitten were ingrowing) and the occasional suck upon Aleksanders cast off woollen yet threadbare socks. That with the passage of time I have come to treasure the luxury of a fedora (the very one I note my wife is now planting pips from the apple core I lobbed her way in) is no more than is due to an old, world weary soldier. By the way did you know that at the Eurotunnel terminal in Folkestone there is a sign as you drive in saying, ‘No Ferrets’ – always wondered why!

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                  • No…I think the sign means one cannot take a ferret into France and beyond! My assumption is that this explains why the folk of Yorkshire can only holiday exckusively in Cleethorpes. Then just last week travelling through the tunnel I spotted a blow fly about my windscreen and pondered the point as to whether or not it was an English or French blow fly or perhaps an illegal one. Do they have blow flies up in the frozen north…I know there are none in Cheshire yet remain unsure as to whether or not it is the same in the Dales or Leeds even

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                    • Mablethorpe for us. We’re from the posh part of Yorkshire don’t you know?

                      As for blow flies, no we don’t get them anymore…see there was an old woman who swallowed a spider, that wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her. She swallowed the spider to catch the fly……..

                      …..you might be familiar with the story? She was the wife of that guy that went walking on Ilkley Moor bah’t ‘at, you know the one. Silly old beggar.

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                    • Mabel Thorpe! What a gal…she beat me at arm wrestling once and I left Harrogate a broken man…hirsute she may have been yet with a gut full of Yorkshire ale within her my she was up for anything from earwig baiting to nutting the thugs of Elland Road. I think of often and have the sores to prove it – I till walk with a pronounced limp even to this very day.

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  1. Without doubt, the greatest piece of verse I have ever…a magnificent and thought-provoking tour de force, quite unequalled in the entire annals of…Sensational, heartbreaking and yet redolent with the sweetness of a spring…You are without doubt the finest female poetess since Elizabeth Barrat…a bit special was this! Surely this must be a shoe-in for the prestigious Soz Satire Fawning Fucks Award! I’ve never been so moved or so enchanted by a piece since…etc

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    • Tell me when to take my bow. I need notice these days, as I’m getting on a bit you know?

      Thanks for your eloquently put fawning, I don’t seem to get much of it these days. Or maybe it’s my failing eyesight and I’m missing it. I’d better go before I have one of me falls etc

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