#mollygregson

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

The Black Umbrella, by Molly Gregson

A black umbrella, embellished with a golden handle and monogrammed with ‘n.t’- his initials -lies askew against the table leg, the light of the candle reflecting its transparent beads, which are beginning to form a puddle on the carpeted floor. It is alone.

A woman, with white, blistering stilettos, stumbles out of the bathroom across to her table, beaming out of her perfectly reddened lips with total joy and excitement. Her red smile is greeted by the golden smile of the umbrella, which is still soaked in raindrops. alone. 

She pauses for a moment, staring at the initials of the name she never knew, before picking up the umbrella, walking away from their complimentary bread and butter, and dumping him in a nearby bin, flipping the golden smile up side down as she does so, so the monogrammed 'n.t’ now reads 'f.u’. 

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

The Candle, by Molly Gregson

The fuchsia thumbprint trickles down the glass,

its pink hue pooling and cooling,

colliding and sliding with the white.

Peachy, despite its classic eeriness.

its natural vignette erodes its colour, 

making it a retro homage to its branded bottle.

the blooded teardrops stack up in peaks,

the ridges of the mountains, collapsing in landslides.

the nighttime sun emits fireworks,

an explosion of pink across the colourless sky, 

a splattering of Jackson Pollock on a blank canvas.

it submerges itself in itself,

a collapsing plant against gravity,

branching out a hand that reaches for the table,

before falling and landing on the josh Tillman poster,

caressing him and leaving behind a waxed imprint of magenta lips

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

In her house, by Molly Gregson

Teacups;

vintage and frailed

chipped and relic-ed  

A mosaic of the aged

Questionable mugs; 

tinted by tea, tinted with your blushed lipstick, tinted by cheapness

 postcards of your travels.

your “fixing pile” ;

a patchwork of my childhood mishaps,

tapestries and their sequels, buried amongst each other.

your records;

70s disco trash, 80s memorabilia, 90s rareties, 00s reprints.

fine art amalgamated with poor choices, bad hair cuts and lyrics fit for eurovision.

your art;

bouquets of tiles, paint and “upcycling”,

rose petalled sofas, landscaped bedrooms and bunting in celebration of its creation.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

I come from, by Molly Gregson

I come from stories,

tales of the mad, 

anecdotal peculiarities becoming part of normality.

I come from music,

the nostalgia of the past when I was the future

the mismatched mixtapes, looped across the world.

I come from beaches, 

a balamory landscape,

‘wholesome’ community; shell shocked by shell shops

I come from summer,

perfectly rouged lips, imperfectly rouged body,

English sun, pattering down, soaking our skin.

Winter,

frosted skin, moon faced; clown centered,

gritted ground, gritted teeth, gritted voice

lemsip breath, watered eyes, mascara tears.