Author Archives: K Morris Poet

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About K Morris Poet

The purpose of this website (kmorrispoet.com) is to showcase my writing. For details of my published works, please click on the 'About' page of my blog.

Ball Games

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A large brindle lab retriever cross you stand on the sun dappled grass your eyes fixed on the small round prize in my hand. I throw and the rubber ball already deeply engrained with the many maulings it has suffered at the hands of strong canine jaws flies threw the air hitting the garden fence. You bound joyfully forward to secure the prize, the ball is soon secured in your soft mouth.

You come to me your tail wagging furiously inviting me to take the ball. I reach forward but you withdraw circling me that tail dancing in the summer breeze. I give chase laughing as you keep the small round prize just out of my grasp. You growl the sound belied by that waiving tail. Happy Trigger without a care in the world your universe is this small green patch of grass and me. Your thoughts in this moment fixed entirely on this joyous game.

The sunny garden receeds into the background. Mechanically I continue to frolic my brain elsewhere remembering my previous dog Drew. I recollect the day. You where full of life in the morning eager to take me into the office on your harness. In the evening you started to pass blood. We of course took you to the vets but it was all to late. You died leaving me with memories of a thumping tail, a cold wet nose and a tender spot in my heart which still aches for you.

The game over Trigger rolls on the grass paws waiving in the air begging to have his belly scratched. Lucky Trigger with no conception of death or concerns for the future, you exist in the moment my fortunate four legged friend.

A Suburban Liverpool Street in Springtime

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Wind chimes swaying in a gentle spring breeze, birds twittering in the trees. The scent of roses fills the air, the sound of lawn mowers a distant purr. Smell of hay warm and sweet, I long to feel it under my feet. but other people cut the grass, their garden gates I may not pass.

Girl and Man

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Young lady older man, is there love or a cunning plan? Middle aged man with younger girl, does love exist in this world? What thoughts pass through your heads, as you lie entwined in your bed? Girl are you there or far away? What holds you, makes you stay?

“Oh my darling man why worry? enjoy me while you can. Life is short, I am sweet. Give in to lust then let us sleep”.

Victims of Circumstance

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The causes of human action are a source of endless fascination to me. There is a tendency inherent in much discourse to ascribe simple explanations to why humans act as they do. Marxists argue that it is the economic base (the wealth of individuals and their status in society) which largely determines why persons behave in specific ways, for example people living in poverty are more likely to turn to criminality while the rich are likely to vote for parties which will sustain the capitalist status-quo. Others argue that it is genetics which explains human motivation and that of other animals. Thus the individual possessing “good” genetic material is likely to do well academically, attain a well paying job and be less likely to turn to criminality than the individual who has “inferior” genetic material.

Both positions are reductionist in that they attempt to ascribe simple explanations to the behaviour of highly complex living organisms. While it is undoubtedly the case that many people filling our jails are from deprived backgrounds most of those from “the wrong side of the tracks” do not become criminals. Again individuals from apparently loving and well-to-do backgrounds do, on occasions turn to crime for reasons which are difficult to fathom.

All of the above brings me to the point of this post, why do educated middle class girls turn to the world’s oldest profession? The prostitute is often portrayed as a victim of circumstance by the media and in literature, a poor down trodden drug addicted person possessing little (if any) autonomy). There are of course women and men who fit into this stereotype, however many sex workers are not drug addicts and by no means all of them are ill educated. I will explore in a future story why a lady from an affluent background turns to sex work of her own volition. While I have ideas for my story they are far from being set in concrete. The longer I live the more I come to realise that reductionist approaches contain at best only partial explanations to complex issues. Yes social and economic forces do help to shape the lives of humanity but humans are not mere feathers blown hither and thither by them. The ideas emanating from human brains and the actions flowing from them also shape our lives and those of others for better or worse.

Rachel Moran Memoir of a Former Prostitute

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The Irish Times for 13 April carries a piece about Rachel Moran, a former Irish prostitute and her book which details Moran’s experiences in prostitution (see http://www.irishtimes.com/life-and-style/people/the-myth-of-the-happy-hooker-1.1358702?page=1. For my review of Moran’s book please visit http://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/4075228-paid-for-my-journey-into-prostitution-by-rachel-moran).

Moran’s experiences as a street prostitute and, later an escort has lead the author to advocate that Ireland and other nations introduce the Swedish model under which people who pay for sex are criminalised while prostitutes are offered assistance to leave the trade. In Moran’s view men who purchase sex are abusing women and take positive delight in doing so. Abuse is by it’s very nature unacceptable and those who buy women’s bodies should be named and shamed.

Having just read Moran’s book I was unsurprised by what she says in the above mentioned article in the Irish Times. However the comments from those who are either (or have been engaged) in the sex industry which follow on from the article are of interest. Other prostitutes and those with knowledge of the industry question Moran’s perspective that prostitution is necessarily exploitative. She is accused by one lady in particular of misrepresenting the effectiveness of the Swedish Law on Prostitution in preventing the trade. The commenter further contends that in contrast to what Moran states the Swedish approach makes the lives of prostitutes harder than was the case prior to the introduction of the legislation.

In my short story, The First Time we meet Becky a young student who enters the world of prostitution as an escort in order to pay off her credit card bill. The psychological effects of working in the sex industry on both Becky and her fellow escort and Friend Julie are examined as are the ladies interactions with their clients. No doubt Rachel Moran would see the fictional Becky as being exploited by Mike, the first man who purchases her services as an escort. However Mike does not threaten Becky either verbally or physically. In fact Julie informs her friend that there are clients “much worse than Mike Carter” and goes on to describe an encounter with a client who wanted her to pretend to be his teenage daughter.

Moran has understandably been deeply traumatised by her participation in prostitution, however whether she can speak on behalf of all prostitutes is, to my mind a debatable question as is exemplified by the comments generated in response to the above article and memoirs of other prostitutes which do not paint the same picture as Moran. Whatever one’s views on the issue of prostitution I’d recommend reading Moran’s book. As it provides a fascinating portrayal from one lady’s perspective on the oldest profession.

Don’t Make Me Blush!

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A week or so ago I was at my local station on the way into work when I fell into conversation with a gentleman who works as an editor. As a writer this was a perfect opportunity for me to discuss writing and perhaps (naughty me) even obtain some free advice! What did I do? I listened politely to my companion’s description of his work but not one hint of the fact that I am a writer did I give!

I am by nature shy and relatively reserved. I find it easy to promote my writing using this blog and other social media tools such as Twitter. Sitting here at my laptop my face retains it’s natural colour when I say “I am a writer”, however face to face with a stranger I blush with embarrassment and am at times almost apologetic when stating this fact. I guess that I am typically British in that I’m deeply imbued with the belief that it isn’t the done thing to blow one’s own trumpet. Of course as an author I need to promote myself, but this doesn’t prevent me from feeling embarrassed when telling an acquaintance that I write. Maybe I’ll get business cards produced saying “Kevin Morris writer” with my blog address printed on them and press the cards into the hands of random strangers irrespective of whether they wish to receive them or not. Then again maybe I will continue to blush when informing people that I write while remaining hidden behind this computer screen!

The Thing

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Like a living thing it lurked in the spare room quietly clicking away to itself. No one knew about it save for the boy and he told no one. What would have been the point of telling? Had he told they would have called him mad, a strange child with a tenuous grip on reality the adults would have remarked. Sometimes even he doubted the existence of the thing. During the day the room stood silent and empty except for the presence of a chest of drawers, a single bed and a wardrobe. The homely presence of the furniture, solid and dependable reassured the boy during daylight that all was well in the house. When the sun shonne on the walls the horses imprinted on the wall paper filled the child with delight. He imagined them galloping across sunlit green fields their long mains blowing in the wind. He galloped with them wild and free, nothing could hurt him, his spirit was one with the sky and the wind.

At night the thing came. Click, click it said crouching in it’s corner coiled and ready to pounce. The thing never left it’s lair but the knowledge of the loathsome presence filled him with dread. Click, click it said waiting patiently in the dark for it’s prey.

Looking back he never could recall having entered the room. Some how or other he was there in the presence of the unspeakable clicking thing. It never spoke, perhaps it was incapable of speech, the thing merely bided it’s time and when the time was right struck like a beast launching itself upon his prey. Click, click the machine whispered to itself it’s tentacles reaching for the boy’s neck. Choking he fought with the thing. It was strong but he always managed to wriggle away somehow. Perhaps the thing wanted him to escape. Like a cat which takes pleasure in catching a mouse, releasing it and giving chase once more the thing would let him go only to wait, patiently for the next tussle.

He called it the strangling machine on account of it’s propensity to choke him. Click, click, click echoing down the years the thing reached into his nightmares, filling his brain with the terrors of the night. Click, click click …  …