Blog

Even as an eleven-year-old shame burned in me as I watched. The television flickered in the summer heat, "The old man" grunted from his armchair, shaking his head. Mum, indifferent to all things cricket, Paused in the kitchen just long enough to mutter, "Well, that’s not very sporting, is it?"The score read six needed from one. The game teetered, fragile as a porcelain teacup; The kind Mark Burgess would later launch at a dressing room wall. Greg Chappell, sunburned and spent, Turned to his brother Trevor with the casual cruelty Of an older sibling about to prove a point."How’s your underarm?" "No, Greg, no, you can't do that!" Ian Chappell, aghast in the commentary box, Like a priest witnessing blasphemy at the altar. Rod Marsh, behind the stumps, pleading, "Don’t do it, mate!"; A man begging the tide to turn back.And yet, down it rolled, slow as a funeral procession, A cricket ball stripped of its dignity, Rolling feebly toward Brian McKechnie, Who stared at it as one might stare At an unexpected turd in a swimming pool. Bat dropped. Arms out. A curse swallowed whole.The world gasped as Richie Benaud Gave his verdict with the surgical precision of a coroner: "Disgraceful. One of the worst things I have ever seen." And then, silence; The awful silence of a crowd realizing They have witnessed something That will never be forgotten.A little girl tugged at Greg’s sleeve, Her voice small but true: "You cheated." And in that moment, the mighty Australian captain Was reduced to a schoolboy Caught copying in a math test.In the New Zealand dressing room, Rage simmered beneath quiet disgust, Until a teacup shattered against the wall— A punctuation mark of fury, A ceramic obituary for the spirit of the game.Meanwhile, across the Tasman, Piggy Muldoon, wry and righteous, Declares it fitting the Australians wore yellow. A nation, red-faced with anger, Murmurs a new cricketing phrase: "Hitler was a bastard, but he never bowled underarm."Back in the backyard, Beneath the scorching Aussie sun, We replayed the moment in mockery. The underarm delivery, now folklore, A crime so shameful, even kids understood. The Kiwi kids would yell out; "Stop cheating Aussies" We'd laugh, but somewhere deep down, We knew this time, they weren’t wrong. Even the dog looked disappointed.FSF

Mark Burgess's tea cup

I have stumbled.Contorted into shapes I thought would be loved.Tried to be the echo instead of the voice,softened my roar to a whisperthat even I could not hear. No more. You were not born to be liked.Not sculpted from wet clay, pressed into safe hands.You were forged—a blade, bright on the anvil of your own defiance.Etch your name with a stiletto tempered in conviction,not a feather quill dipped in borrowed ink. If you shrink, you vanish.If you blend, you blur. How will those seeking firefind only the cold ash of your pretending? Some watch.Some do.Some wear masks—and some rip them free. It is not that watchers cannot become doers,nor that the masked cannot unmask—but you were never meant to be part of the chorus,you were the single note that shatters the glass. Stop trying to be silencein a room waiting for your thunder. Let them call you too much.Let them shield their eyes from your glare.Better to be the wildfirethan the flicker begging for wind. Face the mirror.Beyond the reflection, see the lion.Hear its breath in your own lungs,feel its pulse in your own skin.You were never waiting to become—you have always been. Step forward unbound. Let the world shatter and reform in your wake.

Unapologetic

I will not die by fate divine, no poet’s end, no grand design. No final act, no curtain call— just something dumb. Just watch me fall.A stubbed toe swells, a purple bloom, infection spreads, I meet my doom. Or maybe just a single sneeze— a spinal snap, I crumple, pleased.A cat once clawed me, deep and raw, its rusted nails defied all law. An ant once bit—one tiny prick— and down I fell, a melting wick.The Reaper watched and said "not yet'.But I lived. Again, again— like fate mistook the how and when. A shotgun kissed my waiting head, but left me standing, dazed instead.And the Reaper said "not yet".The ocean flipped my kayak twice, I sipped the void, I paid the price. But strangers breathed me back to shore, then vanished. (Never seen before.)And the Reaper said "not yet".An elevator groaned and snapped, nine stories down, its guests entrapped. But I had left—just one floor high. The next man in? He learned to fly.And the Reaper said "not yet".A car ride—wrong door, twist of fate. A friend said, "No, the —other mate." I stepped away, just one foot wide— the others took a different ride.The Reaper whispered " next time..".A mild dispute with dynamite, which shook the ground, erased the night. The trees dissolved, the dust turned red— but I remained, still not quite dead.And the Reaper murmured "not yet".A doctor frowned, "Your gut’s decayed, your brain’s a wreck, your odds mislaid." Yet there I sat, "Well, what’s the deal?" He skimmed his notes—"You shouldn’t heal."And the Reaper shrugged "not yet I guess".So here I am—against all odds, a glitch, a joke, a fraud to gods. In some dark worlds, I bit the dust, but here I linger—live I must.And when I go, it won’t be grand, no poet’s pen, no sculptor’s hand. Just gasps of "Wait—that? No way, no!" A death too dumb to undergo.A toe, a trip, a swollen hue, infection spreads, I turn to glue. And as the Reaper comes, you'll hear me crow: "See, I told you so."

Not Yet

It begins with a spoon. Not a boulder, not a comet— a spoon. And suddenly, you’re trapped in some slapstick dystopia, where everything you touch leaps from your hands like suicidal lemmings on a farewell tour. You used to drop things. Everyone drops things. But now? Now, it’s different. Now, objects betray you mid-handoff, as if conspiring with the floor in some underground rebellion. And the floor— the floor has become an enemy. A distant, hostile country with strict visa requirements. Every retrieval mission feels like deep-sea diving without the oxygen tank. Except the ocean is your kitchen, and the spoon at the bottom is laughing at you. Stress? Stress doesn’t help. Stress is that guy at the bar— buys you a drink, trauma-dumps his divorce, and somehow follows you home. It grabs your hand, makes it shake. The cup tilts. Coffee meets shirt. Congrats, you’re now part of a Jackson Pollock original. And posture— what a traitorous little bastard. You’ve twisted yourself into a human game of Jenga, stacking hope between vertebrae. Every time you bend, your back whispers, “Are you sure about this?” Pain doesn’t care. Pain is a landlord, collecting rent no matter how often you beg for a payment plan. Then there’s your brain. Your smug little saboteur. Always whispering: “Hey, don’t drop that.” And, like clockwork, you drop it. Because your brain isn’t your ally. It’s that coworker who starts their emails with, “Per my last message…” And gravity? Gravity, you petty bastard. Sitting back, eating popcorn, watching the chaos, sending little postcards from Isaac Newton: "Still here, loser." Fatigue? Fatigue is the MVP of entropy. Your muscles stage a walkout, your focus melts like cheap ice cream. The world becomes a slippery stage, and you— the tragicomic star of the show— keep auditioning for a role no one wants and everyone gets. So, what now? You could fight back. Sure. Grip exercises. Reorganize your life so nothing’s above knee height. Invest in one of those grabber tools, because bending down is now an extreme sport. See a specialist who’ll frown, scribble notes, mutter, “Hmm, interesting…” like you’re a lab rat in an existential experiment. All so you can pretend this isn’t the new normal. Or— You could embrace it. Become the person who drops things. The butterfingers. The fumbler. Turn every spill into performance art. Take a bow. Accept the applause. Because if gravity insists on pulling the strings, remember the spoon. It’s never the big things. It’s the small ones— the spoons, the cups, the keys. Tiny mutinies against control. They remind you what it means to be alive, to feel the pull of the world, to fumble, to fall. And to rise—again and again. So laugh. Laugh loud. Laugh long. And when gravity, that petty bastard, grins— when it snatches the spoon from your fingers like some smug cosmic pickpocket— Let it. Watch it tumble, hear it clatter, see it spin like a doomed little satellite. Then pick it up. Again. And again. Because that’s the game. And you? You’re still playing.FSF&nbsp;

Gravity, You Petty Bastard

I flexed my bravadolike a frayed muscle,terrified it might snap.Turned compliments to ash,hands that reached outinto ghosts.I thought I was untouchable,but it was fear that kept me whole,a rusted shieldwelded to my chest. I smothered birthdays,a cigarette ground underfoot,their sugary humtoo sweet, too sharp.Faces lit by candle glow,flickering with loveI couldn’t hold.They kept lighting matchesI never dared to strike on my own. But today,I let the light in.The tang of smoke,the wax poolinginto tiny lakes of heat.The silence after the songsettles in my bones,not a burden, but a balm. Scared to need,I refused the gifts of others.Scared to be seen,I turned away from the mirrorsof their kindness.But now, I stand still.I let the candles burn throughthe armour I built from shameand call it warmth. Let their voices hum around me.Let the sweetness coat my tongue.I see it now:the hands weren’t chains,the words weren’t traps.They were lanterns in the dark,held out to guide me home. I stand still,letting the smoke lingerin the hush of the room—accepting all the light,at last.

Today I accepted my birthday

The Senator stood at heaven’s gate, His suit dishevelled; his voice ornate. He clung to fragments of his pride, The echoes of applause now long denied.“St. Peter,” he began, with measured tone, “Did my speeches shape the cornerstone? I moved the masses, I made them dream, Did my life have weight, or just a gleam?”St. Peter sighed, his gaze both sharp and kind, “Your legacy lies in what’s left behind. You sought purpose in grandeur, the crowd’s cheer, But missed the moments that drew you near.At a banquet, amidst the clink of glass, A waiter whispered as he passed: ‘Could you pass that empty glass?’ he said. You did. That’s all. That’s what you led.”The Senator stiffened, his pride turned thin, At the absurdity of where he’d been. “A glass?” he muttered, his ego frayed, “My finest act was a waiter’s trade?”“Precisely,” Peter said with calm refrain, “For in that act, no power sought gain. You simply served, without applause, And that, my friend, fulfilled your cause.The Strategist, next, stepped forward slow, His mind a maze of schemes aglow. “St. Peter,” he said, his voice a rasp, “Did my blueprints stand, my plans hold fast?I shaped the gears, I turned the tides, I wove the threads where fate resides. Was my life the needle, stitching seams? Or did it dissolve into fleeting dreams?”St. Peter’s gaze was sharp and clear, “The webs you spun will disappear. For every law, for every pact, The winds of time undo the act.Your purpose came in an unseen way, On a night like any other day. Amidst your toil, in the office dim, A colleague asked on a whim:‘Do you have the time?’ they said, nothing more. You did. That was your quiet chore. In that moment, no ledger, no scheme, Only kindness unseen by the gleam.”The Strategist blinked, his thoughts askew, And muttered softly, “Is that true? Years of plotting, undone by this— A watch, a glance, a fleeting bliss?Last came Vladislav, gaunt and pale, A refugee with a weary tale. He carried frost from Siberian air, A life of shadows, of silent despair.“St. Peter,” he whispered, his voice unsure, “Was my life too humble, too obscure? I bore the cold, I braved the snow, But did my existence ever glow?”St. Peter’s face softened, a fleeting spark, As if his words would kindle the dark. “Vladislav, your steps were slow, Each one weighed by all you’d known.Your purpose isn’t measured by the grand, It’s found in moments, unplanned, unscanned. On that train, through the frozen expanse, In a dining car, you took a chance.A woman leaned and softly asked, ‘Pass the salt.’ You performed your task. She smiled once, and though no word was said, You carried her warmth in the life you led.”Vladislav smiled, a faint, warm trace, As if the cold had loosened its embrace. “A grain of salt,” he murmured, bemused, “In all the cold, it’s warmth I infused.”The three now stood, their fates aligned, Their lives unravelled, redefined. No shame, no grandeur, just lives laid bare— Fragments of meaning scattered there.The gates stayed shut, the light stayed dim, No verdict passed, no angels’ hymn. And yet they lingered, quiet and still, As if their purpose had been fulfilled. &nbsp; &nbsp; A glass, a glance, a grain of salt,The moments linger, though memories halt. The gates stayed shut, the light stayed dim, And purpose whispered, soft and slim. FSF &nbsp;

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Mark Burgess's tea cup

Unapologetic

Not Yet

Gravity, You Petty Bastard

Today I accepted my birthday

A glass, a glance, a grain of salt