Written History

terrible poems
names on the toilet door –
some of them are yours

Politipping

money changers
and common market breakers –
alternative votes
the colour of a slightly
used banana skins

Thought’s of the Narcissist

I am.

And you, Sir

definitely

are not.

A Sonnet for Johnny Taliban

Reflect O good Mistress of light and moon,
not dark of soul nor burdensome hardship,
but warmly over my love in distant lands.
Shine well and long lift golden hearts aloft.
See hear nor taste the shadowy stench of death;
illuminate senses in touching fingers
as soft tips deftly hold our fallen at safe
Bastion’s walls and shut the gateway to heaven.
I pray you would shine so full and clear
you blind the Hawk and Owl, and hold Eagle still;
yet most I wish your might hides bright happiness
in sweet fair Robins breast, beneath the bushel laid.
My love, home soon together, staying silent
not two minutes for jolly Johnny Taliban.

The Tranny Dowstairs

air kisses show a
transsexuals monsters –
averted eyes
sticks and stones don’t raise
lady lumps and man bumps

The Cold Morning Before

This fine crisply cool late summer morn is wasted,
or rather I am, as it bursts unbidden upon the room.
The squeaky-wheel bird has nested atop my head
and he knows but one single, terrible, treble harmony;
notes played upon the ear and skull, with gusto.

Fine colleagues, do not surround me in sleep, rise;
like the hopes in the strengthened, practised, arm
you showed as we sung evensong until the dawn.
Rise I say; sleep not like the just and righteous man
who bangs, now, heavily upon my shrunken soul.

Barefoot and Redfaced

my feet are a
labyrinth in the maze –
lobster on the beach

All Hail! Summer

hard summer rain
leaves a stark image –
your snowy nipples
peas frozen on the vine –
nature beats industry

Soggy Crunch

middle mangement –
can’t even control their
own middles
their crunch starts at home
one thousand, two thousand, three

Dog Soup

Today I’m eating my dog.  His bones give a literal feeling to the credit crunch as I crack them in my month for marrow.  The old man dispatched him quickly; all over the country.  His soft white fur lines the slippers of several lawyers wife’s, his meat is resting in the window of a well known middle class butcher and his skull will soon be high London art.  I’m left with a bag of bones and bits for soup.  I threaded a dewclaw onto a tendon and fastened it around my neck and boiled the rest in tined peach juice.  He’ll warm cleaner feet tonight, but I won’t have to share my breakfast cabbage.  When the world turns my way again, I’ll use the DNA from the claw to clone him anew and after church we’ll once more dance in the local park before a heaped Sunday lunch. A Candle Maker is never out of work for long, so I’ll sleep deep for the morrow.