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.
Filed under Poetry | Comment (0)Barefoot and Redfaced
my feet are a
labyrinth in the maze –
lobster on the beach
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.
Filed under Poetry, Prose | Comment (0)Tweet Tweet
Filed under Poetry, Senryu | Comment (0)birds rise early
to micro blog the morning –
new dawn for old
Channelled
i
Freedom is a White Dot.
In a state where even thought is vicarious, broadcast
wholesale, there is no struggle. No freedom fighters.
The free are seen every day, hidden only by last years drab.
Backgrounders; talking, playing, sitting almost off camera.
An underground of conscientious objectors; questioning.
Evolution: Birth of Medusa
From a worm, wiggling in the bed of the Med,
to a sperm, banging my head on an egg.
Behold the evolved: a sperm with a perm.
Angry at life, what a fight for my right yet
not lying dead with the rest but the next.
Long curls at my birth, a mop on my top,
there’s some debate: It just isn’t straight.
A cheer, and some tears, and then sneers.
Their fear is clear, two sticks quickly click.
It is licked. A woollen bonnet lies upon it.
With a flick and a nip the curls are on it,
sentient dreads shred the pestilent threads.
Their hand-made fleece is in pieces
but there are no moans; they are stone.
All dead, standing at the bed of their Med.
Filed under Poetry | Comment (0)Where’s the Beef?
Town living is a blessing.
I can walk almost everywhere;
the shops, chemist and to bingo.
But a house right on the
High Street is not without issues.
It’s dark, it’s after ten PM
and my door bell rings.
Local kids are bored again.
Playing “knock and run”.
But without any actual running.
Feek Stink
Mostly a sock is much the same as the next.
Designers agonise over shades and logos
for a tube to keep stench off your boots.
Posh shops know this and wrap them well.
Each sock cosseted in tissue and branded silk,
inside a solid shiny box tied with a bright ribbon.
The quality of these socks is only perceived.
They won’t last as long or stop your new shoes
blistering your ankle; you’ve paid for packaging.
A person is a bag of bodily functions, attitudes
and ape imprinting with feet that stink up shoes.
A pretty ribbon is rarely worth the higher price.