Thought’s of the Narcissist
I am.
And you, Sir
definitely
are not.
Filed under Poetry | Comment (0)The Tranny Dowstairs
air kisses show a
transsexuals monsters –
averted eyes
sticks and stones don’t raise
lady lumps and man bumps
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)The Silence of a Dry Twig
A dry twig off the old branch
of the long dead oak tree,
that stands alone against
the slow outside curve of the
more than man deep stream.
A dry twig held in two clean
fingers and an everyday thumb
chambers the silence inside,
the prize of the noisy mind
that now pushes skin on wood.
A dry twig cracks its silence out
freezing rustling feet and closing
cheeping beaks; soothing wind,
water and thought into a single
image that stops the clacking clock.
A dry twig severed and emptied
discarded on the muddy bank,
is tidied away to the magpies
nest high in the dead oak tree
where silence rarely falls.
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.
Front Window
Filed under Poetry, Senryu | Comment (0)lawn littered
by fat leg’ed witless oaf –
depression lingers
Cunning Detritus
Several half smoked ciggys
and a damp Havana butt.
A broken kiddie’s tricycle.
Enough planks and beams of wood
to make a large dog house
And an old dog house.
Nuts and bolts and the spanners to tighten.
Bottles whole and in half
And assortment of branches,
a thick trunk and a bundle of sticks.
A bonnet, two doors and a seat,
enough tyres to stack as high as my head
and a black bended steering wheel.
A severed dolls head and a dead cat.
A huge double mattress hiding
the mangled end of a ladder.
A paint can not quiet crushed flat.
Downpause
Filed under Haiku, Poetry | Comment (0)tightness fills the air
lightening strikes downward soon –
butterfly under leaves
Webzietgeist
The mighty walk amongst us
looking just as we do but
seeing only themselves in
everything they do or say.
I see nothing of them.
The righteous sit above us
looking down as we do but
reflecting our choices in
anything we do or say.
I get nothing from them.