I am not clever enough
to understand your words
at times. The majority
I comprehend, I empathise with
and nod in appreciation, if not
in agreement of your dilemma,
the narrow view in which you have painted
yourself in, the corner of the room
in which paint has not met floor
or ceiling covered over with wallpaper,
is like your mind,
a career in trying to look good
but not achieving a half way decent result;
stuck between self interest
and poorly managed heartbeats,
If you only whisper one word today,
let it breathe in the wind,
let it ferment in the mind
of fools and the dangerously absurd,
let it be heard and rejoiced
in silent thoughtful prayer
and let it be remembered
as it echoes across time,
across our lives,
let that word be the last thing
on our minds
from the moment we whisper
it with childlike hope in the
glare of a new born sun
and the roar of a daughter’s gift,
let the bells ring with joy
She was so special,
no woman on Earth has ever compared
to the serenity in autumn, winter
or in the spring, as ice flows fall,
smash into the water beneath
and sail, bobbing, stealthy jogging onwards,
partially melting as I hope
they were able to and in the end
finding open sea water to repeat the thousand year cycle,
of wear and tear and heartbreaking beauty
that flutters by in the whisper
of conversation by the floral clock
and finger licked clean Wendy Burger
when you have not looked at anything
Rest in Peace,
dear old V.H.S video recorder,
your life was one given
in service of those to whom
staying in was an anathema
and the pause button,
for whatever their reason,
be it grainy, dirty or just
frequently needing the loo
during a good film
or quickly taped soap opera
as the promise
of a night out at the pub with no
strings attached became a modern
necessity.
Farewell and thank you
for being able to tape Doctor Who
How could you not love Danny La Rue,
the last man in a dress
to outshine the also rans, in high heels,
stockings and large expensive wigs,
taught several how to relish in the glamour
of their existence and others how to embrace
that not everything in life is black, white
and as bright and vibrant as a child’s colouring book
when they learn to draw outside of the margins;
how could you not love Danny La Rue.
How could you not love Dorothy Gale,
I was never more astounded
in my young and carefree life
than on the day I witnessed
evolution in flight,
as the black mass
took to the Selly Park air
and shrouded the sun as one,
shimmering, splitting the heavens,
blowing my mind as I peered
into the cracks of the corporation
pavement of Manilla Road,
an ice cream slowly dripping
and making sticky fingers,
evolution in flight,
evolution with black angel wings,
as ants crawled, stuttered, their heartbeats
increased by sunshine and the call
We are the humourless children of Darth Vader,
stuck in a pattern
of self loathing and flowing envy,
the darkness seeping out
from the sore
we keep hidden, under layers
of guilt and delusion and the odd
pair of cartoon socks, one size
fits all and opinions we hope are the same;
we are the grave and grim,
the forbidding and the forbidden,
we are the humourless offspring
of Darth Vader.
We are the children of a deaf Batman
and the surprising talent of The Joker,
As a nervous teenage boy
I submitted the flesh
on my neck for you to place
your tongue against the pulse
of lingering, anxious excitement
and you my dear would kiss me gently
through dreams passing by
the agony of lazy summer days
of dying school memories.
Now when I think back, jumping in time
to the delicious feeling of being wanted,
being practised upon by calm
and relaxed women of the same
age and desires,
I thank my own personal deity
that I was brought up by
The world is on fire,
having simmered too long,
unable to cut off the fuel that drives
the hate, that steers and directs
the dislike and blows it up, makes mole
hills burst like Vesuvius, Earth tired worms
claw at the air and interesting times
are back in vogue once more.
The world is on fire, screaming
out injustice whilst having no plan
to purge those that place a spark
of Lucifer against the black sparkling dust,
extreme dislike turns to detest
turns to repulsion, turns the hatred clock
The solid, spread out ink
of the wired octopus on the polished
wooden floor, scuffed in places
where four by four
tables, holding sauces
and drinks during the day,
allows the musician
to reach the audience and keep
them spellbound.
The octopus never loses shape nor sleep,
wide awake, alert and fussy over the music
it hears silently, the only clue to the beat
being played is the pulse and the energy
that courses through its thin frame
and two jacked hearts, hyperactive