Watching Kiril die
knew him as Kiril,
further investigation on my part
his surname as Goodrundorf.
he was Bulgarian,
speak to be understood
you knew if he was speaking to you
trying to pass something on-
knowing smile when you nodded "yes"
79 when I met him,
his birthday in June,
the last two days - not good,
confused by life,
it told this morning when I heard Kiril had died.
old man, I enjoyed your ethics
your winning smile
I passed you
we had commonalities.
the blue blazes is that popsicle protruding
your burnt red lips?
a turkey I'd say, with mild derision
for the lips to purple and the scene change.
at ducks severely expecting a waddle quack
to cheer me up from death around,
farted loudly fluffy chicken feathers
like a pillow exploding with laughter.
today was my birthday and only the tree I lean against
and acquiesces to my insignificant demands
always do - lucky me.
feathered boa's 'cause I'm gay, well leastwise happy
to show off the wonderful colours that light up
unhysterectomised smile - think no tongue.
We can rebuild anything.
any over aged person
them on a surgery table and rebuild him/her,
as nature designed it to happen.
folks learn quicker now
how to swallow up huge amounts
dollars in hospital systems,
making it hard to pay for those that work
injure themselves to be repaired satisfactorily.
fucks sake, 100 years ago the Old Age was less than 50,
it's staggering very quickly to 85,
jump don't you think.
folks, lay down and die
self satisfaction and longevity is not needed,
extra population of humans is not needed.
way, I'm a centenarian from Jupiter,
sent here to give Earth a hard time.
Rage against reality.
fill this void with a diatribe of F words,
spittle on my manic screen,
point does it prove?
a few well chosen words to explain the slowing watch,
the classic healer,
my time appears to be up - possibly.
have a mirror anymore, on purpose
to see that in three weeks my grey hair
blanket of recently fallen snow - fluffy white.
I sink the remainder of my aging appendages
another morsel of Mrs Mac's baking delights,
squirrel myself away for another time.
Kiril, in memorium
like this, it’s easy to forget others,
we forget ourselves all the time,
some stick in your mind
Kiril was one.
in his duty to empty the bins,
dressed most times
a ready wave and smile for any greeting from others.
week, our little world has shrunk a little.
Dixie City Jam
and slide the bar
off another New Orleans party
party - Mardi Gras
in the bass drum and double bass
of the ivories
the beat hits everyone’s feet
a twirl begins
- dance - sex
enough for sure
that Dixie City Jam.
The Lamb Whisperer
lived in the country and witnessed
most often not seen at sea, my old life.
life, a rest home in the country,
by nature, and the birth of life,
Calves and new Birds on the wing.
job, caretaker of new life,
the count, reporting ill health
and ewes in the middle of reformation.
the bearer of news, keeping all in the home
of the count, as well as txting my daughters
good news and to share pxt’s.
to help the odd ewe whose mothering instincts
a little awry, like some mothers can be,
whisper ewe-like into the void, to help.
it does, lambs run for mothers when I cry my cry,
take to the milk in fear, ensuring their last drink,
separation, before their impending demise.
of course is not what is happening,
it’s got to be good for the mothers to empty
full or near full of wholesome nourishment.
there are over 25 lambs in the paddock,
a little porkier than others, some scrawny,
most happy joyful playful lambs happy to be alive.
a monologue set in slushy cement
to dry and harden in time
talk about the latest news from the Middle East
shoot the breeze about mothers complaining
fathers that shirk their family duty.
find that reading the latest sports news is a blurring event,
now takes less time to do than it did yesterday,
I too, shirk my family duties, who knows?
I'm a computer junkie
into megabyte world and the way it's turning,
Ok I get your point, another family shirk.
we men in conversations with ourselves
to find the answer to our own problems from other sources
should act upon them accordingly.
Poetry in Motion Forward
like my future
uncertain, almost hand in hand
is a lack of any light at the end of the tunnel
I think I left the tunnel on my arrival
Dominics Respite Care home.
here typing trying to imagine lines out front
all I see is the lines diminishing behind
thankfully I am in the light,
counts I guess.
it’s meant to be this way, me in a poor house,
and children all struggling with money and ills,
I could help them all, but their future is in the hands
almighty, as is mine.
want to be on the street again, or arrested again
being someone that now struggles everywhere he goes,
commit suicide, it’s not good for those cleaning up,
the emotions of whanau left behind.
that’s my life, caught with the reality I have nowhere to go,
no way of getting there in a hurry,
win would be lovely, but highly unlikely,
a Big Wednesday, yes I do fantasize.
I do here is day dream of escapes
of a better life for my poor family
hope like hell I don’t have another manic attack, I’m sick of them,
I do realise too that I can’t work or be in society much, it irks me.
The Colour of War
A red poppy grows
in a green Belgium field
near a white headstone
with grey marble
under a blue,blue sky
and somewhere after WWII
a widow receives a Purple Heart
go with her black one.
Andrew Young Street
You drive down
Andrew Young Street,
near the middle,
an off cream two storey building
usually with hobos and whores
outside smoking or bickering.
If your window was down
you might catch a sniff of decaying humanity,
also catch a whiff of glue
or some good dak doing the rounds.
Might catch Manahi doing his hippy hippy shake
to light the same smoke for the tenth time today,
happens when Mental health prescribes
so much legal meds it numbs
happens too when your options run out
and the streets paths all go the same way.
Can you enter
and see what lies within?
See the regimented nothingness of hopelessness
brewing another concoction to last the day
See Hazel dressed to the pins, 55 year old whore
that can't even score a packet of smokes no more,
still dresses to catch her own eye now.
Life at 21 Andrew Young Street is far from life,
it's like all the hermit
crabs at the beach
have been stripped of their protection
and thrown together in a tin with one door
time you pass out through that portal
a bungy cord attaches you to it
and hauls your sorry arse back in
in case you offend someone
with your prolonged public appearance.
Another Like Me
Wind in my helmet, bracing
stinging my eyes,
freewheeling down the motorway
with power roaring
sliding out of control and sliding closer
into the barrier........
walls, white and blue,
pale blue, sickly blue
beds either side,
no sign of my bride.
still quiet of the room
echoes painfully around my skull,
"where's my damn helmet gone?"
"Where's my bike?"
the barrier, the endless slide
into what? Nothingness!
Yet here I am,
I look then down the bed
and count my arms,
they're all there
"Whew," I sigh.
Then I see it.
One lump, not two,
it's not a cup of coffee
I wish it was.
I try, oh I try, but only one side will
move down there,
where my right leg used to be
is an empty
space for my memory.
I don't want to do it.
Move the covers, dammit
don't be a chicken,
shit! you can ride
at 120 miles per hour
but you can't do this,
Go on, move them and see,
see if the toes are
(of course they are, you joke).
Oh well, no point crying
over spilt milk, you say.
You are still
here, 83 percent
and you live to fight
another sunny day,
Now what can I do with one,
that I couldn't do with
World Hopskotch champion for starters
and maybe a skittles instructor.
An English Summary
Oh, this was going to be so
an epic beyond the calling of Wordsworth,
or Coleridge as they lay in their beds, composing
to the fallacy of man and natures
everlasting impact on this dear earth,
The sun shone on words of black ink
until a ray of thought burst through,
lines the way to understanding
of anothers impression of his own reality.
oft told in those days ere poets roamed,
people laughed at their folly, brandished swords
of dementia towards their
burnt volumes and tomes of fashioned english
upon pyres, and fires burned until the death of
but the spoken oratory lived on, in poets and apprentices,
followers alike, singing the littanies, harkening
with many committing it all back to paper again.
Then soon, oh so soon, the books reappeared.
of fanciful dreamers spread
from kith and kin into the centers of arts and education,
The poets who uttered their spartan
thoughts passed on
leaving their legacy to burn into our conscience,
calling all who read to wonder at the ease of
without easel, harsh English colours spread
upon the pale white spread leaflet of paper.
tome of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats or Shelley,
smell the heather, spring time joy from their special valleys,
hear the words, listen with your eyes,
bring to mind how each bird flies, and how each
man walks, and the colours of
to life, with the ease of matrimony, man and wife.
Byting away at you.
I am the sleeper,
in your systematic apparatus,
sending a signal to the world.
Bent on reciprocation
to implanted codes!
Mote that hides in your registers
slaving your brain
for nefarious gains
and those that have the
you, abuse your freedom.
Alterations to your
processes without your knowing!
But you can see me
hear me, if you look hard
see those that use me to gain access
to systems way out of your range
and when you do,
and run your anti viruses.
Altered them though,
to my own needs, hahahaha.
mindless one, you are alright,
I don't interfere with you
if you leave me alone
but try and destroy me
make your life an endless misery
The Windows of your existence
rent with strife.
Yep, helling in Troie.
Fear not little ones,
I live in your gadgets,
like a cold virus lives
in your lives,
waiting for a trigger to activate me,
but woe back there, I do have
my own protection too,
leave well alone.
Feel now, your paranoia,
feeding off itself, self duplicating.
open browsers at will
I mean no harm to you or your system
But am a welcome parasite
chewing on the
ether of your existence
and relying on you to keep me fed.
If we both cease, we are both dead.
Do we move elsewhere?
Perhaps I'll be byting someplace else?
Dancing on a Wave of ambition
Yasmine stole glances
Fandangoed her life away
she was gay
in a flowery sort of way
Marcel drove taxis
on sleek maxis
Followed the course
upon dancing horse
showed little remorse
thrust and parried
met their matches
battened down hatches
stalled in patches
danced no more
he fucking swore
watched x rated
she got berated
'til they split the core.
his carefree ride,
both waxed and waned
the fire had flamed
each tried and blamed
too much pride!
Heart of Gold
Rub the cherished rock,
dark as night
reach in with your eyes
and visualise the core.
See the glitter and
or just see,
Take the rock axe,
ready to hew,
change your mind
thinking gold will
and grey ensue.
What to do?
Admire the rock
for what it is,
or risk ruin for the sake
The Room at the end
There is a room at the end
the cold dank hallway,
Where a door of oak,
opens with a croak
into a life so different.
In that room at the
is a new beginning
for each new life
Man, with/without wife
Deeper into that
A lamp aglow
casting Bogart movie hues
onto unclean shoes
and the reel runs on, itinerant.
that room holds a dark secret
in every nook, cranny
A whiff of french perfume
lightens the smokey plume
In the room, the halls end one,
memories close down
as sure as the door closes
bend away noses ,
The scene closing off, incandescent.
Casablanca wistsfully plays
on happier, loving days.
Pitiful site, weeping and
Siblings bury their beloved Mom,
What a joke, some hated her, they cry
while those that loved her stand idly
The rope slowly sinks the casket
into her last resting place
everyones actions so jokingly profound.
gather my thoughts, and shun
the foolishness that prevails.
Today, my Mom was chucked in the ground.
Invited guests mingle, drinks
ladies in summer frocks
guys in shorts and T shirts
kids run amok amongst party paraphenalia.
linen covers rough trestles
adorned with plates of salad
bread and condiments
flies try to settle on white gauze
The host stands amongst the smoke
turning barbequed steak,
sausages, and chicken,
chargrilled to absolute
Happyness rules in summer
kids glad to be free
adults sated by the food
everyone repasted to a state of joyous glee.
A Moment on The Beach
Black ironsands strewn amongst
Cold in winter, hot in summer
beach is still packed with passing life
juxtaposed with long dead trees
I make my way among the scrimshaw
wondering at what each was, living.
Waves lap away at the structure
sand dunes and edifices
undermining nature and humanities efforts
scouring away at the foot of it all
life that once was.
I see the erosion, and the new sand bars
way out to sea, building new dunes.
their telltale calling card
people skirt them, dig them under
so others, especially children don't
step in the crap
of some others
major indiscretions, and cry.
I see the turd and think to myself,
Humanity is such it doesn't
shit openly either.
And the sojourn finishes with a bottle,
pale green, bleached by sea and sun
Pull the cork
and read the message inside
and find some drunken couple in love
on a sea journey many miles away.
I think of
the act of throwing rubbish in the sea
and wonder if the couple are still one?
A flock of seagulls
guano on chromed rails,
the various painted yachts,
champ slowly on their moorings
in the sleepy bay.
glide past rippling
the serenity, and snorkel
spray into the air to mark their passing,
the ripples run away smoothly
lap at distant shores.
The cafe set sit drinking
in the scene that beckons daily,
gaily chatter about the gulls,
and pretty yachts,
quaffing cakes and gallons of coffee.
A punt glides smoothly
out from the boat house to a
vessel of blue and white,
pristine, with mast so tall and ready
for a days sailing on the briny.
the sailor wipes at his chrome,
pulls himself aboard, hauls up sails,
slips Gladioli's moorings and sets course
for the tracks
of departing whales.
Madonna Images Seen In
She stood there
I couldn't see her
except for her image
in the plate glass.
She was singing Baby Blue
was all I could do
to turn around and
dive into my pocket
searching for a pen
looked left, right
but I saw her
Madonna in the window
and my excitement ebbed.
just another bit of crumpet
on the smorgasbord
of lifes lunch
but she had my hunger
eating itself raw.
turned from my window
my reverie collapsed
and buried in memory
castagated for being a fool
and the hardness of
tripped me up, damned pen!
Nose Just Scratches the Surface
Damn my face
multitude of thoughts
Nose most prominent
Eyes too close
mouth tool full and twisted
Chin doubled and protruding
what can I do.
That was me in the mirror
now at twenty four
a successful model
and yes, it was worth it all
hardly recognise myself anymore
and I like it that way.
Eyes are still too close
but it's sexy
Nose remodelled and that
just scratches the surface
Lips been thinned and shaped
Chin filled and reformed.
Now I look in the mirror
and see a new me
one people love to see
and pay top dollar to use
Yeah, my nose does scratch
and the rest of it it is just
to my way of wanting.
A Moment of your time, please?
The magic of a moment
that it can be captured
in a photograph,
or a poignant poem
and displayed for all to peruse
have it covered
as do the snappers,
capturing many moments,
logging them in format
for others to glow or gloat,
tackle that moment by the throat.
I've taken this moment I snared
to tell you what you already knew
It's a thing to behold,
health department would have
shit everywhere, in the sink,
on the floor,
ants with their prizes
strolling out the door.
piled seven high
in a sink with three day old water,
a daughter sits and smokes
not a care,
six day old shampoo
in her hair.
Open the fridge and gag,
bottles of beer, crusty pies piled
higher than the stench,
stands guard in the door,
and reflects it's ilk.
The dog food in the corner
rots, no dog would touch
it's rough, the ants love that too,
as much as the salami
on the chooping board hard and dry;
is the sushumi?
Basking in the glory of it
a boy, six foot tall and hungry,
he rummages through the dross,
unable to find,
anything that is edible
what is left behind.
Mum and dad send food parcels,
unwrapped and eaten where they stand
bland baking, fruit
cake, and dried plums,
vie for space,
and the waste disposal chokes
countless moronic faces.
how things change
when love is the order of the day,
and things get cleaned and put away
where they belong,
teenage flats become clean
as they join the throng.
My favourite blankie and a
Laid my favourite blankie
at the table by the door,
sauntered in, ballgown pink cherise and black,
ready for that indefatigable manhood attack,
the boys parted, dates on arms, admiring
my few hidden and not so hidden charms.
Band played deaf music, too loud
to dance to,
made assertions to myself I would find that guy,
the one, the man who would sweep me
off my dancing
feet, and into the arms of eternity
my dream was hard to find but I tried.
And then half time, sweaty bodies mingle
in the cool summer air, and my body tingles,
there he is, with the girl in crimson black
my senses roil at the challenge,
my mind loses itself to the dream and I roll.
Distraction number one takes me gently by the arm
guides me back to the dancefloor, I whince
the imperfection that is the acne of his face
creates a vision of flight,
and the dance doesn't help,
as I crawl on hands and knees trying to find the right one.
Now I look up, and everyone
is looking at me,
where am I? my idiocy plain for all to comprehend,
and I bend back into my fleeing path, grab blankie,
well up and run mascara so patiently plastered
only those scant hours ago in my ever hopeful bedroom.
I make it
home, disgusted with myself,
why do I always do it, embarass myself for a man,
because of a man, well a boy really,
I guess I got a lot of growing up to do,
and rejection to take care of, or is it I who reject?
stare numbly at myself, the torn and ripped
discarded chiffon of the dress now littering the floor,
the bed, and anywhere
my maddening twirl took me,
I wipe incandescence from my face, and dull
what looks back and wonder at plain me, not
Daddy is playing sweet sixteen
on the jukebox downstairs,
yet I don't dance to it, don't feel sweet at all,
but my toes twitch to the possibilities
of the song,
and I start to look at myself in the mirror again,
with a new light and the light glows, I change
become that woman I want, me, matured.
And I see her, married, two children,
a boy and a girl, and the dog Lucy,
wonder at my journey to that point,
knowing I can see makes me know I am growing
I smile to myself, certainty, a picture
I place my blankie on the floor, under the bed
the ripped chiffon in the waste basket,
tidy the makeup table
and the likes,
head off to bed with a surety not there
so many hours before; Mr Right, meet Miss Right.
I Dream Science
Charlie lay on the floor,
of sodium chlouride flew above his head,
dyed purple, the beaker bubbled dreams,
a psychology major out of his depth
with the chemistry of mind.
II Missing Pieces
awoke from his sidewalk stop,
the booze worn off and morning light
streaming into a fogged compartment,
back his dishevelled hair
placed the key in the ignition. Power!
Nowhere too soon, left nor right,
ahead on the gears,
excelerating forward and backward, nothing
out of the car onto thin ice, slipping
the missing pieces, no wheels.
It was a good night, a worse day.
Watch Time Fly
His legs were fast, damned quick
flying like a suited business man
to a very late
he lost control and tumbled, wrist watch
catapaulting into somersaults,
dying in a crescendo of
IV A Stone Gone Mad
When I first
saw this title, I thought
"Stoner gone mad" and thought, yeah, true!
but no, 'twas a granite or igneous particle,
on a rant or a crazed flight into infamy,
someones window. smashed beyond belief,
yeah, could have been a stoner going
V Life Support
Delilah breathed heavily, the breath of a saviour,
clutched Samsom to her
he stirred some,
and she clutched tighter, the scissors near his heart,
he groaned, not sure why
he was where he was,
and felt her heartbeat through his ear,
the sharp metal close to his chest, felt his hair
gaped anew, how could she, do I live or die?
VI Life Estates
I leave all my estate to William and Shane,
my two homosexual partners, they served me well,
to my sons and daughters
I leave my life,
breathe me, feel my cold dead skin,
and cry, for you have pained me when all I seek
was joy and
hope, but you fought over me,
and you fight forever, with yourselves,
not my lovers. They have always loved me. Life!"
VII A Cry in the Night
"Your turn, darling" she whispered to me,
same me tired from a 12 hour shift,
the same me that loves her dearly when
she stays home all day and sleeps, when baby
but I love her, and move to the room next door,
the crying in the night, urgent, nappy change
and I smell
the detritus of infant expulsion, reach
for the new disposable, change Lucifer, clean
and put back to bed, contented
I sleep, and then he calls again, food this time,
"Your turn, darling" I whisper as I drift off to sleep.
$35 dollars for Jay walking,
A sunny day, no clouds.
am alright, just dandy.
The cord was sinewy, very sinewy.
Yes, everything is fine.
Parts IX - XVI
IX The Pull of the Moon
Saurus and Junipon, stars of nights heaven
pull together apart,
a love dance
of epic preportions across the scene,
and lovers dance too, on Earth and know
the moment when their
look up to the dark night sky and see
the shuddering as each pulls on the Moon.
X Trial by Water
Your Honour, I beg of you
hark the words of my
stake my heart to your desk,
I expect a Trial By Water.
I will be vindicated by the wet,
evidence we shall give,
like fish in water swimming,
we shall walk free and heartily live.
Fuck dude, bad buzz man, alliteration
Sucked seventy saucy savanas succulinctly,
dreamed of being somewhere else, punctuation
had a thought: "Fuck man! What Happened?", inspiraton
I walked my memory
back in rerun, saw the beginning
raged at what was to come,
dark patches as smoke roiled,
and then the Flashback
ended as I toked another joint.
XII The Sibling
great poet, hark thine words of joy,
thy daughters repose, garnered for all to peruse,
doth thou maketh past the watchdog
at yon gate,
sail youthfully upon sword of indifference, his son,
and sibling rivalry doth endeth in demise of one,
other. Harketh now, sibling, live.
XIII The Third Twin
Three mountians stand,
triangular in disposition,
one next to the other
next to the other
and only ever two visible
from any viewpoint, twins
Serecles, only three,
yet any two together
is a twin without the other.
What of the Third
Made invisible by tricks of light
and made visible by tricks of motion,
but always when visible
is not, the Third Twin,
it's destiny to be alone, unseen.
Two diodes, standing in a lab,
one transmitting, one receiving,
between, a flourescent
an arc of light pure, energy raw,
manufactured, yet real and solid,
reaching from one point t'other.
it? Now, there, pretty eh?"
XV From Potter's Field
walks the furrowed lane,
furrowed from weeks of rain
and wagon wheels, and the clay
droppings from the Potters field.
daily grind, hail, rain, snow,
to walk that lane, dig that field,
carry that clay back to yon pottery,
and to mould
it into a figure or two.
From the field is born art,
and the ability to create life,
make things people see and
and want to take home with them
all for money, and love t'is said.
Left unread, the How To book
the Potters Wheel is oft
discarded into the Potters Field
left untouched, true art is born.
XVI Leaving Pico
Here I was, seven days there and now I was leaving Pico,
Little dirt town,
in the middle of the back and beyond,
no dirty town water, clean folk, crime a measure of no policemen,
I had left my
mark, spend many dollars in the saloon,
yet all too soon, I was busted for a drifter, and now,
I was leaving Pico for
sure. for reasons beyond my control,
Two bit town, twenty buildings, mostly houses, one store,
with barber shop attached, oh and the lady's hairdresser's
attached to the store, each place in a place and a purpose for
Pico, doctor's surgery closed past ten years, too small for one,
and the sheriff, well, he went when the state
0forgot that Pico existed still, yet it does, I have been there.
now I am leaving it, leaving that place of no identity,
yet I feel at home there, my identity fits the bill, the reason
and the likes of me exist, because we just do, and bugger the world,
Now you see me turning, facing my destiny,
my anonymity takes it's place with the lack of identity,
I mingle, lost in the crowded saloon, amongst the
I can leave Pico, but you cant take the Pico out of me!
Parts XVII - XXV
XVII Blood and Gold
Morbidica, the larycose mortician and druid,
parted the flaps and inserted
like an ancient priest practising arts of old
and removed the Blood, inserted the Gold,
a rich vein of conceit
you have never seen,
as a shining finger washed through a remaining spleen,
the time had come for the service now
to transplant, human offal for cow,
the service would be as they always had,
dogs barking, cats meowing, witches so
XVIII Bad Memory
Sweat pours off my aching
brow and I wonder,
why this damned nightmare day after day,
headaches from the incessant pounding of it's rhythm,
I etch out the times it leaves me breathless,
minus my true direction, the dream sits as a
bad memory that wants to
erode my very being
and I cringe,
shock back into myself,
try hard to be free,
to kick the damn thing away,
it clings to me every night and mocks my existence.
Climatis Aurora, high in the sky,
cutting the blue,
as ice cuts my life,
stuck in a floe, arctic bound, stalled
and all aboard freezing as fuel runs low,
0steel hull crumpling under icebound fury,
will I survive this torment?
Northern Star points
my way north,
yet my motion does not mirror the ocean,
I am frozen solid in a liquid prison
prismatic light refracts
and sends of a sight
to behold, light pictures dance in the cold,
make way, rescue ensues, cutting through, icebound.
XX Cards of Grief
He may as well have held a pack of guns in his
each one turned shooting a pain into my gambling heart,
each turn of the deck stretching the rope round my neck,
flick of his wrist a shot in the dark and a hit,
He may as well held my fate in his hands, he did!
I walked from
the gambling hall, alive,
wondered at that final hand,
how my cards turned green and gold,
and his turned with grief,
had everything on it, and won,
took his money, car, wife. and though brief,
I read his cards of grief.
XXI Blood Music
Mozart wrote an unknown suite,
a tribute to the
butchers of the streets of Venice,
and it was lost to time, a menace in it's simplicity,
true duplicity saw it's demise,
it lives, Blood Music, for the pageantry of the dervish,
and devilish peons of the city squares
to light footed mood and full bodied groove,
and the music spills on the floor and follows the trails
of red gore as
they pass into history again.
XXII A Darker Place
been there before, the black hole,
a place to hide from the light, the fear,
a place to dwell in my own miserable hell,
darker place noone can share, nowhere
a place to be when I feel the mood to hide,
and I do, all the time, hide from
me, my life,
but for all the darkness if offers I can't get away
from the bright light that is my wife, she always finds
XXIII Ancient of
Days of Sumerians, and Mesopotamia,
days of Sanskrit beginnings and the Indus,
when Ottoman and Turk hated,
0Alexander the Great spread greek culture,
like a vulture of passion, looking to be Dyonisus,
and the Romans crucified
men only, women who knows?
Bodecia swung an axe, very bad BO she had,
and some Arabs wrote down what someone had to
in the Ancients Days.
The archeaologists dig with trowels and tools,
and read the signs that tell us of
tell us that Tutenkhamen was a boy prince, godlike,
let's us know that the Israelites travelled as the
confirms the word of mouth of the Persians
and Indians who could have told you all this,
from Ancient Days.
XXIV By the Light of the Moon
sang a song for a second, remembered it's name
realised that this poem and it were not the same,
that wasn't meant to
I really don't have anymore time,
By the light of the Silvery Moon
sounds better than this poems tune,
the cat ran away with the spoon,
By the light of the Moon.
Stand proud, puff out your chest, and always
do your best to survive, fear nothing at
face the music, face reality, and fly,
fly in the face of fear, and you will get there.
Believe in yourself
and others, abilities
things you all have to face that which you fear
and it becomes clear what to do, fight
what you feel is right, fear nought.
Take a deep breath, and puff, huff and puff
your chest out, be rough, and kind,
the best you can, run with the wind, faster
than the chasing dogs barking at your heels, no fear.
Fear, no worries, no need to say sorry
to everyone that you step on, upon the night
you know it is alright to hold
no fear, and hold it
dear and near your heart, and fear won't get a start.
"Aaron, get off ya bike and
get inside, idjut!"
I shuddered, my ten year old head dived a bit
the gin laced tirade of my mother was on song,
dropped the bike in the shed and ran,
ran for the solace of my bedroom before she
found something else to breathe all
"Aaron, what the fuck you doin' boy?"
Oh shit, Dad was home, home from the pub
and smelling no doubt
like he always did,
I went downstairs, I dared not to,
he thwapped me around the head, his bear hug greeting,
it, wish he could just say "hiya boy" for once.
The cops asked me if I wanted to press charges,
heck I was only
thriteen, but the bruises spoke,
yelled really, "who" they asked, and I cringed
cowered before them, authority, were
they drunk too?
"both of them" I whispered, and I was taken away
to a foster home, where are my parents?
a mistake, I hit my foster sister out of rage,
she was high on cocaine, but I hit her, she goaded,
but I was wrong,
and I went down for it, a warning,
I found a bottle in the cabinet, swigged a sip
woke up the next morning, smelling
of vomit, more than a sip,
my foster family chucked me out for the day, never to return.
I found solace in the park,
the rubbish bags of others refuse, and their offerings,
tried to associate, but everyone else were
then I found the tools to survive, the screwdriver,
burglary, a chance to redeem myself, to find more solace
the booze flowed, I was athletic and never caught.
I saw my real mum and dad one day, looking for me, I thought
they went into a resaurant, I waited, they left drunk,
I said "hiya folks", they said "fuck off arsehole", I wasn't surprised,
away and drank another bottle and drowned,
drowned in my sixteen year old misery, even thought about it,
it all, but arghhhhh, the booze took it all away.
Today I sit, forty years old, wife, kids, and a happy life,
god for the Sallies, they caught me, showed me love,
gave me a chance to forget, and to remember anew,
tasted a job,
a sense of real worth, people were kind, I found,
if you spoke to them in the same manner, and they all didn't drink,
get mean, to forget their own pain, they used commonsense.
Now I bask in my reality, and I help out at the shelter,
the young, the ones who's parents show them nothing,
nothing but hate, or disdain, and I welcome them in,
how to be real, how to be human, show them love
and they return it, and that is the measure of my worth,
is in the effort, and the effort is minimal compared to the booze.