the act of cutting
fresh dough hot from the oven,
the strata cut
of a buzz saw through fallen Kauri
the sound of death
from a man choking on Ice Cream
the days end
when rains heavy cut a new path.
when you sing
hymns that have no meaning
when you bend on knee
to the postulations of dying men,
to the point
of passing the dreaded cudgel on
anoint you with fatherhood lasting.
of the M1 motorway even-time
those hand grenades
found in UN villages ready for use,
Mary on a donkey
in an age where Toyota rules,
mercy to humans with hearing loss.
the death star
with new life to extend existence,
first prize in composition,
for a rug that makes him look more important,
some passing stranger
for handing on his knowledge of life
for services to Man
all dogs that bark and shit,
for playing the fool
The Queen of England
and her family,
Moses, that old guy
for doing the impossible – god willing,
me, the poet
for having the guts to post daily.
Lice in the hair
just something to challenge our kids,
Mice in the sugar
little black leftovers mean throw it out,
Rice, blackened in pan
feed it to starving orphans,
Dice, role them hard
your life depends on the outcome.
got a damned finger magnet,
below and between two eyes,
guess what, can you see it?
sign you're getting old
red and splotchy,
and grey hairs sprouting.
finger width nostrils
there longer than your eyelashes
wet with each morning dew.
my nose, have to really
there all those years and seen
in fleeting glimpses of mirror time.
Sicky – wicky
every forty five minutes
a busy night.
up this morning,
bile fighting for space
mouth dry from breathing bugs.
I did the 100 metres in 3 seconds
toilet bowl the receptacle
colour of pineapple juice
how does it get up the nose.
Baby Starter Kit 101.
in the room
no one may touch
day wanes eerily
moment of might.
look in your eye
whole darned mess.
open and close
do we go
long last ride
this to your child
he or she grows
baby’s are born
whole damn show
maybe they’ll share
a moment of lust
borne of the night.
Words that have no right to exist.
I mouth striata
am I saying?
that sounds like others
mean nothing all the same.
I say differentialisation
it the meaning it deserves?
puzzle for long crosswords
matches with too few letters
headline in a well meaning Daily.
and pondered cryptucity,
like something from Egyptology
in a dusty bowl
written to trip amateurs.
a technical love poem
by androids on steroids
sans books of learning.
out of a mind that screams duplicity
once enamoured in love and cherish
a dictionary pirate sailing the sea of tomes.
The Eyes of Indifference
calls what ‘a what’
names with racial impunity
has it best
are things so different
you close your eyes
are the same.
Item – black men riot against a news item
in an accent
south, east or west
racial slur does it jest?
you close your ears
– White supremacists march for peace.
a nose pinched
a sharp tongue
TV News run – Asians deny reverse racism
separation between each of us
mere handshake and a word
of welcome and hello
yourself a yard
reasons for war
left at the door.
News Lead – Hispanic makes history?
do we have to segregate through creed,
need we have to blinker
need to tinker
Man is equal
men, women and children too
what we do?
Last Page of Holy Books - Addenda
a husband knows this,
sure her friends and family hear it too
but a Husband does it with the thought
an ear to a distended belly
the soft pitter patter of a baby growing
alongside the thump thump
of the mothers'
For nine months, it enthralls
and counts down the first hold
in a nursing home
sterile except for that pitter patter thump thump.
Engineering Feats – Freaks of Nature
I’m a teacher, I say - you do! Got it?
over in Australia is the biggest piece
of space junk in the known world,
the local aborigines call it
solid red rock planted gently in a vagrant desert.
your eyes on possibilities right now, ya hear.
on the highest part of the world is Mt Everest
or Sagarmatha or Chomolungma ཇོ་མོ་གླང་མ such names we never hear uttered
shameful really when such magnificence
doesn’t deserve Everest.
Wake up boy, am I boring you, here fetch my cane!
But deeper than Chomolungma is high
is the Marianas trench,
far deeper than anything on Earth
no one knows what lives in it’s 37,000 foot depths.
When I say listen you’re meant to learn, OK!!
Down south in Antarctica
is a millennia of ice
disguised as glaciers and floes
one chunk the size of Sri Lanka broke off in 1995
Yes a small message that natures on the charge
(what – global warming you say – Hogsteeth).
Sir, can I go to the toilet? I need to D/L some data.
Hurry away little boy and as you watch
the water in the bowl
think that 97% of the Earths water is salt
yes a mere 3% to drink and pee into
look after it well.
Now the last tidbit of information.
The Moon is a satellite of Earth,
If it left Its orbit, it’d take all the water
on this planet with it (leastways anchor
it to the ceiling)
Ok, I made that up to scare you,
please expunge from notes.
The Taste of You
soft patter of your feet
dance on the wool pile carpet
whirring aroma of your passing
twirl yourself under my eyes,
sensation of monogamy
give birth to my daughter,
green of envy
cuddle our infant,
breeze of power
suckle from the breast,
rise of knowledge
brush my hair and moustache
waning of the night
spin yarns in morning glory,
crackle of rice frying
send me off to work
humour of your kiss
tongue speaks a foreign language
weapons of war
collect to prevent disaster
time of your life
we dance sans Volta in Disneyland
rays of the sun
from your golden locks
blue of your teeth
from a chalking instruction
celebrate a 21st anniversary
touch of your brooms
settle chimney dust
racing of horses
hair pales to gray
days passing ships
gait stumbles in yours
smile you give me
plethora of distance
raising of a 16 year old
accomplishment to share
as a father
for a woman
with no doubt
end for all endeavours
a passing of the day
rift we once never saw
a reality of generalization.
No ( or The return of Johnny Stiltwalker)
station with No Name on it’s sign;
dust of devil-winds
population not used to news.
train stands quiet
life through diesel engines,
figure stands down to the platform
clutched with unfamiliarity.
War walks with a legless limp
Mayflies from a furrowed brow
dragging a scarred kitbag
a son for so long now.
Ross the taxi driver
legless - Vietnam vet
the figure -
hands to a worn steering wheel
beading from a dust worn forehead
Iraq meets Vietnam in a simple phrase
“122 Neiderheimer Avenue, cabby”
his bag in back of the dying Dodge El Dorado
his legless frame
fashion not used
need to hop –
the front seat.
a trouser raised
the revving of the trusty V8
dust coughing from an exhaust
laser sights, whizzing hand grenades
need to kiss his mother each night on patrol.
the dust laden wind-whirls,
a chance to rest one leg,
a chance to rekindle lost love
a need to forget
as a cabby?
anything if folks don’t shy away,
a returning hero had a dust storm for a reception
Name Chronicle lead article
the sound of a rusty V8 and buildings straining,
the weight of sand
wind blown train whistles.
dogs in Iraq have plenty of meat.
The Cold War
puddle fills -
tide of well-spring lakes
loving tears to mask crimes
on Floes drifting north
gone mad for frozen love –
bad smokes to no one as gifts.
– no reason.
never lose sight
we run with fear
heat of day
straight, me gay
it that way.
cake doth rise
days are long
us do wrong.
to your lure
lips so pure
cometh the yawn,
baby is born.
minds are thighs
lift goes down
tears do drown
show me class
no longer tell,
on a plate
time it sighs
An English Country garden
conifer hedgerow surrounding style -
gardenias and rhododendron
for space as head flower in a place
space is a premium, ask the roses.
a picture and paint it with water colours
hue of the flowers cut to enhance inner living -
bluebells tinkle in a warm summer zephyr,
weeping willow in the middle drips fresh tears.
green of twice weekly mown lawn separates
beds like a dormitory set in rows,
day’s shadows cast grey meaninglessly
pansy reds and violets purple, they grow.
sits in the summer house warding flies
mosquitoes in hot summery heat,
seeds from Sweet Peas for regrowth
seventeen, next the Lemon tree.
Day in Danny O'Hare's Harem
friggin' christ woman!
When I say give me a blow job,
I don't mean hoover the lounge carpet."
one of them old school Irishman,
Roman Catholic to the core,
except for his thoughts on polygamy.
tenement in the Bronx,
dull brick facade,
black kids throwing graffitti
on windows boarded from previous missile
protecting the nine rooms
littered with pantyhose and wasted perfume bottles.
Each room a cornucopia
of wasting life,
Danny's little pets for his sexual prowess,
"Fuck me now Alicia,
and everytime Alicia Keyes
you come running."
Most are late teens,
supposedly working an Irish sweat shop,
they sweat alright, and they get paid,
retired cops tend to be loaded.
I hear you ask, why don't they leave?
I answer, why don't sheep leave the safety
of a fenced off paddock free from wolves?
Yeah, maybe too many
conundrums to ponder here,
too many arguments against,
but one certainty,
Danny owns nine women,
a right bastard too.
I guess they all love the Benjamin Franklin
he's willing to part with.
Road to Immortality
Burnt sienna highways,
decay of civilisation evident
in the rusty hulks
of cars and trucks
and skeletal remains.
is a man who shouts from a loudspeaker,
calls for the patriots to murder and maim,
in the name of the Eagle and the
Stars and Stripes,
a man reminiscent of a wilting tree.
"Oil makes the world go round"
Yet the corridors
of normal life
echo with the howls of innocence lost,
with the groans of disbelief,
with the ever present shout of
the understanding they were duped.
A baby is born under a cottonwood,
hidden from the riders of the Man,
from the Eyes in The Sky,
mother a rarity in a world of Ends
succouring, not succumbing
to the Dogs of Indifference.
no one see the whillywhoops
of desert storms and oil embargoes,
see the demise of democracy
and capitalistic endeavours,
the ever present March of the Saudi,
the oil dollar and those it owned,
see glass towers send shards of rot
empty pavements below?
Had they seen, would it have mattered?
In far off lands, The Eagle flutters
life goes on, no one dares ask
what of that country?
what of the ruination?
what if the people had been
What if's are for Romans and Britains,
for empires that come and go,
for Elephants and Hannibals,
for little nations that survive
the plutocracy of deceit
of bigger countries.
Mesquite is a lonely bush,
in the winds of the Texas Panhandle,
rolls in the deserts of The Eagle,
nowhere else in the world does it blow
lonely trumpet of Gone.
to Matrimonial Ambience
You sit there in your imperious
bemoan years of wasted matrimony,
moan about my part in your own demise,
sweat profusely when you spy
you take a lie detector test every time
you open your mouth, I answer with misery,
drench yourself in
and call me a womaniser and drunkard.
Speak to me, bitch, I deserve that much!
old cliche, takes two to tango,
yet my two step pales into insignificance
to the deceit you throw at me every day,
neighbour with the Gene Kelly tip toes,
the milkman with tupenny silver tops,
the butcher with meat fresh every day,
insurance salesman once a bloody month,
I married you once, now I no longer know you.
Speak to me bitch, cat got
your damn tongue!
I find basted roasts two days old in the fridge
when I've been away for a whole damn week,
smell colognes that make other men present,
see your legs shaved when you hold out on me,
yes, I want you to change,
or a divorce,
but more importantly, speak to me, woman,
let me know where I have failed you, if I have,
give me the
rights of passage, so I know my journey,
Speak to me bitch, I respect your word, if not you!
in pot plants and Nana's old boots
Remember those innocent days,
Pa dragging your childlike ass
all the way across miles of boring country,
to that old house, paint flaking,
pot plants all over the goddamed place.
Recall the smell of fresh scones always baking,
an old woman in a pinny,
flour smudges galore,
you'd run and hide from her, friendly as she was,
she always just gave you a jolt of the what
So whilst ya folks shot the breeze with the ancient crone,
you'd sit on the porch, and try catch butterflies,
the wings off stray grasshoppers,
never think of the consequences,
'til one minute, and those old boots she wore,
to you, yes you, in brisk bootish.
You checked them out, edged closer
and nothing, nothing but the pot plants whispering,
shouldn't oughta done that to thems creatures,"
then the damned boots echoed the plants.
Suddenly you wanted your
Ma, or Pa
and you needed, no, desperately wanted,
to be back on the road watching whizzing fields
and animals feeding
anywhere but not here, not those boots,
not those plants and their mocking tease,
then you hear
her, an ominous chortle,
maybe some joke, maybe her boots had told her,
the sweat on your brow knows you want to run,
you pick up the grasshoppers,
try to repair them, to unmake the damage,
to stop those damn things mocking your evil,
tears stream, running a miasma of nightmares to come.
Then she comes out and sees you,
places a hand on your shoulder
handkerchief on your tears
and whispers to you
"thems old boots and potted plants,
theys know, yes theys know,
they's being kind to you,
be telling you the ways things be around here,
and you listened,
she takes your hand,
leads you matriarchly into the inner sanctum,
places a plate of fresh scones and raspberry jam,
whipped cream and lemonade,
your fears dissipate, tears dry,
Ma and Pa smile, knowingly.
You drive away
to this day,
the echoes of ghosts in the pot plants
and in Grandma's old boots
live in a memory that lives dreams,
lived to be a botanist and zoologist,
and one that appreciates good simple food.
Bomb Blast in Baghdad
You could have done something,
till the dust settled
and the ringing in your ears stopped.
Could have picked up the severed left leg,
could see it was a left one)
given it back to the remnants of Joe
lying prone on the pavement
the shrapnel protruding
from his once proud back
meant for you, you'd seen it,
behind poor Joe.
The taste of death strong
in the midday heat,
mingled with kebabs scattered
where once stood Youssef's Kebab Stand
now a gaping hole
of afternoon dust
and mourning wails of the women.
You feel the stickiness of your own arms,
glass shards jutting
at obscure angles,
slow trickles of blood, nothing threatening,
the pain is in the lonely leg
it's deceased owner,
in the chaos of Lower Baghdad
after another militant attack of insanity.
Just faceless no-names on a busy street,
a target unsure, general mayhem
and a cause that is
lost in irreverence.
You lean down, the ringing gone,
concrete dust spat out of a wettish mouth,
pick up Joe's
and place it in his still arms,
sad irony in that,
he was always pulling someones leg.
The Yen of I, Me - Man
Born of middle class,
backwater New Zealand,
a kid of adventure
in a household always on the move,
Tall trees, equally taller mountains,
my playground of youth,
with a brother and two sisters
share the thrill of life,
learnt from some wayward errors,
not crime you understand.
Schooled in the above average
made it through college only to escape,
escape a father domineering
to a new life upon the waves,
grey warships to start with,
then the white of survey vessels.
Managed to marry and have kids,
and pass down
my background need for travel
and to enjoy life while you can,
provider, provided, providence
necessities of growing old.
Now, a reflective poet,
a counsellor of internet friends,
looking forward to immortality,
penmanship, and of tales to be told,
leave a mark, all we ask,
the journey of a man (or woman).
Man of Peace, nation maker
Little bent man,
from South Africa
but managed to galvanise a nation
a quarter away across the world,
walked with crooked stick,
into the minds
segregation and wrongs,
displaced people in a misplaced
went home to his homeland,
helped to build new bridges
of hope in a people
dusty roads from Calcutta
to Mumbai, and Srinigar,
Hindu's, Seikhs, Muslims,
all together for a Free
his banner, no resistance,
Passive to this day,
oft seen in photos under
with his people, his followers,
his believers that they could do this,
and in a sunset over Goa
caw at the
train of change,
a new freedom.
Out walked the imperialists,
in walked home rule, Ghandi it's
a nation was born, prospered,
split too, but that was destiny,
still though, the change was made
a robed ancient
and his promise
remember as a young boy,
going down to the river
and finding the flat stones,
the "skippers" that would be sent out
a whip of my arm, across the surface
and leave ringlets
as they skipped along.
The circles would start out great
grow greater, and as the stone travelled,
they'd get smaller,
in size and in intensity.
I'd try to get more than
on a flat piece of water,
to show how my skill was better,
better than my brother's
or my friends,
see who was best,
who was king of the Skippers.
Now I am old,
and I see the meaning of those skips,
of the widening circles,
it was the story of life and our impact on it,
the story started big, and bold,
it diminished, till eventually
we all sink like a stone
into a flat river.
Our mark is intransigent,
ripple big to begin with,
but diminishing with each impact,
and as the skips converge at the end,
our mark is minimal,
those who watch see us disappear.
Until one day,
when a flood washes the stone
back on the riverbank,
another kid with skipping stones
in his youthful sight,
tries to match his skill with long past skippers
old wondering about the stone,
about those that came before,
The Blood of our Pasts
He was just a small kid really,
enough to pick Grasshopper wings,
too old to poo his nappy and play gaga,
tall enough to stand at the kitchen sink
Raspberry Jam with Mum,
his own bowl and spatula,
his own raspberries.
He sits there now, the needle in his arm,
back, ten, no twelve years,
the vivid scene inked on his memory,
a memory fast fading with each hit,
a life diminishing
as if raspberries
were an unwelcome interlude.
Sits in a padded room, tomato sauce
smearing walls long lost in
stares with psychotic distemper at a memory,
the red eliciting familiarity, lost now-
like his mind,
like the remnants of his past
and future, wrapped in social decay.
On a paupers grave, a jar, long lost of label-
token to his memory, a mother's right
to remember him as he once was,
innocence cupped in a glass container
now holds homemade Raspberry Jam,
and the blood of his youth, his life.
Identifying sparks in innocence
A pink face,
glowing expectantly in youth,
plays a trick on your mind
when it asks an
you think a hurried answer
behind a knowing smile,
wonder how you started,
how your face glowed
the knowledge of the unaware?
Maybe taste an eclair for the first time
and joy at the flavours of chocolate
cream, the same joy each time
a new leaf of knowledge is unfurled.
Sunday morning on a cross channel ferry
You know sunday morning,
on the inside bell of your brain.
Think sea air and a trip
across the channel to Waiheke
blow the cobwebs firmly out.
Pay the ferryman, a rusty dollar
he smiles that I-don't-care smile
enough to force
a plank of dubious construction,
tip toe with Tiny Tim singing,
up the gangway to a rocking cradle.
faces in morning delight
or decay, like the lady with the thick
gabardine coat, blue/grey like her mood.
your hangover, feel pity-
duck into the miniskirt of a scantily clad
young lady smelling of fresh Chanel
sex from the night before.
Chaucer seems out of place here,
creeps from your vision and writes
on dogs and owners
skirting the gunwhales and seagulls,
the sound of a ships horn echoes
like more hammers in your
hold hands on head and people
recognise your malaise, laugh haughtily.
Feel the thrum of engines panting
and the jerk of ropes from bollards
as the ferry slips it's berth, and chugs out
into the busy seaway, a sunny
see Windsurfers dance across harbour
cheating death as encroaching
container ships pass, creating huge wakes
you see will rock your stomach soon.
She smiles at you, the frumpish beauty
front row center, in delicate green,
Womans Weekly hiding her chest,
her delights you might gauge her on,
you don't smile back, a brain lock in place
social contact, just observations
and recording the data of a Sunday trip.
Glancing at your watch, you time the
watch the future scream ahead and invite
you to come play, to taste delights
that might otherwise jump at you.
all you see is a destination, no reason
to be there, or to come back, a need
to just do something and remember it
what it is worth if you want to.
The journey draws to its close
the brightness of blue and white awnings
invitation to party outdoors,
or to just repay the ferryman,
return to whence you came,
for heaven knows why, such
the manner a hangover takes,
no lucid thought, just the need to do.
Then you awake, watch the blurry
of a TV screen, blue and white
sailboats and ferries crossing harbours
and you reach for a hair of the dog
orders at a new hangover pending,
reach for the remote, and blink, gone.
Not however the smell of Chanel and fresh sex.
The True Meaning of Mother Earth
In the beginning there was
ol' Father Sol, who farted one day
and put into orbit,
and yes he planned it that way.
planet grew, matured really,
and for what it is worth
we'll call it Mother Earth.
She floated on an orbit,
her own business
when one day,
ol' Man Sol got randy
and fired a shot into her path.
Poor young Earth, virgin
expected to take his seed
not knowing what was to happen,
and grew, a bulge so spectacular,
in her haste to be rid of it
and a baby planet, a boy,
entered the realm,
And a few
ol' Father Sol got randy again,
and Venus was born,
and so it went on,
until loveable Pluto, the
was expelled into the depths of space.
And you know all those great eruptions we hear about,
going off with a huge bang,
yep, another planet, Janet
and another big unexplained hole
in archeological history.
A drop of rain on a podocarp leaf
In a still forest of ancient
the silent whisper of life
echoes harshly to the sound
of rain, intruding bludgeonly.
Soft leaves bend
to the weight of water
which runs from the sky
and lands softly on leaves
growing to oxygen production
a need to feed the air.
It never leaves a trail, a soft footprint
to mark it's travel across greenery,
the leaf to bend under combinations
until a waterfall rushes maddenly
to the ground, and the leaf returns
the next onslaught in its wake.
Never mind the power of the deluge,
the power of resilience in nature
that the gentleness
of an emerald leaf is never bowed for long,
strong enough though to manage the intrusion
threatens to shred it from a limb.
There's pleasure in a warm
on an icy morose night,
pleasure in having the cat snuggle,
your toes curling to the warmth.
in a 3.47am wake up call,
the dance of toothache waltzing
across the roof of your mouth
and halfway up your head
to the eyeball.
There is no pleasure in taking pain killers,
there is no pain, in trying to pleasure
that says something is wrong,
suck cold air across it and wince,
it's nice for a while, then the ache comes
keeps you awake for another few hours
'til the dentist appointment in the morning,
there is pleasure in a needle in
to ease the pain.
Passing Mental Illness
Took a course in life,
expected to pass with flying colours,
but change plans midway,
a degree in Mental Illness,
the toughest course to date.
Made depp studies into psychosis,
and the need the understand
not all is as it seems,
studied dead dreams
and mocking calls of bigotry.
Passed through with head held high,
a degree as aimed for
showed my friends,
they feigned not to understand,
as ignorance tends to do.
Thoughts on painting flowers on a busy sidewalk.
Tulips, bulbous and ruby red,
green stalks holding them,
them with avid brushstrokes
around busy footfalls
the occassional watering from a walked dog.
on parking meters,
to brighten the day,
remember mum, she died of cancer,
though she's not a fifty cent obelisk,
rememberance of brighters days.
Briannon from number 49
leaps to my aid, we draw violets,
purple and pink, on
and the occassional fire hydrant,
pretty crimson dahlias on seats,
Build a veritable garden of
for passing grey and blue pedestrians,
what us kids do best, illuminate
until Mr Crotchety Pants from the council
and issues Dad a warning.
We'll be back, on another drear street,
in another drear town, with golds and creams,
The day Father
McGinty farted in church.
that day as usual,
parisheners all seated,
others with children,
hands on mouths,
to momma's growls.
High on the pulpit,
Father he stood,
Black and purple cassock,
cheeks rosy red
from too much wine,
or flushed from a quickie,
the dirty swine.
Then it happened
at the end of Job,
the thing he dreaded,
the poor ministerial slob,
burst forth with gusto,
much to the crowds pleasure,
the Father had farted.
Twasn't one of them silent ones,
nope, twas a thunderbolt
what shook the ground,
folks in their pews
watched and waited,
enough, another blast.
Twas a special day
this day of mirth,
when McGinty gave the folks
more than he was
to this day onward
sure as you can bet,
parisheners will chortle
when he mounts the pulpit.
When I drink it,
that gottle of goke,
my tummy gets fizzy,
I almost choke.
I try something else,
a gottle of Geer,
my head turns funny,
I go quite queer.
If I get braver,
gottle of Godka,
I fall flat on the floor,
and noone yells "Gotcha"
But I do knows this,
with a gottle of
you pronounced it with the Gih sound,
now isn't that fun.
Take a pair of dark glasses,
hide the eyes, the truth,
walk into conversations
reflect others searching stares.
Drink Listerine to cover the natural
stench of your pathetic existence,
lambs fry into small pieces
and watch your kids cringe
at your audacity.
You read your autobiography
pages ring apocalyptic,
passages ringing with empty lines,
you marvel at the sensitivity
of your nothingness,
the idea your life doesn't mean anything.
Yet you glee in your achievement
the feeling of fulfillment.
glasses your badge of office.
Ode to Deliverance
Pass down memory lanes young thinker,
drink of the water of knowledge,
in it's tears merciful one,
make happenstance your choices
amongst the dying dandelions of Dale,
and wager an Irishman
on a dray, pulling the cart of conscience,
making deliveries to young boys
playing bric a brac on the
patio of life.
Freedom comes with a hefty price
as do ladies in dark streets and alleys
chancing their wares to sauntering
Chagrin smiles a rueful refrain, moodily
upon the night stands at Harvards 'otel,
ducks stuck to a wall
petrify a startled guest
into purchasing overpriced Chateau Blanc,
from an equally harrassed Room Service.
Rock Band parties on,
grown up from those patio days, and dreaming
air guitar riffs with Jimi, in their ether.
Martens are the order of the day
for Bovver Boys on a National Front foray,
deliverance the strand of reality permeating
blackness of lost souls, and soulstresses,
a back street bar rhymes Jazz with Billie
the sounds forcing old folks to
jitter their way
through the dross of their making, their legacy.
Some curse the constraints of childbirth,
not condoned by lazy governments
who find it hard to keep the prisons empty,
yet that dray, and that Irishman, find
to pass judgement with their crossing
of the portals of power, personages contained therein,
one wrong step,
kilter is ripped asunder
before the day we lay down and answer the megalith,
who stands party to our weariless trudge
the path of the two wheeled cart straight,
one dimensional, always delivering, divulging,
time stands still
in a microsecond, barely
but rolls on relentlessly, till The End,
and the moans of street whores,
the incessant clop
clop of those size twelve
Doc's and Bovver Boys determined,
maybe too many nights with Stanley Kubrick
Tarantino, who knows, dark though they are,
hallucinations are a thought gone haywire,
a possibility posed presumptuously,
bark, pee on the endlessly moving wheel
that fate rolls for everyone, and we stare unknowing
into a future that may,
or may not, deliver.
A glass of water,
like a mind painted white.
bubbly and dark,
like a mischievous imp.
Champagne in a champange glass,
makes a mind dance.
A cup of milk and chocolate,
thick, dense, brown
no mind should ever be.
are so hard to find.
Wear 'em all damn day long,
eyes fixed to a focal length,
off and place them
somewhere absent mindedly,
presto!! hours later,
New focal length you
makes it hard to see,
to crawl around making an ass of yourself
in utter frustration.
up, sudden urge to pee,
do the business, wash your hands,
glare intently in the mirror
notice the mirror double reflects
the top of your head,
place glasses back on nose,
kick the damn door jam,
cat runs at the howl,
just because your mind
has brain fades.
Do they make something for that?
lose that too!
Chinese Fortune Cookies
Oh there's a name conjures passion,
that great Russian,
I know another has the same affect,
found it in a chinese restaurant,
on a fortune cookie,
all know the ones.
You are going to be famously infamous!
You are going to be filthy Rich!
going to make someone happy!
You are about to have much good fortune!
You are as wise as the great gurus!
the net like I always do,
looking for this notorious You,
must be of chinese extraction, I thought
like the You in
Hit 53,587,109 returns.
Couldn't be stuffed opening any,
the chinese fortune cookie was enough.
this day, I still wonder who that lucky bugger You is!
GoodbyeJust another suicide note,
my daughter's last mutterings,
says this is me,
We never did make out the ramblings,
nor the need for a shadow picture.