Another Like Me
Wind in my helmet, bracing
stinging my eyes,
freewheeling down the motorway
with power roaring
between my thighs.
Wheels spinning,
sliding out of control and sliding closer
closer, closer,
into the barrier........

Awakening
bright flourescent light
walls, white and blue,
pale blue, sickly blue
beds either side,
no sign of my bride.
The still quiet of the room
echoes painfully around my skull,
"where's my damn helmet gone?"

"Where's my bike?"
Oh, the barrier, the endless slide
into what? Nothingness!
Yet here I am,
I look then down the bed
and count my arms,
wiggle some fingers,
they're all there
"Whew," I sigh.

Then I see it.
One lump, not two,
it's not a cup of coffee
but 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 a bike
at 120 miles per hour
but you can't do this,
Can you?
Go on, move them and see,
see if the toes are missing too
(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 two?
World Hopskotch champion for starters
and maybe a skittles instructor.
Opportunity abounds.

Oh, this was going to be so burdensome,
an epic beyond the calling of Wordsworth,
or Coleridge as they lay in their beds, composing
lengthy dirges to the fallacy of man and natures
everlasting impact on this dear earth,
The sun shone on words of black ink
no meaning, until a ray of thought burst through,
lines the way to understanding
of anothers impression of his own reality.

T'was oft told in those days ere poets roamed,
people laughed at their folly, brandished swords
of dementia towards their impassioned offerings,
burnt volumes and tomes of fashioned english
upon pyres, and fires burned until the death of innocence,
but the spoken oratory lived on, in poets and apprentices,
followers alike, singing the littanies, harkening words
with many committing it all back to paper again.

Then soon, oh so soon, the books reappeared.
the words 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 a painting,
without easel, harsh English colours spread
upon the pale white spread leaflet of paper.

Open a tome of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats or Shelley,
smell the heather, spring time joy from their special valleys,
Hark, hear the words, listen with your eyes,
bring to mind how each bird flies, and how each
man walks, and the colours of everything brought
to life, with the ease of matrimony, man and wife.

I am the sleeper,
buried deep
in your systematic apparatus,
sending a signal to the world.

Bent on reciprocation
to implanted codes!

The Mote that hides in your registers
slaving your brain
for nefarious gains
and those that have the
true power
use you, abuse your freedom.

Alterations to your
processes without your knowing!

But you can see me
and 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, you freak
and run your anti viruses.

Altered them though,
to my own needs, hahahaha.

Lo, mindless one, you are alright,
I don't interfere with you
if you leave me alone
but try and destroy me
I will make your life an endless misery
The Windows of your existence
rent with strife.

Powerful, yet innocuous,
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,
so leave well alone.

Feel now, your paranoia,
feeding off itself, self duplicating.

Reach for your mouse
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?

Yasmine stole glances
waltzed dances
Fandangoed her life away
she was gay
in a flowery sort of way
took chances.

Marcel drove taxis
sailed on sleek maxis
Followed the course
upon dancing horse
showed little remorse
No complexities.

They both married
thrust and parried
met their matches
battened down hatches
stalled in patches
often harried.

She danced no more
he fucking swore
watched x rated
she got berated
and castigated
'til they split the core.

Her dancing died,
his carefree ride,
both waxed and waned
the fire had flamed
each tried and blamed
too much pride!

Rub the cherished rock,
plain as day
dark as night
reach in with your eyes
and visualise the core.

See the glitter and
warm sparkle
of a nugget,
or just see,
nothing!

Take the rock axe,
ready to hew,
change your mind
thinking gold will spill
and grey ensue.

What to do?
Admire the rock
for what it is,
or risk ruin for the sake
of human vanity?

The Room at the end of the......

There is a room at the end
of the cold dank hallway,
Where a door of oak,
opens with a croak
into a life so different.

In that room at the end,
is a new beginning
for each new life
Man, with/without wife
accentuated diffidence.

Deeper into that dank room,
A lamp aglow
casting Bogart movie hues
onto unclean shoes
and the reel runs on, itinerant.

But that room holds a dark secret
in every nook, cranny
A whiff of french perfume
lightens the smokey plume
and yes, Bogart, reminescent.

In the room, the halls end one,
memories close down
as sure as the door closes
characters bend away noses ,
The scene closing off, incandescent.

Casablanca wistsfully plays
on happier, loving days.

Pitiful site, weeping and moaning
Siblings bury their beloved Mom,
What a joke, some hated her, they cry
while those that loved her stand idly by, thinking.

The rope slowly sinks the casket
into her last resting place
everyones actions so jokingly profound.

I gather my thoughts, and shun
the foolishness that prevails.

Today, my Mom was chucked in the ground.

Invited guests mingle, drinks in hand
ladies in summer frocks
guys in shorts and T shirts
kids run amok amongst party paraphenalia.

White linen covers rough trestles
adorned with plates of salad
bread and condiments
flies try to settle on white gauze covers.

The host stands amongst the smoke
turning barbequed steak,
sausages, and chicken,
chargrilled to absolute perfection, blackened.

Happyness rules in summer heat,
kids glad to be free
adults sated by the food
everyone repasted to a state of joyous glee.

Black ironsands strewn amongst
golden beach grains
Cold in winter, hot in summer
beach is still packed with passing life
juxtaposed with long dead trees and shells.

I make my way among the scrimshaw
wondering at what each was, living.

Waves lap away at the structure
of sand dunes and edifices
undermining nature and humanities efforts
scouring away at the foot of it all
eroding the life that once was.

I see the erosion, and the new sand bars
way out to sea, building new dunes.

Dogs leave 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
drop guano on chromed rails,
the various painted yachts,
champ slowly on their moorings
in the sleepy bay.

Orca glide past rippling
the serenity, and snorkel
spray into the air to mark their passing,
the ripples run away smoothly
to lap at distant shores.

The cafe set sit drinking
in the scene that beckons daily,
gaily chatter about the gulls,
whales, and pretty yachts,
quaffing cakes and gallons of coffee.

A punt glides smoothly
out from the boat house to a waiting
vessel of blue and white,
pristine, with mast so tall and ready
for a days sailing on the briny.

Seagulls scatter noisely,
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 A Window

She stood there
behind me
right shoulder
I couldn't see her
except for her image
in the plate glass.

She was singing Baby Blue
it was all I could do
to turn around and
dive into my pocket
searching for a pen
damned erection.

She disappeared
I looked left, right
behind, nothing
but I saw her
Madonna in the window
and my excitement ebbed.

Damn! she's a woman
just another bit of crumpet
on the smorgasbord
of lifes lunch
but she had my hunger
eating itself raw.

I turned from my window
my reverie collapsed
and buried in memory
castagated for being a fool
and the hardness of my tool
tripped me up, damned pen!

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

aged thirteen

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

Cheeks heightened

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 the surface

and the rest of it it is just fine

to my way of wanting.

The magic of a moment
is that it can be captured
in a photograph,
or a poignant poem
and displayed for all to peruse
at will.

We have it covered
as do the snappers,
capturing many moments,
logging them in format
for others to glow or gloat,
or 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 a fit,
shit everywhere, in the sink,
on the floor,
ants with their prizes
strolling out the door.

Dishes piled seven high
in a sink with three day old water,
a daughter sits and smokes
not a care,
six day old shampoo
rots in her hair.

Open the fridge and gag,
bottles of beer, crusty pies piled
higher than the stench,
coagulated milk
stands guard in the door,
and reflects it's ilk.

The dog food in the corner
rots, no dog would touch the stuff,
it's rough, the ants love that too,
as much as the salami
on the chooping board hard and dry;
where is the sushumi?

Basking in the glory of it all
a boy, six foot tall and hungry,
he rummages through the dross,
unable to find,
anything that is edible
from 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.

It's amazing how things change
when love is the order of the day,
and things get cleaned and put away
where they belong,
soon, teenage flats become clean
as they join the throng.

Laid my favourite blankie at the table by the door,
sauntered in, ballgown pink cherise and black,
ready for that indefatigable manhood attack,
and 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, the possibility,
my mind loses itself to the dream and I roll.

Distraction number one takes me gently by the arm
and 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,
tears 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, but everytime
I guess I got a lot of growing up to do,
and rejection to take care of, or is it I who reject?

I 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 the other.

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
and become that woman I want, me, matured.

And I see her, married, two children,
a boy and a girl, and the dog Lucy,
I wonder at my journey to that point,
knowing I can see makes me know I am growing
I smile to myself, certainty, a picture now.

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,
sparks of sodium chlouride flew above his head,
dyed purple, the beaker bubbled dreams,
a psychology major out of his depth
played with the chemistry of mind.

II Missing Pieces

He awoke from his sidewalk stop,
the booze worn off and morning light
streaming into a fogged compartment,
he scruffed back his dishevelled hair
placed the key in the ignition. Power!

Nowhere too soon, left nor right,
no straight ahead on the gears,
excelerating forward and backward, nothing
out of the car onto thin ice, slipping
and there, the missing pieces, no wheels.

It was a good night, a worse day.

III Watch Time Fly

His legs were fast, damned quick
flying like a suited business man
to a very late appointment, sadly
he lost control and tumbled, wrist watch
catapaulting into somersaults,
dying in a crescendo of Timex parts.

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,
off on a rant or a crazed flight into infamy,
someones window. smashed beyond belief,
yeah, could have been a stoner going mad.

V Life Support

Delilah breathed heavily, the breath of a saviour,
clutched Samsom to her expansive busom,
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
and gaped anew, how could she, do I live or die?

VI Life Estates

"And 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,
the 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 sleeps,
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 and happy,
I sleep, and then he calls again, food this time,
"Your turn, darling" I whisper as I drift off to sleep.

VIII Fine

$35 dollars for Jay walking,
A sunny day, no clouds.
I am alright, just dandy.
The cord was sinewy, very sinewy.
Yes, everything is fine.

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 love consumes,
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 daughter
stake my heart to your desk,
I expect a Trial By Water.

I will be vindicated by the wet,
and the evidence we shall give,
like fish in water swimming,
we shall walk free and heartily live.

XI Flashback

Fuck dude, bad buzz man, alliteration
Sucked seventy saucy savanas succulinctly,
and 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

Sysiphus, 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,
or other. Harketh now, sibling, live.