The Writing of Thane Zander
Avante Garde Poetry Page One
The Hawg Series
General Poetry Six
General Poetry Seven
General Poetry Eight
General Poetry Nine
General Poetry Ten
General Poetry Eleven
General Poetry Twelve
General Poetry Thirteen
General Poetry Fourteen
General Poetry Fifteen
General Poetry Sixteen
General Poetry Seventeen
General Poetry Eighteen
General Poetry Nineteen
General Poetry Twenty
General Poetry Twenty One
General Poetry Twenty Two
General Poetry Twenty Three

These poems are of an adult content, language and concepts may offend. Winning Poem "The Ticket That Exploded" is 3/4 of the way down this page.


D'ya see that punch to your nose, bro?
Feel the kick to your groin?
See the myriad of many cracks
in a pavement scant centimetres from your eyeball,
as the kicks rained blue bejesus
into your targetted torso?

Did you see the blue bandana of Crypt
as the blood of you - Blood
poured Dali-like onto a grey cement tableau?

Pity - pity the cops scooped you up,
consigned your broken carcass to a lockup
somewhere where others wouldn't see you mend.

'Fuck the world' you say,
you don't hear the world say good riddance in return.
Too bad, losers paradise,
death - or some cement jungle
where escape is a joke.

Then again, it don't fucken matter does it?
The bruise tattooes a measurement of your status,
you know, oh by shittin' Christ you know,
you'll be the one painting pain
when your time comes around.


She walks holding her head in her hands.Daniella carressed the broad empty horizon

a stare, harsher than the rough side of cutty grass,

Sangunie features chiselled in mute rock,

Wears a countenance of pain, divides up her life,

looks past-reflective at what lies around.


Dave shuddered under her seventeen years,

his wife flashed momentarily, damn her to hell.


They lived in suburbia, had done for years,

in security, tight as a drum, safe from the worries

that dwelt outside, yes she felt insecure, now,

as if an iceberg from up north funnelled down

and bricked her in, locked her into a strange zone.


Drove up the drive, the A/c on, cologne,

shuffled the shirt and tie, yes in place, would she?


Her heart raced, she smelt murder

blood boiling, her own position untenable

wanted out, would kill to be elsewhere

he smiled, dropped the case, brush her cheek

and tears rolled as she ran,

ran for the protection of her lair,

the boudouir he loathed

and barely slept in these days,

the roll of the camode bed his luxury, his love

"Damn Him!!" she swore, but she melted

back to the tears, felt cold comfort

dancing a watery romance on her loneliness.


Slumped over the oak bureau, whiskey downed

the exerersions of his lust racing his heart.


Misery is the mistress of the unloved

the unloveable, the uncared for, she wears it

a cloak on her slouching once proud shoulders,

like death stalking, her latest hairdo fails to hide

the stench, of their demise, to have and to hold,

to love cherish and obey and they waltzed

through her brain waves again, those dreaded vows.


A dark stain spread from his anus, the moisture

yellow'd pants and a puddle builds on the floor.


Mock me, why don't you, mock me, and she drops

the tranquilisers and climbs into bed,

comfort clothes, her wedding dress and attire,

fuck the ruffles, the creases, to hell with it all,

she drops the bottle, empty, fades off to sleep,

dreams of supplication fill her mind.


"Blue One, Blue Mobile, at MacLarens address,

three day old murder suicide, stinks like hell,

poor buggers!"


The Collection Plate

Caged, strobes blinkingly bright,

a swagger of sexual promise

in a crowd of lewd party goers,

bland exotic glare eminates

as hips gyrate,

the dancer moves on.


Screaming boys with boyish hard ons

cry out her shame, "come fuck with me",

pass twenty dollar bills

through parted grills

give lecherous leers and stare

at her parted thighs.


Home now, two little girls,

playing hopskotch on the lounge floor,

moving gracefully, one to the other,

being herself, dutiful mother

showered, dressed

dually blessed.


At church, in pretty frocks,

the words of the preacher

ringing in her ears,

the plate passes round,

twenty dollars she found,

prayers answered.


A funny thing happened on the way to......

I went on a journey,
to see what I could find,
looked round the back,
and saw my behind,
wriggled it a bit
legs began to move,
pretty soon folks,
in a walking groove.

Looked at my arms,
they began to swing,
marvelled at the cadence,
what a wonderful thing,
realised pretty soon
I could also talk,
managed to do this,
as well as walk.

Headed down the hallway,
out on to the street,
looked right the way down
and saw my feet,
smiled to myself,
at the simple enough ease,
of going into public,
I wasn't a disease.

People met me coming,
looked at me kinda strange,
had that sceptical look one gets
when one is deranged,
then it dawned on me
the cold air was a clue,
naked as a jaybird,
Oh Woe what shall I do?

Turned on my heel
and fell over dead flat,
landed square on my face,
my nose went splat,
blood pouring over my lip,
my composure all a wreck,
staggered back to the flat
at a pace labelled breakneck.

Felt for my keys
in my pocket I didn't feel,
looked in the keyhole
locked inside, a raw deal,
made a decision
to stand front to the door,
until a kind policeman came,
and rescued me for sure.

No policeman came
so I took turns, front to back,
and stared at all the people
who's faces turned black,
after a week or two,
I knew this couldn't be so
after a year, yes folks
commissioned me, Michaelangelo.


Stormtrooper's Lament

Woe betide me, they've searched me out,
the bang as the door caves in confirms it,
Internet Gestapo, stay where you are,
we've got your wife and you car and the kids
locked up in the van, sicko.

I place my hands high above the keyboard I love,

as the ugly one chops off my screen,

and disembowels the Tower,

for my Internet power
and forces me to my feet

He bellows out loud across space and time,
lets everyone know of my innocent crime,

You're a sicko boy, loading porn on your toy

but my protests die as I kick and I cry,

that I don't have clue what he's on about.

They drag me through the door, knees scrapping on the floor,
and the neighbours spit on my face in disgust,
then past my terrified family

encapsulated and my daughters enraptured

at their fathers saddening demise.

I'm innocent I scream, porn I would never dream
of placing on a machine used by my kids,

My protests though,

met be heavy club, a crack
and blood appear on my head.

I awaken in a cell, looking halfway to hell,
and wonder why Stormtrooper's picked me, but
the reality it seems,

is lost in the dream,
of the Internet being a place that is free.

I appear in the dock with my posture a crock,
of shit and stains there are plenty,

and the bone headed judge,
is lost in the fudge

of my sickening despair, it's not free.

To the Stormtrooper's delight, I'm sent up for the night,
to face my accusers in the morning,
and without a good brief,

it is solidly my belief,
I'm going to be worse of than Gary Glitter.

But to my own surprise, I suddenly remember,

that I've downloaded no porn since December,
as I've beavered away,

nearly every damn day,

in that Bulletin Board of Roger Waters.

Say I get fronted again, before the evilest of men,
and face their endless tirades,
and through the lifting haze, I'm totally amazed

to find that they'd made a mistake,

It was that Bay City Roller.

But the Stormtrooper's still hover, awaiting their chance,
To prove that I'm an crook in the eyes of the censor,
But I remind them I'm not a quitter,
and if they've after bigger fish,
there is The Roller and Gary Glitter.


The Angel of the Guardrail

Looked automatically at it everyday,

staring out on a west London fog

and that miserable mist,

saw the stainless steel, smooth in the rain

shining back,

it eerily beckons.


Walked one sullen day,

out on that balcony,

smelt the smog choking,

jumbo jets as they roared overhead,

the silver guardrail shone gold


not where the bird shit sat though.


Peered over the side,

saw ants squalid in their frantic pace,

scurrying from stress to stress,

leaving their hectic lives trail behind them,

a blur,

so easy to step off and join them.


Another bird glides to the guardrail and deposits

organic liquid gold,

some shithead somewhere deserves it,

saw it's wings spread and gather strength,

curl in the updraft,

spread mine, step up to the ramp, glide.


Estimate eleven seconds,

terminal velocity,

they lied about your life flashing through your mind,

all I feel is the freedom of flight,

the rush of air, the caress of smog filled wind

on a body flying suitless through space,

to join the mortal mice scattered frantically below,

one points up, and her finger gets closer.


They lied you know, you don't go to St Peter,

and those flashy Pearly Gates,

no; remember that stainless steel guardrail,

and it's little deposited treasures

of liquid guano, smelling and euck!

welcome to the Angel of the Guardrail,

and the continuance of the species.


Father to Son

Grafted skin to a pale kneecap,
plastic surgery covering scars,
not the ones that bite deep,
child abuse, emotional blackmail,
parents using the only skills they had.

I didn't know then.

Dyed my hair shocking pink,
at 23 you do crazy things for the hell of it,
drove to work and heads turned,
away mostly, laughing, I didn't give a shit,
got the sack, Inland Revenue expect punctuality.

I counted on two hands how many jobs,
funny how the thumbs point out to the side.

She married me for my good looks and the way I hump,
of course, no savings, just a stereo
and a pink cadillac stolen from Green Gables,
lasted about ten weeks, she left with my kid,
warmly wrapped in a distended belly and Diaz slip on.

The kid called me Dad, though mostly shithead,
when's the next check?

I look at the skin grafts, and murmer Nina Simone,
jazzing up my wounded ego, pretty boy floyd
damn stuff came off my butt though, messy,
love handles no longer, for the sake of vanity,
not that I score any more, age testifies to that.

Fred Astaire danced lightly at 64 still,
I can barely scramble to the fridge for another beer.

My kid buries me with a tear,
no, not a wet one down a bronzed cheek,
ripped cast-offs smelling of day old puke,
even looks like me, that's his curse,
throws dirt on the coffin with the obligatory 'fuck you'.

Queen put out a song once, Father to Son,
about the procession of life. Shit happens.


The Ticket that Exploded

This poem is my first ever competition win and won the March 2004 Book Title challenge at

Desirablo stands one legged

on a slanting railway platform,

missing reality and one leg

as it happens, timeless

a watch on a hairy arm ticks

away the rhythm of trainwheels clacking,

steam swipes his inanimate features,

draws a wry smile.


Tells his children he was waiting

for Jacqueline Bisset in his dreams,

interrupted by a lonesome whistle,

a push from behind,roughly,

drew his ticket stub from right side

breast pocket, stuck to two day old gum

Poirot watched from a distance

his detonator firmly pressed in palm.


The platform announcer called

'all aboard' humainty screamed for doorways

pressing the hapless one legged gent to

a firm horizontal position on the pavement,

Poirot hit the trigger, Desirablo's hand

disappeared, flesh sticking to cloaks,

blood dribbling down a channel onto

electrified bystanders rallying for death.


Told his kids he could hold them no more,

in two arms, just a friendly hug to show

his love, and to balance in his miserableness,

'but Grandpa, what happened, did the ticket

explode, was that man mean to you?'

shook his head in his misfortune, then smiled

looked around him, the bastards could never win!

No matter their deliberate attempts and tools.


Inside the Head of a Serial Killer

He's hunched, ready,
the bushes a refuge in the dark,
tastes venom-bile rise,
engulf his mouth, swallows it,
sees his knife-blade, waiting.

The brain function of a murderer is fraught with fault,
neurotransmitters misfiring a new order.

Feels his breath on cold cold lips,
a smile grimaced in the pain of retribution,
God's making him act,
and his father, the fucker, slapping him 'round,
moves the blade from gloved hand to hand.

When the function becomes haphazard, anger fires,
usually with dire results, uncontrolled, yet knowing.

Sees her coming, the bitch, fucking turn him down
for a good roll in the hay, by the lake,
smells her hair again, feels her hands on his shoulders,
the sparks as pain erupts through his balls,
sending lightning flashes into a brain cruelly starved.

Science unable to intervene, except to build electric chairs,
and to manufacture sleeping drugs to send them on their way.

Her pace slows as she nears the refectory steps,
readjusts a full knapsack, a book under her arm,
his soft footfall belies his size and tenacity,
his desire to end this quickly, his third this week,
skilled at the approach, the hunter, and thrusts.

The weight of evidence suggests a serial killer
has no way of understanding the wrong he commits.

He stands over her, bends down
wipes the knife on her sweater, pockets it,
then for good measure touches her blood, warm
yet growing cold as her life spills, her heart stopping
his smile disappears as he runs, runs, runs.

The reason a serial killer stays one step ahead of the cops,
unpredictability, a possible manifestation of mental illness.

He sits in the chair, the wires being attached,
well-practised prison guards studious,
sees the faces of families, nothing registers,
except the need to smile, show them no remorse,
the smell as he fries to hell, roast pork, fucking pig!

It's said that for every notorious serial killer executed,
two will take his or her place; it's in the mind.


Platter Cointreau

We eat pizza in quartets,
take half the time to do things
that take all day usually,
master cake eating contests
by striving to pass wind on the way.

We teach dogs to roll over,
someone tried to get Beethoven
to rock and roll on electric guitar,
but the pooch created a fracas,
was banished to the concerto pound.

Paula Abdul's breasts are smaller,
so it is said, than Janet's bare one,
Who notices the small things
when a bomb blast kills hundreds,
not the Israelis, watching Yiddish Idol.

Salman Rushdie spoke his truth,
a condemned man, isn't elsewhere,
maybe Moses was a Muslim holyman
found his way to the wrong mountain,
a watery path could have stayed closed.

Joyous New Yorkers idolise portions,
hotdogs, doughnuts, a taste of Macs
on a Sunday morning while watching
the Nicks or Yankees slug it out,
a baby walks in disgust towards Boston.


15 seconds on a road side

You have to believe me,
I'm not doing drugs, man,
totally sober dude
standing on a street side
watching life go by.

One car, red TranZam
jacked back wheels
fats bigger than tractor tyres,
duel webers and a choker,
some punk spitting goober my way.

I spit back, my middle pinky saluting.

Fucking Taxi-van swipes the curb,
some wanker
never passed a damn driving test,
kicked out and hit his door,
damn toe aches, fuck him.

Some kids wander behind me
sidewalk crawlers hunting for five cent pieces,
"hey mister, got a buck"
turn and flick the bird at them,
yeah, angry young man.

Man, fifteen seconds,
seemed so long,
so much wrong in the world,
and I don't help much,
swallow an XTC tab,
feel better now.


Mind Jockeys

We each sit astride,
a huge horse called the Human Mind,
racing on differing courses,
to reach a finish line
The Poem.

Like chess players with words,
arranging and sequences,
at random,
without thought,
into a fashion we think,
someone will read.

We're walking Thesauri,
making dictionaries obsolete,
creating something
from what we all hold dear,
a mind play, with words.

Sorry about the layout problems, Lotus Wordpro is hopeless for formats.
All material this page Copyright of Thane Zander.  Any requests for reproduction to be emailed to me at