She exhaled her smooth silk smoke over me and I lost my way
in a fog, a haze of riches of electric touch upon
the one crumpled silk stocking she was wearing and I remained
there for several nights.
The distant sound of a saxophone beating against the lips of a master
as she asked me time and time again, whether sugar, was I alright?
I told her she was fine, it was me I worried about and the stinking sleepness
I felt as the bed heaved and swallowed and caught my breath and
How much more entertaining
to slowly the strangle the sleepless Goose
that laid Golden Eggs, than to remove its head
from its neck and find the plump belly only contains
unspent grit and the remains of the previous day’s feed.
By placing an ever tighter grip with one hand
around the stout, formally resolute bird’s feathery neck,
and in the other
the sense of the caring fatherly figure protecting the Goose
from the ravenous wolf, forever telling the scared bird stories
of wolves and fox with mange in their fur and steel
I would write a sonnet just for you,
something comparing roses to your sweet breath
or the clouds in the sky, anything to hide a solitary clue
of how you wish me nothing but ill-fortune and possible death.
I hold a candle for you at all times of the day and night.
The wax cascading down, tear by tear
and soon snuffing out eventually your guiding eternal light
as the days turn to months and finally a goodbye to the year.
Oh I wish I could say I still miss the way you were
The dinosaur presented to you this evening
has had the most awful of press.
Uncaring, even abusive towards its young,
beast like, carnivorous and rotten I stress;
A constant whimper in the Universe and one that destroyed
its home and yet was capable of inspiring us to greater thought
and to whom even now after all scientific data has been agreed upon
sees Dinosaur deniers take paleontologists to court.
“We shouldn’t teach our young about these absurd creatures” they decry
they try to denounce the dinosaur as an evil spread by science
You were the thrill of a childhood wrapped in sickness.
Months of endless childhood complaint
in which the hero and heroine captivated me and in which an adventure
was of my own undertaking.
A bout of Bronchitis, battled on one side like a punch bag
with its stuffing flowing out onto the cold gymnasium floor,
the victor raising his hands in mocking tones
high above my head and placing the sickly taste of camphor oil
on harsh felt pillow and scratchy woollen blankets and taunting me
with the knowledge that as I grew older I would not
Whatever happened to jelly and ice cream?
On any child’s birthday the sound of screams and ripping paper
as the parcel gets torn hurriedly with glee across a new seam
and the children’s delight at the once yearly caper.
What happened to children being given what they need,
with one really great present making them smile till Christmas
instead of cutting open a money tree and watching it bleed,
the politics of early consumerism driven in early on mass?
It is as if as a society we have said that yes the children our future,
Seeing you was the only time in my life
that I ever felt the pang,
of what I was gleefully told by my best friend, was jealousy.
For two weeks you burned me up inside and the heat
was intense and stupid and it took me that fortnight to teach me
a lesson, of what is the point of the crippling state of mind
that passes itself off as an emotion;
but is just the pre-curser to slavery.
We had dated, indeed continued to do so,
If the thought of the deceitful behaviour resulting in the
unkindness of Ravens, who cackle
in delight as they plot and scheme and smirk during the sentimental speech
at the wake of a buzzard and the hippopotamus gloating as his bloated
views on such things are taken with a pinch of salt,
then be more concerned for the actions of another,
for the arrogance of Seagulls is absolute.
They strut round with conceit and an air of self importance
that belies their place in society. They may not be bottom
…and Just by chance I looked up at the moon
and saw the false brightly lit orb shrouded by a perfect circle
where clouds had formed separating to make a giant’s eye.
Unblinking, all-knowing, understanding the darkest secrets
of the solitary magpie sheltering in the darkness of the church eaves
and its feathers ruffling, tearing at the bird-like sleep, dozing
dreaming of glittering bauble and fully formed salutes
from passing strangers.
The moon is but a mere child’s pebble thrown, ejected with violence
onto a dusty unused sandpit, the hollow crater surrounded
It was only by chance
that in my decreasing state of awareness,
of Morpheus’ gradual tightening grip on the synapses
in
my
brain
and the closing down of reason and rational expectation,
that I forgot to switch off the phone
that led to call of desperation being heard.
In the darkness of the winter night,
the shrill of Bell’s worst nightmare
woke me from the deepening fugue and of wrestling dreams
and hazily I crawled,
groped and moaned aloud in ever increasing
volumes