To be ‘enlightened’ you must first realise that enlightenment is bullshit in the first place.
If you wish to further sophisticate yourself and emancipate yourself from your current form of humanity, become part of my harem by simply clicking the follow button.
I hate how you’re always formaling about with ya big yappy mouth
always at warrels with the niproff
accusing us of licksm
Always buzzed from ya cuffere
I may not have your dictine
But i’m bribly with me whimease
Thats what matters when ya winkknit
I can’t afford being rumpfled
it’d make me weribly misble.
So, go shut ya blizzarin’ fishfunk rum ‘ole
Here comes this cursed whisper, siren-sweet
That beguiles my ear
I stand centred here and meek
straining just to hear
prying with furtive gaze
to steal a hidden scene
And I am prisoner here to this desire so keen
This fevered grip that holds my eyes agape
My tongue chokes and writhes
letting nothing slip by
no primal screamscape
to usher the world beneath
to rend the air complete
O bellowing cows lowing ‘ere in our ‘eads
these painted visions upon the glass do beckon
A sirens call did rend the air
Whilst toad-faced weasels reckon
sellin’ us our woeful woes
And woe betide the eagle looking right to us
While that toad-faced weasel smiles
with pockets full
And in his mouth death does grin with tombstone teeth beetlin’
from putrid gums
that bismirch our politics
Between the stench of his teeth
writhes the lore he does scribe
each word a curse upon our little island
And it has been said we are the sheep
if not with the angry herd
that stampede
and fly the flags for patriotic passion
But from me, one lowly sheep
I am telling you
That I can smell the bullshit.
Authors note:
I apologise to any toads and weasels for using their likeness as an insult.
Wherefore! i has’t scrumbl’d mine own scridgets searchin’ f’r that keyhole spy
i has’t seen bef’re, his malevolent seekin’ eye!
azure as the beastly heavens
That roof our heads
is yond bluest abyss that sits within his cav’rnous pits
many a m’rn has’t i awoken with grumbl’d gumption
how i shouldst calleth this ang’r quits
but th’re upon mine own beadin’ sweat of brow i scrumble up a fetchin’ frown
findin’ nay whimsy to yond spid’ry fiend and the webs that he hast and yet to weaveth!
The following was written for this weeks W3 linked here
All sundayfied in funeral raiment
each like wilting angels trumpets
noses down in pursuit of frolic and folly
vicissitudes of restlessness
poke from beneath the skin
startled by the suns dim-witted banality
into frenzied parodies of butterfly wings
skirting and fluttering to dashing urgencies
yet never quite with the tenacity to breach fully, the surface
and in solemenity to our trivilialities
we cut ourselves to the quick
A white
Tremble of daisies
Nodding buttercups oblige us
On and through
Trickling creek lulls us into sleep
A birds eye view all is still
Painted
Written for W3
Forlorn in fog
Must i muster a beam or two
to save you?
Well, I am short on keepers
So…
I suppose…
Listen…
By the by
I’ve seen men such as you
hermit crabs with abandoned faces
And spiral upon spiral staircases
behind concave eyes
Leading to God knows where
It certainly isn’t heaven
Wherever it is i’m afraid we’ll lose you there
So bring your hollowed self
And rock up with me
And please, call me Whiskey,
Thats lighthouse humour, you see.
Inspired by W3 prompt
The sun blazed through the blinds as if in morbid curiosity to see this desecration of a shrine. These rumpled sheets, roses to which we were the thorns.
We had torn from each of our faces that facade of british stiff upper lips, the proof of it underneath our nails. We felt stripped of our masculinity, laid bare there under the dust motes gliding effortlessly just as the rush of bitter embarresment gushed in our heart beats. The mirror framed us, holding us in contempt for our mimicry. We had been restless, we were not the men we hoped to be. We shared our shame with the silence of hunched shoulders.
Folded neat
By hospital bed
Postman pat
Pyjamas
Cotton comfort for heart break
Laundry, homely smell
This is written for W3
This is a moment in my life, a memory, perhaps even my first.
We’re all tremble edge
messy ghosts in the flesh
left to settle
in step
the way the sea erodes rocks
our shelters as fragile as the rose
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 