I was walkin’ in the rain
which was delicious, no delectable
the way it sparkled in me lions mane
Made me feel worth it
So’s I ruffed up me collar
bobbin’ me ‘ead like a pigeon or a cockney
then all ruffed up like a ruff
I played at being cantona
And kicked a can down the road
‘And he has it! Its a hat-rick!’
I roared
and there was a cloudburst o’ pastel hues o’ music on me tongue
playin’ me like a vibraphone!
This is written for W3
There are gremlins in the shallows of my face
Pick pocketing the needles that they tried to use to knit back together my brain
I dont have the heart to tell them its made of glass
And it breaks. Sometimes i fill it like a vase
with flowers and that.
When i walk around town people mistake them for a hat
They say, ‘hello’ and i softly speak back
But they rarely hear me
And then they turn to their friends and screw up their face and say, ‘rude!’ With a huff
And a gremlin pulls me by the ear and says ‘look at that. They think you’re a twat’
And i think Maybe i am so i take the flowers from the vase and let them wilt and die
And then i say to myself memento mori
And then i roll into bed
and rest my sorrowful head
Then I wake up and do the whole rigmarole again.
The concurrent voices rose in ominous chorus
Oh scrudge my face up from its lionesque stonework
First ya tek ya posies and ya put ’em in ya beaklet
I hast been ‘ere etnero lungful o’ woe
Then ya tek ya eyelets and ya wipe away the mist so ya can see from ’em
There ne’er was much ado about the greylings and how they tied thier tongues to the shambled shailings
And when a ring o’ roses grow
From ya eyes to ya elbow
I bunkem up the shailings and the dwellings speak the lingo of the flaylings
Then ya scream into the fire and…
And the whirl turned on its axel, precrius on its spindle
Ashes, ashes
we all fall down for the reapin’
And the seasons passed on the leavlings who posessed no choir for the ‘earing
Written for W3
Inspired by the rhyme ring a ring o’ roses and a previous W3 challenge.
with the spin of the chill
that kindles no fire
the waxing and waning of ghosts respire
Known only and softly on the walls of wholly alone fellas and frills
the great differing tide did oyster their ills
And with pearls on their tongues clammed shut
suspended there from their own tenter’ooks
they bound themselves in nooks and books
until a great dawn may gather a look
and on inspection from the glass that stole a spy
No one could really remember why
these fellas and frills were still suspended there
yet no sleeping dogs could lie
so as testament to lifes swift flight in the eye
shallow graves were dug in their minds
for acrimony outlives its vessel sometimes.
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
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.
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 