Is it per’aps your convivial nature that ‘as us swingin’ from the chandelier
With delightful intent
To light up the room
As we grace uselves in’t presence of yorn?
I’ve not much fit for a king
I can’t dance an’ I certainly can’t sing
So’s supposin’ I don’t quite get the hotch outta me step
An’ I quibble at me face with me ‘ands
Would ya (sorry you, Sir) still measure me jests
With a clap and a laugh
Mebe a hoot if fancy teks you to such place?
And incase in you forgot me name, It’s Wilbert Walter
Gorbert
You may ‘ave ‘eard me called Gorbet Sideburns
In reference to the ‘air on me face.
Weekly prompt
Mothmen spread their wings
the wild in us felt the breath of them
Lollipops muddied where we left
blueberry gasps
rushed from blue tongues
corn syrup unhinged us
sugarcane legs
our boots tracked sepia
fabric conditioned into terror
monsters had plagued the washin’ line
Authors note:
I have no idea what I’m doing.
Britain’s absences speak louder than we ever could
A pregnant silence perched itself a hawk
we lumbered cheek by jowl
a birds eye view of us screeched and squawked
our eyes intent, we prowled
seeking comfort in anything that remained
but parched our tongues twist, dried
words hurt what’s left
what we don’t hear is yet said
we sought the wilderness
but all we found was…
dead.
I was born
larvae
on this island
a carcass
This is Britain.
The UK is one of the most nature-depleted countries in the world.
It is said we’re a nation of nature lovers, no.
We call our teams ‘Lions.’ But we’re liars
there is no lion heart on these isles
just picturesque places people stop by and say, ‘Isn’t it beautiful.’
A snapshot of something green, and people reckon their hearts have been filled
but all I see and feel is absence.
A Garrulous Old Chap
There was this garrulous old chap
he wore a beige cape with blue dotted lines at the wings of it
he talked a fine tune
but I’d be damned if I could cipher it
he smoked a pipe and the smoke would billow up to his bright blue eyes
as If to make a point of them.
He was a town crier
by which I mean that rather literally
screeching his woes with a guttural wind
leaving a discordant note in his wake
but I loved him besides all that
It’s wasn’t just the gems in his eyes
it’s the way he smiled
and the way he buried me nuts in his garden.
Sunday Whirl: A touch of sadness
A touch o’ the ol’ sadness labelled us pelts
Ya can trace ya finger down’t tracks o’ crows feet
But don’t let yaself linger
ya might come’t know the legends that mark’t skin within
a life well laughed despite
the melancholia that tends t’ turn the wheel
I’m bundled in.
Me rags o’ flesh ‘old forests
much of a muchness
needlin’ pinetrees
Pine sap, my tears, the plantation weeps
A Bastion Of Bastards
I’m Walter Gorbet
Thee call me Gorbert Sideburns
I’ve been led down’t garden path
much to my chagrin I’ve found only deserts of nothin’
in a nation of supposed nature lovers!
Suburbia ate the hedges and put in fences
we’re all enclosed like zoo animals
neighbours look out’t windows of their fish tanks
watch me wildin’t’ streets with me webbed feet
Comes to think of it, there is no such thing as zoo animals
as if they’re a kind, a species made for vitrification for us t’ look through
I’m mighty tired o’ this country to be honest with ya
I’ve said before to paint me white with a red cross
bangin’ on about me englishness
but I thought some about it and I’ve come to a conclusion
under’t guardianship of englishmen i’d be killed as a weed
fer wiltin’t’ wrong way!
So what can I say?
We’re a bastion of bastards if ever there were any!
Fabric Of Time
Time threaded pinks and greys
the carillon surmised
Eras weaved fabric
thrashing and whipping on the washing line
Hours Cloaked as raptors
turning the seasons in their wings
An eloquent ballet
Collecting the frayed ends of generations
Since called into apparitions.
Summer festival
The sky festooned himself with chandeliers of birds
Alighting himself with reflection
Prowling with a blur of breeze he searched and reached for hats to adorn his steeple
Dancing with a flutter and swirl
He painted the earth yellow and green
with summer festival.
A peculiar comedy
There is a peculiar comedy to rubbish
Drawing from us capital
A rat race to refusal
Of extinction
We are all here, criminal
Making trenches to hide the nuance
That folds us into animal
We are all here, origami children
Hemmed in at the edges
Becoming nuisance
All bring crushing impact
With a grudge to hammer home with.
Needing no rehearsal to contradict
As we lay inside this labyrinth, the matrix
Bourne by identities.
In short, we are addicts
Living at the tip.
Bogus pedestrian
In another dimension I was a bogus pedestrian
Lacking flesh
A mere idea at the whims of flow
From creative rivers seeking verdict, a memorandum
Anything to glean what it quenched to know
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