The birds perched on the powerlines
little musical notes
People sped by in their exoskeletal suits
hands-on wheels and eyes on their pursuits
Weeds grew toward the sun
only opening when the rays would meet them
A man sped by with a mower
and the flowers bled pollen
The birds sang songs of blood and sex
a territorial language penetrating the sky
Traffic lights glowed red
as did the embers of time
Another sunset
before the next sunrise
Death will blow my breath away
one day
Sooner than most
so they say
But
Perhaps a fascist takeover
will kill me
‘fore my heart wins out
and pulls me to the ground
I hooked my umbrella to the words
and hung on
a heron waiting to unfurl
clinging to this song
waiting for the moment
to be okay with the world
rain and wind
blasting storms
life is a river, never static
to every word
I hung on
They should have left me to die
before I
became an abstraction
I am alien. (to be repeated twice)
Alienation
walls
made out of talk
our alienation
we’re abstraction
driven to distraction
our alienation
We are alien
I am alien
or are we
Origami people
folded
and put onto earth
as if we never were
a part of her.
Alienation
walls
made out of talk
we’re abstractions
driven to distraction
our alienation
I am alien
We are alien.
(back to 1st verse)
We are alien
Our alienation.
I’m an urban lumberjack
Wielding an expresso
And an axe
Got a roll of smokes
Always share ‘em with my mate Jack
And he spoons ‘em off to our friend Mack
Jacks wife and I
Got that sexual tension
We do the dance
When we get the chance
Jack don’t mind
After all, I’m the one with the axe!
(C) 2016 March
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The guitar weeps
Technicolour
Men in blue suits
Reflect
Dancing lights
And girls swish their skirts
Candy coloured Identities
Go berserk
On the floor
Musical masturbation
Dancing like
we’re stripping bare
A form of emancipation
Loving decapitated notions
Of religious word
Tired of loving
What was never there
They call us dirty
As we drink our rum
And smoke our tokes
We’re acting like
We’re from the 60’s
Taking a detour
From prudish disgust
Baring it all
Under midnight lights
Of burning lust
Randy bodies
Dancing
Wounded from a god
Not here or there
Trying to free ourselves
From ideas of sin
And that of hell
Are we obedient
To the rebellion?
All the pushers
On the streets
“Take another! You’ll be free!”
Neon lights
And screams misheard
For pleasure
As we screw
Ourselves
Into tighter
Boxes
Trying each other on
With no one to spare.
(C) 2016 March
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Dog shit
It fuckin’ stinks
So why do you
Make me roll in it!
Ya fuckin’ prick!
Get ya shit bag
And fill it!
Ya prick!
Some of us got baskets of milk
Takin’ it home
So I can make porridge!
But ya’ve gone and left ya dog shit
Right in middle
Of fuckin’ path
I tried to get around it
Couldn’t cross the fuckin’ road!
Curb was too damn high!
I was stuck!
Trying to swereve round it
Pick up ya dog shit
Ya fuckin’ prick.
(C) 2016 Jan
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The tension
is in the sound
Of car doors closing
Of wheels stirring
The wind whirring
The strain
Is in sirens blaring
Flashing lights flaring
The tired eyes staring
The constriction
Is in the sound
Of coffee mugs
Dripping taps
The silent gaps
The binding
Is in the whirlpool
Of silky smooth tea
The steam that rises
Clearing our sinuses
The squeeze
Is in the formation
Of language
Trying to display
This anguish
The choking
Is in the tears
Of throats narrowing
Alienated from the world
Detached, harrowing
Severed ties
With humanity
Twice removed
From our sanity.
(C) 2016 Feb
Corduroy trousers
Always sound like
they’re about to set fire
as old men shuffle
through their retirement
Taking the time
to refine their temperament
So the wife
Will wind ‘er neck in
Stop naggin’
For all the gamblin’
Now he has learnt the humour
In tryin’ to outdo her
And he pulls faces
Through shop windows!
Bets on the side for another pack ’o cigarettes
And when she turns back round
He smiles and points out her assets
His smile feigning innocence
And at the weekends
She goes to their usual haunts
The ladies book club
Where she can moan
About his nuisances
But with a lingering smile
Upon her lips
With an affectionate humour
Because she knows
She is his.
(c) 2016 Feb
Her eyes a painting
In Venice
A boat made of Oakwood
Glossed to a perfect shine
Making my way through
The iris, a tunnel in her eyes
Lost in the turquoise reflections
Of an art painted to perfection
In the night
The frame changes
In her eyes
The moon reflecting
On ripples of water
As we take a canoe
Paddling on through
“Were you even listening to what I was saying?”
She smiles, wine glass just below her lips
A pendant hanging just above her cleavage
I smile back
Back in the room
Must have been dreaming.
(c) 2015
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