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
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
The clouds hang low, rigid, like zeppelinz
We hang low from them, like marionettes
Though, no, I am not a puppet
But, yes, I suppose it could be said that I am
Yes, lets call it highly strung
They make us dance to a tune i dont recognise
I thought i knew it once
I thought it was a tune i once tried to write
Back when I was the apple in someone’s eye
I think a worm, or was it…
No, I can safely say it was a worm
Corrupted that someone’s eye
They look, but they no longer see.
I may have been, per’aps the worm that wriggled
Or, no, it jus’ ne’e was meant to be.
No, quite right, it was all a lie, ne’er have i felt such love
To lose and bid goodbye
But, i have felt such things!
I’m almost sure of it, though i’m not so sure it was me
Written for W3
The pigeons cut diamonds in the trees
And the wind cut through in whispers
Telling all who would listen
What they they strained for it to be
But windows were sealed
And fences whistled
With forlorn decree
That pagan Gods had been trodden and outworn
And the world is too much with us; late and soon
We’ll always be
Written for W3
In the sink of our hearts
A thicket o’ rush
where the river runs
A volcanic bomb o’ flush
rinsed our faces scarlet
A momentary hush
The days dawn had broken
and the music held yesterdays momentum
the melody tied our stomachs down
anchoring us forward
and the sun looked criminal
shining upon us in the midst o’ such a dour mornin’
‘e were purple in’t face with wisteria blush
with big ginger tufts at side o’ ‘is face
‘is round belly ‘ung over ‘is trousers
which were always a jot too short
the cuff o’ ‘is socks on display
usually checkered blacks and yella’s
with black braces hitchin’ ’em up
always ‘ad a pocket watch ‘ed tek t’ ‘is ‘and at a quater t’ nine on a friday night
leanin’ on’t lampost
waitin’ fer ‘is lady luck, Mrs Esther Muffet
me gandma would look through’t window and tutt
‘e’s a rum one ‘e is!’
one time I asked ‘er what all she meant
ya know what she said?
‘Well, ‘e looks like a man who’d play’t trumpet, but ‘e don’t! I don’t trust a man who looks as ‘e does yet don’t play a trumpet!’
Well! I thought ‘er a rum one sayin’ things like that!
me grandad came in and asked, ‘What ya think ol’ Gorbet sideburns is waitin’ fer?’
”is trumpet!’ I replied
me gran rolled ‘er eyes, ”es waitin’ on little Miss Muffet! Ya know this be now!’
”ere she goes! finally got up off ‘er tuffet!’ me grandad grinned
‘Don’t ‘e know she’s married?’ Me gran would ask each time
‘don’t she know she’s married?’ would come my grandad’s reply
and we’d spy through’t window, duckin’ when thee so much as glanced our way
and that one time me granddad turned and said with a sly grin
‘Well, at least ‘e’s got the ‘orn now!’
and me gran wacked ‘im o’er the ‘ead!
This is written for W3
These meridian lines are blurred by the time we see it clear
All these cigarette burns and coffee rings mark wasted minutes
And these explosive stereo revelations
blast us spun up in knots
Fishing for thought
In this cerebral sea of noise
Like fingernails on chalkboard
Scratching beneath the surface
Searing bloodshot scattered aftershock
This is written for W3
Inspired by:
I’ve been chirpin’ out
Am all scarlet blushin’
Perchin’ on me thistles
they’re mine now
Tek in the moment
Wont be long ‘fore soon
an’ i’ll be gone in a wee blur
But ya know them thistle seeds ya put up, on advice from rspb? Yea, f*** ’em
I wont be eatin’ ’em
I’ll stick t’ the source
Cuz i’m mighty wild like that
P.S do keep up the sunflower seeds.
I came across a gentleman with an apple for a head
Stem an’ all
I thought to myself ‘what a good replacement if ever I lost my own!’
I asked the man, ‘whats it like having an apple for a head?’
He said, ‘take a bite!’
And i replied ‘I can’t I’ve just brushed my teeth and you wouldn’t taste very nice’
Then a worm popped out from his ear hole and said ‘hi’
And that was how i knew he was rotten inside
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 