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.
writing
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
Mr Theo Sauri
I’m becoming a civilised old chap
under the tutelage of my old pal – chum, Mr Theo Sauri
His face – countenance is grey – griseous with contempt
for the whims – vagaries of my tongue
to which he does suppose
‘The words of the devil were spawned’
I articulated to the best of my ability that I am not one to be bedevilled
to which scorn was his adequate response
though he held his tongue Thank God
for I could read in his mien, mercurial shades of distaste
standing before me, a crimson cardinal.
I bowed my reverence and thanked him thusly
for cultivating me from weed to rose
and thus I forthwith blush with prose.
Maps of hate
The underworld Twists and trawls
Tearing at the strands that thread our masks
A beast Writhing in the crowds amassed
Hatred prowls the tips of Tongues
And the grey man with a yellow grin
Gathers the squall
We bear witness, this shift of fate
Criscrossing new maps to the temple of infernos gate.
Pink Fiasco
Plumes of nascent rumour dispersed by a breath of wind
Whispers abuzz with pollinators.
Straggling the walls, you bloomed
pink fiasco blush.
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