Duct Tape
&
Daffodyls


All works ©M. L.Voss (Ven) 2005


Comments to the author can be emailed to:
atebwch@yahoo.co.uk


British Library Cataloging-In-Publication Data
A Record of This Publication is available from the British Library
ISBN 1905363966
First Published November 2005 by Exposure Publishing,
an imprint of Diggory Press
Three Rivers, Minions, Liskeard, Cornwall, PL14 5LE
WWW.DIGGORYPRESS.COM


AUTHORS WARNING:

The following literature includes some "controversial content" that may be unsuitable for overly sensitive persons with no sense of humour, low self-esteem, fear of deviance, fanatical religious beliefs or racial hang-ups. If you believe that any of the above is applicable to you my personal recommendation is that you read the poetry anyway and then *lodge your complaint in whatever way you deem to be most appropriate.


N.B. * Not to me ... 'cos to be perfectly honest,
I really couldn’t give a toss !


P.S. Those of you with an overwhelming fear of the subliminal will be gratified to learn that there are no hidden messages revealed by reading any of the following poetry upside down, backwards or mirrored.

With special thanks to three of four

Ain't I Grand !

Night approaches, Muse encroaches
on the minds of writers who
seek solace to drink sorrow still,
- sip self pity to their fill
and dip the poisoned tip of quill
in ink of solitude until;
words emerge from deepest dark
of hell, (where poet souls embark)
on nightly roamings, often time,
in rhyme of "thee" or "thou" or "thine"
- but better this self loathing phase
than listen to the endless days
of "big up me" and "ain't I grand",
now metrical is in demand
for banishment of poet black
revives the ego and brings back
the killer stroke and swift attack
of the rhythmic megalomaniac.


Crazy !

I want to be nice.
I want to be !
I know that I shout but that's not really me. It's just that today life is driving me crazy, so please, let me gouch on the couch
and be lazy
My patience is shot and my nerves are grating. It's nobody's fault.
I'm just menstrual hating.


Watching Summer Die

Wiping down the misted windows,
peering out at a dismal sky,
as clouds the colour of age stained linen
pour down autumns tears.
Weeping,
watching summer die.
Drawing curtains on early darkness,
hearing the wind whistle by
as the first bars of fall's lilting harmony
turn to winter's song.
Wailing,
watching summer die.


In Self Defence

I'm building an ornamental mind castle
with turrets made from high ideals
and moats of endless possibilities.
Archery slits for shooting critics
and a portcullis of thick skin
to keep them out ...
and keep me in.


Literary Bliss

Pin me down, stroke my mind.
Create a scene, affect me !
Tease me with rich simile
to cure me of my apathy.
Stoke my mind with thoughts sublime
and wording that astounds me.
Weave wonderful lies
leave tears in my eyes
twist your skills around me.
Swathe me in felicity.
Stun me with synchronicity
and fabricate literary bliss for me,
for this to me
is divinity.


Simply Be

Rising always by the clock
each moment filled, each tick, each tock.
Each second of each task filled day
Tempus fugit (as they say)
and life flies by chore by chore.
This can't be it, there must be more.
A little something just for me,
some time when I can simply ... Be.


The Importance of the Trajectory !

I calculated the status of the statistics.
Logged ( in my log ) the logistics
Analyzed the shields characteristics ~
but failed to consider the angle of the ballistics
~ Ouch !


Is (and Was)

This land of the Bard
scarred and marred
by a concrete
Criss-crossed
paving slab embossed
Mish-mash
of
tarmac
and car parks
as progress embarks
and takes its toll
on the rolling green
awesome scenery
that is (and was)
the Land of my Fathers.


In the Eye of the Beholder

"The wind farms are beautiful" she said …
but ~ not thirty miles North, nor forty minutes later
as if by contrived contrast, Trawsfynydd intruded
and made foray into her head
rendering her eyes peeled and salted
with its harsh and sinister visual.

A digital mind recorded the scene
transcribing its eyesore imagery
to a slide-show set between
what was; and all she hoped could be,
posted (all be it in washed out Conservative green)
upon her deceptively delicate
and easily offended sensibilities.

She disregarded the diversion and
in an act of deliberate denial,
over-papered it with quaint zephyr blade images
borrowed from the start of this excursion
hoping only now
for the meandering sway
of an easy day
on the curves of an idyll mountain road.

and exactly so it ribboned forth
from patchwork fielded,hedgerow hemmed farms,
through manufactured forestry, deliberate made,
Square … and all too familiar
to this;
Her coddling, cushioned,
green and rolling Wales
transformed by gradient degrees
of tree-less bleak and blackened block-scape.
and turned then to harder shades.

Grey-scale misted mountains brooded ominous
and left her thoughts half and half mixed
with equal allotments of oppressed and transfixed.
Each new view
inspiring future rhyming writes
and abstract,
slate shaped,
palate knife paintings.

The muse giddy spun,
danced dizzy through her mind
while her cultured guide
(and pilot for this ride)
threw forth reference of history, heritage
and stainless Sospan monuments.
Battle tales of Princes of Wales
recited aloud with a "proud of roots" knowledge undervalued
and seldom now seen
in this modern day hussle-bussle
"Land of my Fathers"

And yet, still ..
the road upward …. onward goes
to ever more dramatic horizons.
Each surpassing its predecessor.
Each flowing … Poetic !
Like rhyming lines and metered text.
Each peak a veritable stepping stone to more
and more
and next

'til crag and bouldered summit silent stands,
in wait of the return of Eagles grace.
Listening as the ancient stories flow
onward down the valley from this place
~ where;
from Fathers voice to Sons it travels on
through names best heard when whispered,
softly spoke,
or even sung, as Celtic history sings
so smooth upon the tip of Cymru's tongue.

Immortalizing many a deed of mettle
lamentful voiced o'er hill and vale it brings
a feeling of at-oneness
with the clansmen of my past
and a loathing of marauding English Kings.


Eros the Chemist

He comes, silent; arrow primed
dipped in sweet attraction.
His purpose is to galvanize
to spark an interaction.
To tease and tempt the chemicals
to maximum reaction
and initiate a tropism of positive attraction. This kindles adoration,
setting off a chain reaction
that culminates in simultaneous
mutual satisfaction.


The Bright Side

It seems I've misplaced the "bright side", probably put it down somewhere silly
or just tidied it away.
Hubby says it's around here somewhere,
possibly in the garden.
He says he saw it yesterday
but I can't find it.
Perhaps if I stop looking it'll just appear like the best things in life usually do.


Insomniac Extreme

Images projected, woollen but strong,
against a backdrop of inner eyelids … Yawn.
A quarter century, of conscious thought. Insomniac extreme, this way born.

Restless nights, break dancing on crumpled linen.
Her over thumped pillow, abused, well worn. Images repeated, sheep jumping fence
10,875 ... 86
and sleep comes, at twenty five, to Dawn.


Dad

( J.R.Baker 1934-1983 )

Forgive me father for I have binned
every lesson you taught me.
I snubbed your teachings
and threw to the wind
each second chance you brought me.
I scoffed at your morals;
laughed at your values;
called you archaic and sad!
But now you‟re gone there's no one to turn to.
I miss your wisdom Dad.


Hard Earned Immortality

Fifty thousand soulless tutors,
time beaten,
dusty jacketed philosophers.
Sat row upon row waiting to impart the facts and the theories.

Each one deathly silent,
neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the next. No breath. No heartbeat. Just waiting ...

Longing for a caressing hand,
a browsing eye and an inquiring mind,
to seek out the gems of humanity's past.

Aching for the interest of but one living soul, to soak up, ponder, and quote their word,
thus sustaining their well deserved
and hard earned Immortality.


The Trooping of the Colour

Spring forth, gallant warrior.
March onward old yellow.
Rush in where pink fears to tread
and worry not of last frosts
nor final breaths of north wind
for thou art the hardiest of foot soldiers.
Occupy the territories !
I assure you
new recruits will follow.
Companies of reds and blues
footslogger whites
and pansies with purple hues
shall trace your maiden course.
Your army will be formidable,
colourful
and utterly unbeatable.
Spring forth and advance
o' valiant daffodil
and storm the verges
'til this drab shade of winter is defeated.


Broken Box

We played charades and monopoly.
We laughed, we talked, we sang
and interacted like family
the night the tele went BANG !


Basking

This incandescent, white hot day,
Sapping my energy. Forcing me out, to lay
face down in sparsely garbed summer idleness.

Much to do but no will to move
as beads of perspiration weigh heavy as lead upon these lightly bronzed
sun lazied limbs.


DOWN-TIME

Not quite a sketch,
simply an outline.
Not the whole story
merely the by-line.
Invisibly boxed,
like in Marcel Marceau‟s mime
Trying to succeed
but suffering down-time.


Well I'll be a Monkeys Uncle!

"So they call this evolution !"
said the old man of the office
to the old man of the forest.


The Freak

They‟re all talking nonsense,
babbling in gibberish.
Can't decipher a single syllable,
think I need a babelfish.
Small green men that baffled me,
boggle eyed absurdities,
they landed by my garden gate,
camped out by my sweet peas
and chatted to each other,
giggling incessantly.
Pointing up and laughing
at the window, when they saw me.
I shouted, "Hey, don't laugh at me"
but then I had a thought.
They couldn't understand me
or the language I'd been taught.
So they simply sat and pointed
and laughed till they were weak
and their thoughts were much the same as mine, Oh Wow ! check that - A FREAK !


Lion-heart Sprite

As magical shades of twilight twist
and hang suspended in the mist
a vaporous sprite makes flurry in
the labyrinth where dreams begin.

Elusive and mysterious,
bedazzled and delirious
she'll whirl and twirl, muted, spellbound unaware she's doomed and hell-bound.

Slipping silent, wraithlike, pale,
o'er dragons wings and serpent's tails
away from shimmering and bright
into the darkness of the night
she's ripped and gnarled though torrid splash in murky depths by claws that clash.

Undaunted by oblivion she stands before the Evil One. and speaks ~ at first,
a gentle whisper
but then her words get louder, crisper,
a twinge of fear but brave unfolds,
uncovers ~ lion-heart and bold !

Sprite transforms and like a giant
refuses now to be compliant,
calls the Dark One "A Son a of a Bitch"
then screams a scream of perfect pitch
which shatters the spell that sent her there and trapped her in this nightmare.

The end is reminiscent I fear
of every fairy tale you'll hear
as magical shades of twilight twist
and hang suspended in the mist
where a vaporous sprite makes flurry in
the labyrinth where dreams begin.


The Last Performance

The whole world sat expectantly,
awaiting the start of the show.
It was billed as a one off performance,
we were all expected to go.
So people came from the cities, towns
and remotest parts of the globe,
then, when all living souls were assembled,
God appeared in a long white robe.
He stood centre stage in the floodlights,
looking decidedly sad and
said "I've been sent by my tutors,
to give you some news ~ and it's bad !"
They've said that my project is pointless.
There are too many names on my list.
So after tonight, once the paper works done,
You‟re all going to cease to exist.


Toward The Word

Falsehood, lies and trickery.
Statements, contradictory.
Twists, propaganda and secret memoranda. Conspiring heads and dignitaries.
Abettors and co-signatories
decide upon the strategies
with little thought for niceties.
The elected and their minion,
rebuff the mass opinion
and the blind go marching one by one,
toward the word ... OBLIVION !


Just An Ordinary Man

.

A man came to the door today,
long hair,
blue eyes,
six three.
He said he was in the area,
giving estimates for free.
He said that he could mow the lawn,
do any odd jobs I could find.
He made no mention of saving souls
or healing the sick or the blind.
I showed him to the garden shed
where the tools and the mower were stored
and I noticed the scars
on the palms of his hands
as he reached for the mower cord.

I said,
"Are you who I think you are?"
and he told me to lower my voice.
He made me promise to keep his secret.
He said he had no choice.
He said he'd tried to walk the road
that he thought he was meant to take
but it left him open to ridicule
and taunts of FREAK and FAKE !
… then psychiatric analysis,
intravenous aid
and tests that just confirmed
the diagnosis that they'd made.

“ They say I'm schizophrenic “, he said
and I think they may be right
because now I take the tablets
I no longer see the light,
feel the urge to help mankind
or foretell of its demise.
I have no interest in God and his love
or the Devils hate and lies.
I simply mow the lawns
and I fix things where I can.
I am not the son of God,
I'm just an ordinary man.“

It seems that modern medicine
has cured him of his ills.
Made him ordinary with its sugar coated pills. Cured him of his caring,
of his passion for humanity.
Freed him from the shackles
of his “obvious “ insanity
but what if he was right
with no real illness or affliction ?
and what if the healing, was in fact ...
a chemical crucifixion ?


Molly's Eyes

They were wide, dead and empty.
They were cry dry, vibrant green.
They were gin soaked drunken ... sunken.
( Molly's eyes I mean ).

She was dead to dread and heartache.
She was numb and would succumb. to the whims of pimps and pushers,
unaware that she'd become.
A crack whore junkie hooker.
Injected and infected.
Disrespected by her peers.
Forgotten and neglected.

Denial kept her ticking
and substance killed disgust,
until sobriety raised its head
and she decided that she must
destroy the rancid shell
that housed this saddened core
so she trod the road to the station
... as she often had before.

But this, THIS time was different !
There would be no going back.
No more hiding in a bottle,
or behind the coke and crack.
She leapt to death rejoicing.
She embraced it open armed
and she uttered a prayer for the others
that the city slums had harmed.

They found her corpse beside the tracks
eyes open, wide and dead.
Death by misadventure,
the coroner had said
and no one now would miss her
or notice that she'd gone,
tell stories of her past
and sing the song of swan
or tell how they were open wide,
tear soaked vibrant green
and no longer cry dry hardened
( Molly's eyes I mean ).


Putting the Cat Among the Pigeons

Humour ? Not on your life mate!
We don't want that in here.
It might upset the sensitive
and fill their hearts with fear.
The blacks will go into hiding,
just in case we call the clan.
The Jews will head for cover,
every woman, every man.
Gays will run to the closet.
The French will beat a retreat
and all the vegetarians
will swear that they eat meat.
Bikers will be automatically jailed,
for being the scum that they are.
Drunks ? … I think we'll shoot „em
~ Line „em up against the bar.
Porkers will flock to the fat farm,
Hippies will cower in fear
and for everyone over sixty five;
Euthanasia Booth ~ Queue Here.
The stupid ? They don't count,
They‟re simple, they don't understand.
Transvestites ! Uh ! What's that all about ?
How sick is a dress on a man ?
The Welsh the Scots and the Irish
Well ~ their just a bunch of Celts
and the Yanks will keep polluting,
'till the whole Fuckin‟ world just melts !
Kids under nine will be sent to the mines,
women will lose the vote
and junkies will all commit suicide
just because of what I wrote.
Uh ~ Doh ! ... I doubt it.

N.B. If you feel hard done by or neglected because your minority group has not been included please feel free to submit your details for the author‟s consideration and possible future inclusion.

The Turkey Thing

Your Mickey D and Pepsi childhood
fails to stand you in good stead for the trials and tribulations
of the years that lie ahead as you submerge yourself in a lifestyle
that makes driftwood of your mind, leaves you wasted, numb and shivering vacant, empty, blinded by those who mix the poison
and conjure up a cocktail of powerful emotions as they try to drive the last nail
deep into your coffin, leaving you comatose and wafer thin. Itchy skinned, shivering, ... considering the turkey thing. In solemn faithless retrospect
your soul becomes bereft and no ripples break the surface
of the empty you that's left.
Down,
and down
and deeper
unsure how low you'll get until the shivers prompt the question
“Are you cold enough, yet ?” Help is for the taking
~ It is granted without question. Father turns from ogre into nurse and with Dali Lama patience
he welcomes you back in. Mother tends, and weeps
... but hides her purse
while the polyester puppy
on the eiderdown cocoon absorbs the sweat
and comforts through the pain. The cramps subside,
the itching stops your looking good,
but soon you'll dress, you'll leave
~ and here we'll go again.


For Sale ~ One Pink Sock

Alas, alack.
poor I ... ( deep sigh )
my gangrenous leg hath fallen off
and now
I am left bereft
( dear God ! )
with one pink sock of oddness.


Oops! Sorry Mum

I think I'm auto phobic ~ I'm terrified of me
I fear my face in the mornings
when it‟s not how I'd like it to be.
I fear my pudgy belly
and the dimple effect on my bum
I'm scared to look in the mirror
cos, there staring back
Is my mum.


Duck !

Bathed in glowing, winter moonlight.
- feathers frosted ~ brittle cold.
No comfort on that icy lake,
yet better there
than plucked and sold.


Dubiety

Unrequited, mute adoration
gives rise to an inimitable suspense
as each loves me, loves me not corolla
is loose-leaf eased from Daisies
fragile heart.


A Bedazzling Death

The scorpions' segmented, metameric tail
arched and poised is stunning in its detail
but instinct tells a curious mind
that deadly and divine often intertwine.

Beware of Pollyanna Belladonna
for as the purple petal oozes fatal digitalis so hollow love will wither bliss
and poison all it touches.


Short Time

As I sit and work.
Times flight, ever increases.
Monday, Thursday,
August, January, June.
Next year, becoming last year,
too soon.


T’was the night before Christmas

Oh no ... that's been done.
Hang on ! Ahem (clears throat)
OK, here we go:

Mother made Christmas

It's Christmas, early morning,
Mam is peeling veg.
She's tired and her nerves are frayed
she's teetering on the edge
of a full blown seasonal tantrum,
her head is thump, thump, thumping
the place is in a mess
because the tree's already dumping
all its needles on the shag-pile
~ the lights have blown a fuse,
the dog just ate the fairy
and there's carnage on the news
cos some idiot reporter
grabbed a mic and said
that there's been a reindeer pile up
and now Santa Claus is dead.

The kids are suicidal,
they will not be placated.
The cat is looking smug,
we think it might have mated
with the turkey on the worktop
(which is incidentally .. Snuffed)
still frozen in the middle
and now well and truly STUFFED !

We throw it in the bin
and Mam cooks beef instead.
Takes codeine (which works wonders)
for the thumping in her head.
She cleans,
dusts,
vacuums,
lays the table for the spread.
Dishes up
and washes up(once everybody's fed)
Then collapses on the sofa
to watch the Wizard of Oz.
Falls asleep and snores a bit
but we just smile because
Christmas is a triumph !
Thanks to her, it always is,
so this rhyme is penned in tribute to say,
Thanks Mam,you‟re the Biz !


Empty Relics

Derelict warehouses
litter the wharf
and silent abandonment stares out
Vacant … from a thousand blank eyed
painless windows.
Barren barges rise and fall
with the rivers ebb and flow.
Flotsam ...
floating unmoored and vagrant through jetsam.
Empty relics of an industry forgotten.


It's All Quiet Now

The toxicity indicator was flashing red.
It's just a glitch, an error they said.
Until people began to fall in the streets,
at their desks,
in playgrounds,
parks, and supermarket isles.

They said it had to be done so as not to cause a panic and they were right.
It's all quiet now !


The Accidental Mystic

Sheer luck, pure serendipity, lead to the discovery;
provided the ability to see into infinity.
She awoke with this anomaly
and thought it a catastrophe
not knowing the activity would be in actuality,
not seen as abnormality, or sign of some insanity
so she smiled at the absurdity
and changed her plans accordingly.


They made me Crazy !

Drenched, soaked and dripping enthusiasm,
I walked in like the queen of the planet.
Flat, deflated, brought down with a bump,
I walked out, Beaten ... God damn it !

Drove home, sad and rejected.
I drank tea and considered my choices.
Kill 'em all ! ~ That would make me feel better.
Then plead insanity on account of the voices.


A Damned Fine Place

They trickle by,treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Five hundred walk,
ashen faced,
right through the congregation
who do not see, or sense or smell
that something is awry.
They sit, in calm oblivion,
as five hundred souls walk by.
Displaced,
expelled,
evicted
from their place of final rest.
Unearthed,
exhumed,
discarded
so the land can then be blessed,
reclaimed,
re-used,
re-classified,
no more this hallowed ground,
42
shall be the bed where sleep the dead, a new use has been found.
A housing estate for families,
with a school,
a shop,
a Church.
A fine place for the living
while the dead, they roam and search
and trickle past,
treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Condemned to walk, forever more,
right through the congregation.


Re; Solution

For my New Year Revolution
I will take the politicians
and line them up against the nearest wall.
I'll make them ... ... Oh, hang on,
Did you say "Resolution" ?
Nah, ! … sorry, I don't do them.


The Last Kiss

She drinks a pint of vodka.
Sniffs a little powder.
Slips into the bucket seat
and turns the music louder.
Puts the pedal to the metal,
leaves the seatbelt to the side,
turns the music even louder !
This is really getting wild.
She takes it to the limit,
cos there's no more tears to cry
and she blows a kiss to mother,
as she hits the wall
Goodbye.


A House Well Hidden

Alexander Davey lived in a contemporary world.
Most of which existed in the confines of his mind. Reality (a house well hidden) was rarely now unfurled for drugs and booze had twisted him,
leaving him resigned
to the fact that other people
often viewed him with derision,
as he'd sit, grotesque, in his grubby recliner, watching television.
His only plans to guzzle beer,
steep his life in whiskey
and shoot more crap into his arm,
he knew that it was risky
but he'd passed the point of caring
swapped the lobster and champagne
for a cheque from social security
and junk in every vein.

A premature westerly sunset was all he had to show. That, and a modest concrete stone his epitaph:
"Made in Glasgow".


White Bread Sucks !

Brown bread tastes of malt and grain.
White bread tastes of nothing.
It's just a thing to wrap things in,
like cheese or pork and stuffing.


The Greatest Loss

Age is such a subtle, creeping death,
She stalks her chosen victim slow and sure.
Inflicting wounds that do not weep or bleed,
yet leaving lines the wearer must endure
by furrowing a brow that once was smooth
and casting shades of grey upon a mane
She strips the youthful arrogance of looks
and humbles that which once was smug and vain.
She tenders gifts of dotage and senility
in a blow that's not as harsh as it appears,
for the softening of sight and lack of clarity
is sometimes welcome in ones latter years.
Yet at the exit hope to be coherent.
Pray for one last lucid moment and
ask a million questions of your maker
for the greatest loss is not to understand.


Teetering on the Brink

You wriggle, twist, hog the quilt
and snore like a pug nosed pig.
I roll you across to your own side again
and give your ribs a dig.
You grizzle, snuffle, moan, grumble ~
and mutter "OK, I'm awake !"
I stuff my ears with big cotton balls
and go foetal (for sanity's sake).
I lie there, alert, playing games in my mind
in an attempt to alleviate the boredom
and cling to my allotted eight inches of mattress ~ teetering on the brink of floordom.


Who Put Peas in the Whipping Cream ?

Axym Yaz,
High Priestess of the Numptyscrumper Tribe
and her second in command, the Gliemun Elf
are setting up the tables for the feast of Nantsyclaps when a bowl of squid just flies right off the shelf and before they can react
... or even utter BLIMEY !
( which should be followed by a flabergasterix ),
a cake tray hurtles upwards
and sticks to the ceiling
and suddenly it's raining chocolate grapzy mix.

Axym says "we're banjaxed"
but the Elf, she disagrees
She thinks that there's a catsbreadth of a chance, which is better than a whisker,
or indeed a hope in hell
so she spins round thrice and slips into a trace, consults her spirit guide,
who goes by the name of Debra
a creature known for wisdom and resource.
A totem; a rare mix twixt a flamingo and a Zebra:
A chicken headed, pink and stripy horse.

Debra says,“the culprit is much closer than you think Just ask who put the peas in the whipping cream.
Make a codswallop cocktail
and encourage her to drink
and I promise you will foil her little scheme”.

The Gliemun Elf awakes and grins a cheesy grin concocts the special cocktail in a shaker
and passes it to Axym, who throws it in the bin
and proceeds to blame the whole thing
on the Baker.
The Baker throws a fit at the unforeseen accusal
calls the Elf a shifty, twisted sprite.
Pulls a piece of paper
from the pocket of her apron
and marks the difference between left and write
takes four and twenty paces left of centre
and implodes - leaving nothing but her shoes. Nantsyclaps continues undisrupted
and my tale is thus concluded.
Thank you Muse.


ABCDerian

Meditate the Winter Away

As summer dies
Before my eyes
Colour fades from greenness sprung.
Depressing cloud accumulates as
Evensong is in darkness sung.
Frosted mornings
Granite chill
Held etched on glass its crispness apes
Infant odes and tales of
Jack ~ (the painter of the frosted shapes).
Knuckle down
Lest sloth succeed in
Making staunch its discontent.
Nought as fast as apathy can
Over-ride my good intent.
Perish the darkness,
Quell the shiver,
Re-set my mind to thoughts of May.
Sunny morn and birdsong season.
Truncated night and lengthy day.
Uncultivated daffodyls
(Valiant National flower of Wales)
Wield a soothing visualization of
Xyris shaded Cymru Vales and
Yellow glows my meditation,
Zen ?


The Dead End of The Road

Bare foot and bedraggled,
Lonely, tired and cold.
She huddled in the corner
near the dead end of the road.
At the entrance to the station,
where she knew that she could find,
the commuters and the shoppers.
She hoped they would be kind
and spare some change, through pity,
concern or maybe guilt.
Hoping they would swallow
this facade that she has built.
This picture of downtrodden,
mistreated and abused.
Yet she is not the victim,
it's they who are being used.
and this cunning little waif
isn't begging for a feed
She's begging for a fix,
~ the brown's her only need.
It turned her from a student
with a future looking bright.
To a whore that sells her virtue
to strangers in the night.
A liar and a cheat !
No conscience, ~ no respect.
Stripped of all emotion
with not even a regret,
as bare foot and bedraggled,
lonely tired and cold, she wallows in the gutter,
at the dead end of the road.


Bending

I'd paint this living canvas vibrant orange
if I thought that you could stand to stare
at such a lively shade
but I think, perhaps, you couldn't,
I'll water it down.
I'll mute it to sunset pink
with gentle undertones of mellow yellow
and
if it works
if your reaction is a nod and a smile
I'll pretend that I've succeeded
When in fact
I've simply compromised ~ Again.


Slips and Fades to Grey

Not just dogs and cats,
but beetles, ants and rats
came down with that black nights
met-amphetamine and morphine rain.
No blessings there when God turned its back
leaving nothing but an insatiable itch
that every Devil had a scratch for.

No angels in this fairy story
our heroine loves only heroin
A drug for life ? ~ What Fuckin' Life ?
All I see is the decay that precedes the inevitable
As another mothers much loved child
becomes the gouching waif
that slips away
and slowly
fades to grey.


I Danced with Diablo

Last night I ran through hell !
Chased by a rag-tag bare arsed bastard
and razor cut deep and hard,
I bled for my sins.

Chased by a rag-tag bare arsed bastard
and sweating fear I ran
through corridors of "yes I can"
and rooms of who I am.

And sweating fear I ran
over shards of broken dreams.
To the tune of wails and screams
I danced . . . with Diablo.

Over shards of broken dreams
'til the coming of the morn
and as light of dawn was born
it scorched my bloody halo.


Just Following orders

Think us not warlords, nor torturers,
nor leash masters
but merely as servants bound by our orders.
Think us not cruel, inhuman, sadistic.
Discount what you see on your image recorders.
Ignore the perversions executed in fun
We were just busting stress man.
No real harm done
Close off your minds to the sick degradation.
We're busy as Hell mate, DEFENDING YOUR NATION !
(By hitting the defenceless with the butt of a gun).
God sure must be proud to see how far we've come.


M'Lady death

When nightmares seep into the day,
when gooseflesh never goes away
when terror thrives and fear abounds
Your heartbeat makes the loudest sound.

When everything is shades of black
when Lucifer has got your back
when evil eyes are all around
Shadows make the loudest sound

When Lady Death comes bid you dance
beguiles you with morose romance
and slips you swift, beneath the ground
Silence is the loudest sound.


In shining Armour ?

On a clear and starry night just right,
I met my love, a righteous knight.
He whisked me away on a horse of white.
(OK - It was a Honda but that didn't sound right)


Twenty four Hours

They say that at this time tomorrow,
life here will come to and end.
You ask how I'd spend my last twenty four hours alright .. I will tell you my friend.
I'd pray for the souls of my kin.
Say farewell, for I can't watch them die.
Fall to my knees, desolated.
Wring my hands and ask my God WHY ?
Dry my tears .. on the way to the bike shop
and steal the ultimate ride.
Cruise to the beach and sit on the sand
a pen and a pad at my side.
I'd write of the very last sunset,
Of the waves, the dunes and the sky.
I'd write of the wonders of living
whilst sitting there, waiting to die.

I'd write of love and beauty.
I'd write of hatred and death.
I'd write of my life‟s experiences, from the first
to the very last breath.
I'd take out the knife from my pocket,
blade glinting in last rays of light.
I'd lay out my wraps on the sand
and ponder the wrong and the right.
Then I'd cut, just to see what it feels like.
Jack smack, to understand WHY ?
Smoke crack cocaine, again and again and get high.
All these things I would try.
I'd pop out one of my eyeballs,
for I've heard that this can be done.
I'd pierce my eyebrows and nipples
and tattoo "F~CK OFF" on my tongue.
I'd doughnut the bike on the sand.
I'd yell and I'd shout and I'd rage
and now and again, I'd stop ~ take my pen
and commit how it feels to the page.

For the fear of death has prevented
the experience of so many things.
So I'd do all the shit that scares me
and I'd bask in the freedom it brings.
I'd write of it all on my notepad
and as there'd be no-one to read,
it would matter not, how deep I dug,
how hard I let my pen bleed.
I'd compose an amazing last write,
that I'd sign and throw to the sea
and at twenty three, fifty nine, fifty nine,
I'd scream out, "I'm done .. TAKE ME !".
And I'd go ... with little regret,
when the sixtieth second came and all that I'd ask,
if they'd got it all wrong
is that Someone remember my name - Ven.


The Wardrobe Monster

The tingle of hairs that stood on end. A goose-bump extravaganza.
This musty cobweb zone was cold spot central.
Icy spinal shivers racked as imaginary fingers probed those, all to real, emotional wounds so often salted by nearest and dearest. For kin made the fiercest of foe. Armed with knives of knowledge they would prise my skeletons from the closet and smug and smiling lead my ghosts kickin‟ and fucking screaming from the attic. Parading them before me, while I sat in silent hurt upon that three-seater draylon pew of holier than thou parental scorn. But hey ! ~ Newsflash !
THE DEMONS ARE DEAD. I fought them ... I won. Job done ! Now ... nothing scares me and I piss on their wardrobe monster.


Let Mum sort it out

She smoothes down the hackles of animal family
with practised Doolittle speak.
Smothers the flames of dissention
for the umpteenth this week.
She can halt a conflict with cookies !
She rarely resorts to attack.
Me-thinks we should round up a bus load of mums
and send them to sort out Iraq.


Man-ipulation

Professor Peek arrived last week
and said, “I've invented a theory !
I've discovered our lives are run by our wives
and it's making me feel a bit weary.
I'm going to take charge, by having it large
and living it up at the disco.
I'll be dancin„, Drinkin‟ and smokin‟ the herb
with these dudes called Marvin and Sisco.
I'll be pinching the asses of many fine lasses
while Marvin and Sisco keep score.
I'll stay out all night and I might pick a fight
with the bald headed ape on the door.

It's a quarter to eight, I'm gonna be late,
the guys will think I ain't showing.
The Mrs. is smiling, she's looking beguiling
~ I'm thinking about not going
cos she's wearing that vest
that enhances her breasts,
a skirt that's cut to the thigh
and a pair of boo-ties
that come up past her knees.
I find myself wondering why ?

Has she got a plan ? ... Is she meeting a man ?
or is this man-ipulation ?
I can't take the chance and go to the dance
so out of complete frustration
~ I'M BLOODY STAYING IN AGAIN ! ”


Fabricated Self.

Test your metal,
twist it,
turn it,
hot,
cold,
temper ?
lose it.
Take a risk
now and then
snap a support
or two,
or ten.
For a welded joint
can be much stronger
and is prone to last
a little longer
than those
of which you never spoke
or those
you never broke.


Fatal

She sits beside him in calm equanimity and speaks in dulcet' horse whisperer tones. He just lies there, no motion, no sound. Closed eyes, torn flesh, shattered bones. Sedated. Outward she shows her sweet disposition but inward in turmoil she screams, that his careless frivolity caused this hell and rendered her hopes and her dreams over-rated. She thought back to early that morning and the look on his face when they came. Those leather clad junkies of red line revs, eager to join in the game actuated. He picked up his helmet, kissed her goodbye and straddled his iron whore. They rode off together in search of the buzz the motto was "More More More". Un-sated. She knew as he left, that all was not well. Intuition ? A hunch ? Who knows ?

She just knew in her heart that he'd take it too far. One word sprung to mind and she froze. Ill-fated !. So now, here she sits in acceptance. For she knew of all this from the start. She'd accepted his love of the iron whore and the speed and adrenaline tart and waited. Each weekend for his safe return. Taking comfort from the fact
that from Monday to Friday he was hers alone. In accordance with a pact They'd created. A contract soon to be null and void for nought carries on past the grave. Except ... perhaps for this love Which she believes fate desecrated. She returned to the bed they shared soon after he took his last breath and swallowed the pills from the cabinet shelf hoping the act of death, conjugated.


Join Us !

Come all ye faithless,
no one here is worthless.
Come ye who transgress.
We'll lead you to the light.
Come see what we see
dip your heart in beauty
We are here, on duty,
to help you get it right.
Come all ye cynics
to the faith injection clinic
We'll fill your head with lyrics
and ritual ~ and rite.
Come ye and consult
integrate with our cult
We promise you the result
will bring you such delight.

Blessed Be

If I do not understand your God
and if I do not believe.
You preach to me of suffering
my conversion to achieve.

If I do not understand your God
your God of grief and pain.
You preach to me of afterlife
and what I stand to gain.

If I don't understand your God
or do not think like you.
You'll preach to me of mortal sin
and war until I do.

If I don't understand your God
don't hear my reasons why.
Your sure in your faith,
so He truth, and I am lie.

And yet My God is beautiful
made of water, earth and fire,
My God is in the air,
and in my passion and desire.

She is, “do as you would be done to”,
and “love as you would be loved”,
She is everything that fits together
perfectly, hand in glove.

She is sunshine, snow and rainbow,
flower, tree and bird.
and in the breeze through autumn leaves,
Her whisper can be heard.

and the whisper never preaches,
your conversion to achieve
She'd never wish you harm,
just because you don't believe.

You do not understand My God yet
I defend your right.
For you having your God and I having Mine ,
should never be reason to fight.

Blessed Be.


Dissin' Fish

It's summertime and August heat persuades the helium light morning mist to float like angel breath above the soft green breeze swayed sapling oaks. Thrush and blackbird chorus and an early bee flits from chrysanthemum to honeysuckle to daisy and back. Limpid water laps the lakeside, softly whispers, "take a dive. Swim in me". A trio of rainbow trout jump and splash as if to endorse the invitation and as four and twenty stickleback echo the call the old, wise, patriarch pike nods his approval .. So I disrobe and tip toe in. Wade to waist and more before Pike (with perfect diction) booms,
"Who do you think you are ?" "I don't know " I reply, " I ... I … I was invited,
and you, (I'm sure) approved" In deep gargled voice he shouts
"Invitation revoked ... GET OUT !
You are not the apostle we waited for. Take your hippy, nature lovin' pretence, your skin cream, your hairspray and your fancy antiperspirant and go". You are walking pollution, our Faith in you was misplaced. You irresponsible creature,
consider yourself disgraced.


~ Pheasant Feet and Juju Babies ~

Miniscule wax dipped effigies
and desiccated foot of fowl,
strung from wailing willow bough
'neath silver, slivered, waning moon
left the Slack-jaw jibbering now
for lack of sense made fear intense
and the simpleton was anti-sensed
~ laid open to suggestion
and Faye (who spun this mind game spell)
was capable of evil deed
for she who twists the will of men
can sow a heinous, wicked seed
and he, with will not of his own
strolled along a path unknown
suspended like a marionette
on arcane flax that she had grown.

Yes, onward now he strode by hex
as she sat with the juju child,
pushing needles through its form
and chanting words she had compiled
from ancient scripts, books of death
and personal soliloquy
she waxed, evil, lyrical
~ and cackled at the imagery.

He foot-slogged through a brambled lane
toward a goal not yet unveiled
and as the dawn crept o'er plain
he saw a cottage, iron railed,
that stood, it seemed, in solitude,
though watching from its curtained pane
was Lady Constance Castleton
and at her breast was baby Cain.

Cain was heir to all the land,
as far as mortal eye could see.
Off summit of Mount Evermore
~ from left side coast to right side sea
and all who lived within its lines
were duty bound to bow and scrape.
From times of wealthy noble rule,
they feared that there was no escape
But Beldame Faye had other plans
and with the magic she possessed
she swore to put the wrongs to right.
The common man was much impressed
and gathered all she did require
( from pheasant foot to juju child )
but seems the fool was easy duped
~ and spinster Faye just smiled.

For she who spun this mind game spell
was capable of evil deed.
and she who binds the will of men
can sow a heinous, wicked seed so he,
against his better will,
walked her chosen path and still
danced the puppet dance until
the dire enchantment was fulfilled.

By lurk he crept and entered in
through servants' door at shadowed rear.
The Lady Constance heard his slow paced
echoed stepand froze with fear
and as the mark ascended
o'er the stony tread of thirteenth stair
she slipped the child 'neath counterpane
and mouthed a silent, pleading prayer.

Her orison was made in vain
and as the slayer scoured the place
he heard the muffled infant's squall
and traced it to that hidden space.
From 'neath the quilted coverlet
that draped to floor at bedstead base
he lifted Cain to final clinch
~ of suffocating grim embrace.

Constance fell to bended knee,
torn by grief and sore lament
she begged the mark to slay her
and release her from this vile torment
but spell complete, he stood aghast,
incredulous and much contrite
he turned his face; took to heel
and left the scene by frenzied flight.


Wracked with guilt and torrid pain
he slid his pistol from his belt
and with contrition cursed
the evil hand that Beldame Faye had dealt.
He pressed the metal to his temple,
then with utter self disdain
he took himself to meet his maker,
on the verge near Bramble Lane.

Faye in squalid hovel sat
and viewed the scene through second sight.
Wrung her hands with gloating guile
and subtle grinned with sick delight
but had she stopped to gaze
a little longer at her crystal ball
she would have seen the livid face
of vengeance that would come to call.

Whispering to Nemesis,
Constance trod the brambled way
and beat a hasty step toward
the residence of Beldame Faye
in her hand she tightly held
a wooden handled carpet bag
its contents were; a piece of flint,
some pyrite and a gin soaked rag.

Faye still sat complacently,
crowing and self satisfied
as Constance gathered kindling
from the picket fence that ran the side
of where the garden met the lane,
then hushed of step she tiptoed o'er
the weed strewn path that traced the way
to flagstone stoop at Beldame's door.

In the porch she huddled
and determined to avenge the hurt
she lifted out the the gin soaked cloth
and draped it neatly 'round her skirt
then after setting bone-dry touchwood
in a modest self-made pyre,
she struck the goldstone on the flint
and quietly set herself afire.

As the flames took fuelled hold
The spinster was alerted and
she rushed toward the doorway
with a silver dagger in her hand
heaved the door to ample yaw
but then, before she could attack
Constance took her by surprise
and bound her snug in firey wrap.

And she who spun the mind game spell
was vengeance sent to flaming death
yes, she who played the will of men
and lived by trick did end by stealth
so evil deed for witches' gain
sent the culprit triple cursed and thus
~ each hex she ever spun
was by her death reversed.

The commoners (repentant)
raised the orphan child with honest love
and Cain grew strong and ruled the Kingdom,
pure of heart and fair there of


Thank You Devon

The source of my existence beats and thrums
as each tumbling, foam crested roll comes
and plants its urgent crashing kiss
upon this sharpened shale
and craggy cliff lined shore.

Before this perfect blue skied day
tide-like ebbs and slips away
I lie silent, mesmerized.
Hypnotized as fire meets water and dips again
below the subtle curve
of the flawless fluid horizon.

I feast my tired, heavy eyes
on lightly clouded, lilac skies
while fading light splays glistening rays
that watercolour paint a magic rippled trail
from beach to just beyond my reach.

No! Way beyond my reach!

A twilight shadow races in
and traces the faces of Sam and Bill
on the blank page that has lately been
my blind poets mind.
I reach to find my pen ~ and then, I write,
not to compete, but to feel complete.

Thank you Devon.


Return of the Jedi

I'm not bloody wearing that again
I don‟t care what you say.
No matter how much you beg and plead
I just don't want to play.
Yesterday was doctors and nurses,
the day before was rubber day.
Tuesday we played Amsterdam.
I did the deed, but you had to pay.
Monday I was Busty Barmaid.
That was cool, I got free beer,
but you don‟t look good as Jar Jar Binks
and I'm not bloody being Princess Leia.


Chimerical Voices

A technical glitch ?
The screen switches to speckled
snow storm grey.
White noise emanating ~ then disseminating.

The ear extracts chimerical voices
The brain reacts, honing in and deciphering. Normal programming resumes
and the experience is consciously dismissed.


Moving Mountains

Children play oblivious
in the valley down below.
In ten by ten foot gardens
where toxic roses grow
and slag heaps tower precariously,
(a top soiled, turfed solution)
as a patchwork quilted epitaph
to industrial revolution.


The Death Bringer

Miniscule javelins,
spearing iridescent carcasses
in a vain attempt to forever preserve
the beauty
that was extinguished this day
in the killing jar.

A beauty that the finest glass showcases,
edged with the purest gold
could not even begin to recapture.

This inane, insane offering
brought to you by
the lepidopterist.


Toward the Light

The return journey seems so much faster even thought I'm driving slow and soaking up the beauty of the landscape as I go over one hill, then another. Past craggy outcrops towering above the rolling green and patchwork quilted vale. I pause ... as born free descendents of worked hard pit ponies amble across the road ahead, blissfully unaware of the industrial shackles that bound their forefathers ~ and I smile. The sun begins to set slowly dipping her auburn flamed head below the tip of the horizon. Bathing my view in a pink hue of last minute day. I'm almost there now .. The buzzard on the fence post glances in my direction and emits an aura of knowing as if she feels my disappointment at having to climb this last hill
and clear its brow.
She tucks her head into her feathers and settles for the night. All too soon the wonder is gone, with nothing to mark the occasion. No signs to say "You are now leaving Paradise" or "Welcome to Barter Town" Yet, there they are ! ~ the artificial lights of home. Powered not by methane but by metaphoric, bureaucratic pig shit. I check the rear view mirror but all I see is blackness and the question raised in my mind is; How can beauty become so dark while this filth shines out so bright ?


The Name of the Game

In ecstasy you bind me.
With silken scarves you blind me.
In eight ball love you find me,
silent in submission.
As you tie my arms behind me
I find this state of mind to be
so peaceful, you've entwined me,
and I've given my permission.

I smile as you up-end me
tie my ankles and suspend me.
Though you do not condescend me
I become the exhibition.

Hung up, strung and abstract.
Taken (with dignity intact).
In accordance with the contract
and the name of the game ? SHIBARI.


The Willow Way

Hubble Bubble simmers
„neath the still and secret outer
while no evidence of broom nor extra tit
gives pointer to the eyesight
of the sceptic or the doubter
but see her at her work in natures pit
where raindrops fall and filter
through the height of treetop green
as the moonlight shows the fern
and bracken sway.
I swear you‟ll feel the power
and the wisdom of the Witch
As you place your foot
upon the Willow Way.


Leaving ~ Terminal Two

I‟ll languish in your steel embrace,
let slip this gown of silken lace,
stimulate
and suffocate
with satin skin and whispered
"wait".
But measure your pleasure,
twitch and rock,
appreciate each tick,
each tock
for soon I'll grant the blood-let course,
hold you down with subtle force
and sweep your throat with razor touch
for gushing love
and thrusting death
brings ecstasy beyond belief
and passion to the closing breath.
Sweet Love!
Before you cum (and go)
I'll stroke you tender, so you know
that malice this does not imply.
My aim was that, content, we die.
So take this as my gift and sigh,
as blade to breast
I kiss goodbye.
Azrael ( our saving light )
shall enter on this darkest night,
to find us here in lovers tryst
and carry us by fated twist
to fitting end of final lust
and destiny
of dust.


Remember? Why?

What pillage ?
Why ?
What creed despoiled
for blue eyed, false supremacy ?
What hollow caused ?
Who'll testify ?
When time erases witness eye.
All posterity need be read
the baleful Auschwitz tale of dread
so no dictation may impel
nor force again a race to Hell.
~
©Ven.27thJan2005
(60th Anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz)


Shared Despair

Have heart for those who must compose
such words of deep despair.
Creating
and orating
from the deepest depths of Hell
and also those who speechless, read
and shed an honest tear
for they have trod the hopeless road as well.


Ahh! Warmth

She walks down the stairway, un-slippered,
yet, still comfortable.
She enters the kitchen, and opens the freezer to be met by the sight of soft fishcakes
and pork chops
and peas.
The knife in the butter slides through
unaided, on the worktop.
And while passing by the sitting room door,
she hears a strange and unfamiliar sound - Family laughter !
Looks like the cold snap is over.


Spilt Milk

When the sun no longer shines because the haze is far too thick. When the acid in the water, burns your mouth and makes you sick. When your lungs are seared and blistered, from breathing in pollutants. When your nearest and your dearest, are clones, retards and mutants. When you sit in desolation, your head placed in your hands and watch humanity crumble, ‟cos there's no more back up plans. When you watch the dead and dying and the Reaper comes for you. When you realise we're all to blame who are You going to cry to ?


Xylak .. Champion of the Gnoxie

"He rode in on an Aardvark in the still and dead of night. His name was Xylak He was two foot tall, a warrior ... and "Champion of the Gnoxie." ~ ~ ~ His battle dress was starched and pressed. He'd four brass buttons on each epaulette and a row of metal ribbons at his breast. He looked a little weary and far, I thought , from cheery but I bade him, welcome in, so he could rest. He sat beside the window and looked out at the night in silent contemplation for a while. He was conflict weak and weary, for an hour he didn't speak but when he did, he started with a smile. He asked me for my name and then imparted his. We talked
and shared some knowledge of ourselves. I said I came from Irish blood and grew in the town of Merrydown. He said he came from Faeries,
Gnomes and Elves.
He said there'd been a vicious war and he'd fought a hundred years to protect a fountain made when faeries wept and he used it as a mouthwash or as tipple now and then, for it gave him wings to wander as he slept . He said he'd travelled time. Met Dewey, Plato and Jung. Observed the very greatest men at work. He said that he'd contributed to the philosophy of aesthetics, that was later written down by Edmond Burke. He said that he'd invented the art of aromatherapy. Inspired by the odour of a sock. When I told him it developed into rose oil, thyme and Lavender, his face could barely hide the look of shock "Well, it started out alright" he said but it's likely to be her downfall. "I presume it was a woman that did this!". The stuff will never sell. In fact, it's my idea of hell. Cheesy foot aroma ... now that's bliss ! We laughed and laughed some more then he stood ... walked to the door and uttered "Fair thee well" before he went. He vowed to fight no more ... said, he'd given up on war and was off to try and set a precedent. I watched him ride away, not to fight another day but to spread the scent of peace through all the ages. I went back in to find that he'd left a book behind and the following was concealed within it's pages: ~ Because the moon is round do you consider its dimensions and calculate the ratio of the circumference to the diameter. Can you see what they see ? Is it still beautiful ?.. Is it still the moon ? or is it just Pi in the sky ? Reduced to an infinity of numbers ! ~ and if the darkest shade of every colour is black ? Does it then follow that ;
Black x seven = Perfect midnight Rainbows.


Tears

Weakness ( in sorrows clothing ) will appear
in each lead weighted, bell-bottomed tear
that crashes over painted lashes
and pours
like north wind driven rain
down the stone cold face
of self pity‟s
porcelain pale complexion.


Through the Bottom

The amber liquid in the tumbler
gives my cheeks a rosy hue
and staring through its thick glass base
un-complicates the view.


This Love

This love excites, delights, bites, conveys my heart to dizzy heights. I wallow in the joy of its simplicity ..
... but I wonder could it bear to wear the drudgery of constant care and the horse hair shirt of daily domesticity.


The Third Erection

He stepped out of the vestry
into the midst of a dismal,
grey,
rainy day.
He erected his umbrella.
( His third erection today )
.. but this one bore no disgrace,
quite the opposite,
it hid his face
and as oblivious parishioners
praised his sermon
he thanked the Lord
for its nylon spoked protection.
Without it they would see his eyes
(and his shame)
They would point the God endorsed
finger of blame
and above all
They would make damn sure
the alter boys stopped coming.


The metamorphosis of Morpheus

Hail thee from my sleeping mind
come here to shape the thoughts of conscious lost,
to mould,
to forge and form the images I find
or dost thou feign pretence as son of Hypnos ?
Lay thou still on ebony
in poppy painted caves of ancient myth
or is ;
"The metamorphosis of Morpheus"
made morphine by its metaphoric xenolith ?


AN ACT OF WAR

Stage Right: (Enter Apollyon). His name is Sin and with the come hither smile, of a ten dollar whore, he embraces all who approach his door and perspires elation from every pore, as pride, hate and anger prevail once more and then, ... encore, in his sick and malignant production. Stage Left: (Enter Death). His name is Pain and with a carious grin, from a festering core, he welcomes all that would dip a toe, into his fetid cesspool of conflict and war, until the curtain drops on a blood drenched floor, amidst deafening screams of "More; More; More!".
POSTSCRIPT: Complete destruction.


Oh Bumblesplatt !

Oh Bumblesplatt !
I did it again !
I smiled in the face of adversity
And while I was grinning (Cheshire cat style)
ten ton of bullshit fell on me.


Variations on a Theme

You say, "Mmm, let's give it a shot"
but back-door boogie ... I think not !
The image doesn't get me hot,
I think you've lost the plot love.

Let's make love, like we always do.
I don't feel the need for anything new.
I don't need props or gimmicks to
enhance the way I love you love.

But how about adding some spice to the pot.
Bondage would maybe hit the spot.
Bring a whole new meaning to tying the knot.
I like that thought a lot love.

Roll play games or hide and seek ?
Voyeurism ? You strip I peek.
Kinky stuff just once a week.
Oh come on, please just try it love.

OK I'll do it, but I choose the style.
Sit your arse down I'll be back in a while
and I'll show you the meaning of versatile.
I hope your ready for this love.

Now close your eye's I'm coming in
and this is Clarissa, she's my twin.
Wipe the dribble off your chin,
we've got a treat for you love.

Slip your hands into these cuffs.
Say "empty" when you've had enough
Oh, you were right I like this stuff.
I hope you‟re having fun love.

„Cos vampire lovin‟ gets me high.
Clarissa and me gonna suck you dry.
Turn your neck and whisper bye-bye
~ tonight‟s the night to die love.


Greed Shall be My Downfall

Today is worthy of envy The sky is clear, azure and the breeze, subtle. Autumn whispers "winter" through the needles of the evergreens and contentment takes the place of disenchantment or "what might have beens". Nature weaves magic and mundane and tragic become just words. Tell me .. What more could you ask for ?
Much ... much more !
and this greed shall be my downfall.


Debt Met Roulette Inc.

Why fret ? ~ ok, so the debt can't be met
but regret can be offset and at least the inhalation of this last cigarette will carry no more threat of consequence. Sweat beads under harsh light and turns to rivulets of wet and yet
You bet your life ! No honour, no etiquette, just spin .. click ... spin .. click .. BANG ! The ultimate sacrifice of a family man.


N.B. Scene recorded for Reality T.V. Programme.
Winning contestants will have their debt paid off in full by *Debt Met Roulette Inc.
(* Henceforth referred to as “The Company”).

In the likely event that a contestant should lose the gamble all monies over and above the amount of outstanding debt,
contestants funeral expenses and The Company programme production
costs will be paid to the contestants Spouse / life partner
and / or offspring. The Company reserves the right to disqualify any contestants who are subsequently proven
to have an accumulated debt
of less than £5000
The Company has the *final decision on all matters regarding the Gamble.
(*Not negotiable).
Thank you for your inquiry.
Debt Met Roulette Inc.


The death of Anima

To sacrifice a kindness
in the name of total honesty.
To shatter false illusions
and spread-eagle pose for all to see
or soften hardened edges
with a silken lingerie of lies
and blur ones imperfections
with pastel painting palate knives.
To brazen forth, to blaze a trail
that's paved with solid concrete truth.
To bear the cross of openness
and wear the arrogance of youth
or subtle clothe and sugar coat
each care-considered bitter pill
and contemplate a compromise
to veil the harsh or spare an ill.
To kill (again !) the MOCKING bird
of open-heart indignity.
To light the crematory flame
and shed no tear of sympathy.
To mummify and bandage tie
each weeping insecurity.
To mourn, to sigh but not to cry
as by free choice, I murder Me.


Mad as a Poet !

Don't take those flaws and insecurities,
Those complexes and instabilities
and turn them into beating sticks
for this imbalance forms the bricks
that are cemented phrase by phrase
to form the poesy that you praise
and if some comment causes grief
I'm sorry but it's my belief
that tolerance of aberration
and swings from sadness to elation
are just the price you have to pay
for literature that's born this way.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.12.2010

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