Poetry Blog by ray pool (Jan 2018)

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Life is a mixed open prison

with one way in and one way out. 

Some have bigger more comfortable cells,

but all suffer confinement

with variations of refinement. 

So make the best of it -

bring your trinkets to the ball;

celebrate differences;

try to make your stay comfortable,

be friends with the gaoler

if it helps. 

If you run screaming round the grounds

there ...

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I see her now displayed behind glass

preserved in memory's cabinet,

her hips, lips, cast of jaw

cupped in every familiar place,

twenty years and more passed by. 


Flying so close, we tried to cast

a future that never could be;

no rock to build that future on-

only illusions hewn to a shape

of hips, lips, cast of jaw

preserved as memory's favoured face. 

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Resentment is a lift that only goes down

on its way to level hate,

never reaching the bottom,

dragging you to your fate.


Gravity helps it on its way

so its hard to change your mind,

its walls are full of mirrors

to watch your spirit unwind. 


No-one waits on other floors

to share your downward trend,

the mirrors are designed for you,

reflections that never...

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I've got quite a collection of regular likers,

my pockets are full of bad dreams,

some of them mucky from dust therein,

but all highly flavoured if you know what I mean?


Bodily fluids, orifices,

always good for the mind to dwell on;

best out in the open is what I say;

if you write with hatred that's A OK. 


Never mind the shit that keeps flowing, 

it's just anot...

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The knife is full of dreams

that turn into nightmares

which once applied can never be denied.

The romance of fine steel

is not for the faint-hearted,

never can be shared with  the now departed.  

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The cottage is tucked up in bed,

curtains like eyelids are closed;

there's a glow of a fire

where its heart is beating,

a carpet rolled out for welcome. 


No-one knocks at this ungodly hour,

outside, the lane is a river of dark. 

We sit in silence's mutual regard,

as right as keys in a lock,

complete, as companions should be.


The cottage is tucked up in bed,


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Phallic symbols cast for death,

made for penetration

of brick, metal, bone, flesh,

mind, spirit, hope, dreams


while men decide

on whose hot belly

they take their ride. 

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Mummy and Daddy are Methodists

they have to have everything right;

they taught me that life is sacred,

to never give up the good fight. 


Biology taught me the details

of life with its marvellous ways,

seeing how things are constructed

and to see how they're taken apart;


the blood and the organs, muscles and nerves,

how living creatures feed and breed;


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