Poetry Blog by Wolfgar

Voiding urine upon a memory

The stars smelt of piss as I marvelled at your face,

your statue raised in glory in that elevated place.  

 

The blue plaque and the honours, the vestiges of you

I relieved my celebrations as the desperate often do.

 

Your memory stained and tarnished, belittled and forgot,

In truth I hope my voiding accelerates the rot.

 

PS. Lord Nelson was not a slave trader, but did ...

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Cheer up, WTF is wrong with you?

 

Devoid of any empathy

they cut down the hanging man

 

Rejoicing in their righteousness

as only the righteous can

 

“Be happy and be carefree

be jolly just because”

 

Then “whoops” came their apocalypse

now they’re miserable like us

 

You see it isn’t just the magnitude

of events that bring’s you low

 

It’s the way that we disperse them

and the r...

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Go West Old Men

 

Where Autobahns 

met Autoroutes

and clogs

were crushed by stamping boots

 

Where guttural 

turned beautiful

and blazing horns

drowned magic flutes

 

They’re raising borders

stamping pages

repelling boarders

ranting rages

 

Chasing wagons

taxing flagons

not one step further

there-be dragons

 

The bureaucratic

sparks with static

...

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On Lara Beach

 

Onto Lara Beach Levantine waves roll unseen,

and all is quiet now.

Citrus perfume filters through salty air.

Eggs smooth as Sea washed pebbles,

their perfect form in shallow scrapes.

 

Abandoned to their birth

the tiny creatures are born alone, to crawl back home.

Beyond the shell, beyond the sand filled cup,

their Mother-Sea awaits,

her warm embrace to pull them...

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The sober trees

 

The sober trees are gnarled and twisted dry

their fruits dropped and devoured,

their knotted fingers claw the coming winter sky

a cumulus is building but cruelly drifts on by.

 

No longer full in bloom

no longer the apple of a joyful eye,

their fill has spilled too soon

the harvest drained and dry.

 

They crave and weep like drunks forlorn

with bruised and bat...

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Artefacts

On plinths of oak young shoulders grew,

incentivised

 

Swords sheathed in Empire, stolen new

with enterprise

 

Behind glass now, our plunder shines 

what once was theirs

 

now ever thine

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I, Me, You and the Subject Matter

 

If I weren’t I

then I’d just be me

and would miss my I

most terribly

 

So here with ink

I’ll make us three

then you’ll be me

quite possibly

 

I’d have you speak 

my words disguised

revealing me

to obscured eyes

 

So all might know

that they don’t know

which I we are

or who we show

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Between Seasons

 

On the metalled edge of its earth-sunk bow

are the worm stained remnants of this seasons plough

trenches forged by turn on turn

then soaked by rain and basked in burn

 

While blistered hands that tilled the soil 

cocoon to heal in natures oil

and in the lull between each storm

all Gaia’s children shall be born

 

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Meme-land

 

Why write of old poets?

Perverts, priests and cannibals.

Swinburne devoured flesh,

girl on girl action,

spoke of things ungodly.

 

The bookshelf groans with deviants

 

Why write anything at all?

post the cum tribute and caption it.

Degrade the bitch destroy her!

the red-tops love that vigilante hate.

They crave a life extinguished.

 

As Charge Sheets ...

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