Her Habitat A clean, cream carpet, Glittering glass: a squeaky carapace. Grand, old, oak bookcase, Slide in spines. Covers carefully confined - Embraced between the dust-free shelves. Enshrined. Polish the coffee table to a gloss, With wax from bees – cold cream for deceased trees. The toilet protrudes from plaster like a Porcelain-capped tooth. My pearly bath, each nacreous tile agleam, And shower pod: a pristine, plastic dream. Such taps! Platinum sculptures, Which rupture The shining, sacred sepulchre of sink: My marvellously marbled monolith. I cup my hands to drink. Reflections: the twinkling of insect eyes, Tiny twitches – like the dying limbs of flies. But round the wooden ridge of window frame, Seen through the lens of glazed, pellucid pane, There cluster lace-edged knots of spider seeds – Skeins stuffed with squirling, squirming, thronging beads: Silk sacks of legs and throbbing abdomens. A vision: vestal virgin-bottled bleach, Between the sponges, cans and sprays I reach. Candyfloss cocoons, festering festoons, Slashed at by searing, slicing, squirting spears. The atomised elixir saturates. Finally, furious and nauseous, A big one breaks out, She, sopping, writhing, stabbing at the air, Flails fitfully and spirals from her lair. Fast fading – and her babies all at rest – The chill, grave thought: How fragile is a nest? Zeitgeist Heist We're Rimmel nails in Delicious Dark, Our god is a great, Golden Arch trademark, We hurt sometimes like R.E.M., Stipe's blue stripe; condemn ConDem. We’re Anderson’s Trash, you and me, We’re big-balls-basslines thumbed by Flea, Roal Moat’s shots and the cast of Glee. We're The Millenials; Generation Why? We’re Moomins, mood rings, Sky, tie-dye. We’re Sub-pop Seattle in flammable flannel, We’re Oasis and Blur on every channel. A pubescent princess in Playboy pants, Pert and proud of our plastic implants. We hunger for heroes: Holmes, House, He-Man, Indiana Jones? Batman? Supergran? We’re Daz-white and Bold - a fantasy team, We’re Cantona’s stubble not Luther King’s dream. Johnny’s revenge in Short Circuit 2, We’re Chakka Khan, Shamen, Cher and Shampoo. Tiananmen's tank; Party in The Park, Ikea, Top Shop, Aldi, Primark. We are the graffiti on the Berlin Wall, The ‘Two weeks’ tranny in Total Recall. We’re ash on the breeze after Eyjafjallajökull, So sleepy and hollow like Kurt Cobain’s skull. Homogenized drones. monotonous hum. No thoughts of our own. We steal to become. The Ideal Job I'd like to be a poet, but it doesn't pay the rent; I can't eat words or verses when my money's all been spent. If I made pounds by penning prose, a happy lass I'd be, I'd buy a new thesaurus and an Oxford dictionary. I'd spend my days in attics blotting ink from manuscripts, With puns and quips and parodies I would be well equipped. If only words were cold, hard cash, I would beat Billy Gates, But sadly rhymes just aren't enough to pay my blasted rates! Ode To A Bigot "They all should be shot!" He barks with a snort, "The niggers, the ragheads, the pakis, the wogs..." He glugs down a glass of plum-purple port, He feels that the fire requires more logs. "They're sub-human species, like monkeys and apes." "Dirty and stupid and nothing like whites." He states, spreading stilton and groping green grapes, Canines crunching crackers with vigorous bites. “It’s just like the gypos – cretinous curs –“ “Good only for kicking, or warming the sheets.” “Any more wine?” he suddenly slurs, Whilst ogling the olives and succulent meats. “Hitler had it right! He knew what to do!” “I’m not kidding you, that fellow was bright.” He plucks parts of chicken to cheerfully chew, Shreds smoked-salmon with salacious delight. “This world would be better if we bombed the swine.” “The blacks and the coloureds; the chinks and the Jews.” He captures a caper suspended in brine, He guzzles the gammon and imbibes more booze. If everyone on Planet Earth disappeared, And he and his maid were the last to survive, He’d savour the solitude; wouldn’t feel weird, He’d lap up the loneliness, prosper and thrive. Although, as the days marched on just the same, He’d begin to suspect that something was awry, Threatened and haunted, his attendant dame, With her substandard skin-tone, would soon have to die. He’d blow up the bitch with a left-over mine, She should’ve been younger, and softer and thinner, And then he’d be left with the monkeys and swine, With none to make wine, or cook him his dinner.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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The Cupboard of Death (01/04/2013)
Someone Else's Sorrow (25/08/2012)
Greetings Card Verses (23/08/2012)
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- 2012 (1)
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