nowhere man

nowhere man.pic for poem

 

a vagrant slouches in the doorway

like a bee fallen into apathy

and he glances at a waste bin with shallow contempt

for its dismal offerings and the fanfare of flies

that guard the lurid bounty of spent purchases

so casually tossed away

 

lunch-time in the metropolis and the big game

stroll oblivious to the man who lies wounded

his hours of need yawning into a squeezed frame

as his eyes focus on something far away

beyond all this unpleasantness,  just like the bee

quiet before a fall into the longest silence

 

and I am yet another silent witness

complicit with the hunters

a voyeur to misery – blinkered

and covered in fabric that may someday find

it’s way into another bin – soiled charity

just offering my rags to him

remainders

Remainders . pic

 

I’m looking back on words that spoke to me of

tight spring buds seen through small panes of glass

that drew a stark cartoon against an insipid green

and me embroiled in warm sheets thinking of how

time makes a sketch of history and each craven itch

is always in need of recognition from the void,

the slipstream  of life’s urges

that simple sense of loss that has claws

leaving bite-marks and bruises on cooling flesh

unwittingly, urgently, moving toward the freezer door

and men in sombre suits patrolling next to slow moving black cars

stickmen immune to vanity whose shapes are not prisoners

as they populate the space containing them

and give it substance

and I keep looking back on words that speak to me

as they come back to life cleansed by the soil they were steeped -in

unmoved by history, their romance always in the present tense

all these tidal sounds carouse with me

Badge

Badge. Pic for poem

 

the suggestion of savage power

displayed by exaggerated exhaust pipes

stare with mute threat

from behind the car, which

swathed in dull,  matt grey paintwork

is perhaps all you would ever need to know

about the man who drives it

but on the other hand

he may be a poet with a soft spot

for the uncouth. A devil’s advocate

for difference

I am trying to be more reasonable

behind my privacy glass and rose-tinted

prejudice

as time takes it’s inexorable toll

leaving me, not quite stalled

on the broad highway of  a personal history

that sways in the wind of change, nay progress,

and  become mindful that tolerance

could be my best defence against

a creeping spiritual

rigor mortis

Andrews loss

Andrews loss. Photograph

a griddle of desire

turned slowly, framed

by the heat and turning

slowly into history

so that,

loss becomes a pyre

a disentangled thing

unwoven, unspeakable

in pain

the holder always reaching in

with fingers that implore

for more of that sameness

the comfort that escaped

and in the brittle moments

when dawn dampens the fire

it is darkness not light

that descends

to scratch at and bother

the future,

a place so desolate

that only pain will do.

And so it came to pass

Damn

mikedohsays

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.

View original post

Skin

mikedohsays

Skin

Skin 

We fashion beauty. We aesthetes

We are Olympians of taste

And make no mistake, when the money is good

No expense could be too crude

For the aristocrat of the senses

Whose pockets flap

Will exploit loose change to buy exotic metal

Shaped vehicles that are extreme

To sit proudly as ornaments of success

And that ‘trophy beauty’

The ultimate prize

Can be embraced, paraded and caged

For others to ogle and envy

But, there is one thing that spoils

And over time

Even expensive treatments will fail

When honesty is lost

And foundations slip

Even taught, sculpted lines will err,

Faults and fissures creep

And the mask?

Well it will speak

View original post