Ha

Ha. pic for poem

 

 

 

I look at me

with my ego smeared

the shared history between my eyes

in that smudge on glass that was once

hot

breathing shallow now, the heat

on simmer

where once it bubbled I am confronted

with a lurk

a knowing look – maladroit

that has replaced the complacent years

where all that milk and honey was spent

what I imagine now

is the drool

overlapping and seeping – cruel

my vanity exposed – my fate

made me look, made me stare

a childish dare and then a prank

gone sour

cracked vision on the wall

tired of taunts

I’m going to embark on a course

of self-improvement – nutrients

make me look, make me stare

a childish response, vanishing in thin air

Ha

I am the news

I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve

In sufferance

sear suitable for both sides of a debate.1

 

a man lounges across a seat

his entitlement there for all to see

the langour so natural

bred from a line that seeks only

to suborne the common man

and in that cameo his cause may be lost

to an epic mistake

exposed by a yawn with his class etched

on a bench that history will detest

the moment noted as he would have it;

“mark my words”

and all the screaming echoes of derision go

to the wind and hound him

forever more

forever less

in the face of the common man who knows irony

as we are all embroiled in the fate

of  Europe’s union of nation states

man of the world

swiss army knife

 

she’s going up to do the do

I’m not the man this house should have

the bathroom lights are on the blink

and I’m downstairs making coffee

 

she comes down and looks for tools ( avoiding me )

goes under the stairs and turns off the juice

goes back up armed with a torch

and I’m down here stirring coffee

 

it’s quiet now, no doubt dark upstairs

though there are noises and a commotion

then she returns confused

it’s a mystery, annoying  but she’s put them back

 

so I’m sat here in the error of my ways

not quite composed because she

‘heart’s beating wings’

will come back to me with more energy

 

more things to do because “you know”

the dog won’t walk itself

the washing is in a pile and dust

accumulates with a vigour we must contest

 

these Bank Holiday week-ends

are such a treat and

the weather is a bonus but still it’s best that I

maintain a low profile when anything is to be said or done.

Tips on self-improvement

I'll keep an eye on you

 

eradicate – eradicate

Dalek like they make

shots at redemption

identify – identify

those areas at risk

make clean sweeps

I have a plan

I’ll adopt a mantra

move on and grow

but I wonder

because I have been fit

but fit for what

and  where do the guru’s get their tips and how

do they maintain their virtue

when most of us identify with greed

and watch the news and slide

toward a listless nadir

strung out on disappointments

I’ve heard the exhortations of revivalists

who chant, goggle-eyed and sweating

for us to chase a rainbow

with imprecations to mystify the clogged arteries

and sticky tendons of the unfit

because I have been fit

but fit for what

unleashing desire

spawning acolytes in lycra

trim and taut and virtuous

yet deep down I know

the Dalek shouts to troops

who goose step in unison

along a road I am bound

to meet them on

Anony – Mouse ( party animal )

Light and shape

 

lost on the fringes of a tumult

the hot air rising as a shroud

above contagion

this party is a swarm that I apparently

am-a-part-of

though that ( my imaginary friend )

is problematic because

though I am invisible my head is telling me quite the reverse

that I throb amongst them  –  a lighthouse

intermittently spraying light upon their gathering

inviting comments yet somehow repelling them too

I am anti-matter

words drown in me as I suck at pleasantries

my teeth elide with one another in a rictus, not a smile

engaging with yet another co-reveller

who senses in me the genus of a germ

airborne, not entirely dangerous

but worth, well

worth avoiding

and this my ( imaginary ) friend

is just the start

even before intoxication alters the scales

and my paranoia settles in, warming to the task

of further reducing me – as a chef would a sauce

to the point where I am piquant

an offering so humbled I would prefer

to be quite simply elemental

and rest in a heavenly quiet

that becomes a prophecy

and then like air

be gone

whispers

whispers. pic

 

the voice is

a stretch

a cord, a line

not taut it spans time

it is a lament

unfolding from the quay

a ship’s hawser, thick fibres worn

uncoiling under pressure

an umbilical cord still intact

calling soft murmurs that echo

in the cave of a living history

and metaphors are all we have

for loss

the voice is

a cord, a line

a semblance of everything

that was ever mine

lost in darkness

even lost in smiles

the learned lies

the unnecessary loss

and grief

burning spires, artefacts

rust on beauty

and the death of stars

which has all been the daily news

on a loop that is

my loop and

the voice is

a stretch

a cord, a line