these ‘things’

I place these ‘things’ within me
not for any healthy purpose you understand
and mostly unintentionally
but in they go to find a way
to make a home in some dark nook
or cavernous cranny

stay as mini-migraines why not
or boiling lava lakes within my gut
yes it’s up to me to sort them out
to shout them down and diminish
their potential to wreak havoc
but it doesn’t always work that way

as I am sure you are well aware

once, when I was walking along a remote roadside
I glimpsed a wild animal hide behind a rock
it knew that I knew that each of us were waiting
for the other to move first
yet somehow that creature melted away in the heat
and came to rest within me

and further into my journey
I came across the remains of an eagle
its feathers magnificently spread across the tarmac
a discarded headdress from a fallen hero
once galloped off into a desert sunset
brave and fearless

unlike myself you understand

still storing all these ‘things’ after all these years
souvenirs and postcards from the past
red lipstick kisses on green envelopes
portraits of the poet as a young man
miniatures of finely painted thoughts
in foreign climes

there is an end to this tiresome conversation
as the wind blows through open corridors
I take the hand of an imaginary friend
and we walk barefoot across sand dunes
each step is a word left unspoken
each word left unspoken is peace at last

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Mother fed us plastic today

Mother fed us plastic today
cut up into bite-sized pieces
she mixed it with some fish
to make the dish go further
because times were hard
since Father had drowned
the squall that took him under
one wild and windy day
left us but a single parent family
adrift on the gyre of uncertain seas

victims of fashion

the fashion trend of skinny jeans
makes no sense for overweight teens

except perhaps to mock and remind
what fun our youth have left behind

and now their futures can be seen
through portals of smartphone screens

a flock of sheep following fake dreams
everything today is what it seems

the party’s over, the songs all sung
a bitter taste to coat the tongue

with debt, pollution, global warming
is it time for them to dress in mourning?

 

inspired by ‘Generation Gap, Next…’ by Jane Bozian
https://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=73888

Love Bus

All aboard the famous love bus
There’s room for you and me
We’ll drive right to the end of time
To see what we can see

The driver is a friend of mine
His name is Mr Blue Jay Way
He’ll take us to the moon and back
So climb on board today

IMG_1036a

literaturicide

on a boat
in a drunken rage
cursing waves
my enemies
my friends
I is another
I is someone else
we holler
we list together
in empty peals
death knells chime
freezing sails
I is another
I is someone else
now sung in sleep
estranged we are
fore and aft
mizzen jiggered
spirits flown
I is another
I is someone else
with flailing arms
below to sink
the silent curse
that is to be
to be another
to be someone else

 

 

Mr Realisto

We see your pictures, the ones you post
in groups or themes like memory banks
the naked women with guns and dogs
erotic, quixotic, hypnotic, far fetched
the blow your brains out faked up gifs
the bra strap snapping tattooed breasts
and all the while you hide behind your
anonymous mask – a devil, a deviant
a twister of truths who tells it like it is
the way we see the world through a lens
one minute pukingly cute, the next
blood, guts, war and the birth of a child
forever questioning our resolve, our
whatever it is that feeds our curiosity
imaginations ripe as pomegranate flesh
in black and white, in colour, animated
we take it any which way with ease
with each question mark, rolling dice
our fingers manipulate and hover over
a woman with a freakishly forked tongue
a Turkish peasant banging a drum
a stoning, a kitten, a starving man and on
it’s endless and we can’t get enough
we can’t get enough, we can’t get
enough of this endless stuff.

 

Junk

the junk of generations
lies underneath us
buried out of sight
until one day we root around
with good intentions
hoping to find clues from the past
to ease our present predicaments
but in reality
all we do is produce more junk
to cover the old
for out of sight
is out of mind

On Mending a Broken Morphy Richards Bread Making Machine or The Importance of Order on the Assembly Line

I am determined to reassemble
each and every last component
despite the slight misalignment
of the inner metal casing
which delays the completion
of this most intricate of repair jobs
for which I did not possess
the requisite tools.

On the assembly line
order is of the utmost importance
the workstation neatly arrayed
with plastic boxes full of screws and things
the worker attired in anti-static clothing
armed with specially designed magnetic gadgets
mouth and hair religiously covered
in a sterile air-conditioned factory.

I am in effect paying homage
to all those millions of consumer servants
who toil with robotic repetitiveness
solely for our end user benefit
by taking apart and marvelling
at the ingenuity and complexity
of putting together all that makes up
a Morphy Richards bread making machine.

It’s been several days now
completion and closure is imminent
the slipped timing gear belt persuaded back into position
that final misaligned casing hole corrected
the offending screw twisted into place
(using a slightly worn Phillips screwdriver I might add)
and with a sigh of self-congratulatory satisfaction
I plug it in and press the ‘on’ button.

As it whirrs back into obedient life
I come across a 6 minute 20 second YouTube video on
‘How to replace a belt in a Morphy Richards bread machine’
and wonder, do I dare watch it now, or
should I have watched it before starting this journey
into the unknown world of small kitchen appliance repair?
a subject on which I am plainly not qualified as a poet
to either contemplate or attempt.