kind of weird

cartridges for partridges
hunting dogs for wily fox
wire snares for sprinting hares
metal chains for dancing bears
thar she blows for breaching whales
garlic oil for garden snails
eeny, meanie, messy moles
shooting rhinos with crossbows
fishing tackle, slitting throats
sacrificing billy gruff goats
throw our plastic in the sea
top it up with poo and pee
budgies, parrots, love birds too
stick ’em in a cage will do
factory farms for pigs and cows
cages for the calves and sows
I don’t know where I’m heading here
but mankind sure acts kind of weird

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anchoring

weighing up the pros and cons
like an old sea dog becalmed in
foggy doldrums wondering
will this old ship’s anchor save
my house from drifting away or
will it secure the captain of his ship
and save him from himself?

i can’t help but be interested in
my own flesh and blood fate
seen through an eye of a needle
held between cracking skin as
storms lash the ripping mainsail
and spittle and spray coat my beard
– i’m on fire in this freezing hell

but no-one can hear my whimpering
i’m like an old dog kicked in the guts
coughing blood in the gutter under
a parching dockland sun where iron
casts shadows for sleeping dogs to lie
and where the pros and cons gather for
due consideration in pools of oily light

some stories are meant to be written . . .

in a darkened room I caress my skull
a weight of words is bound in books there
some unread, some read, some read twice
some lost, some rediscovered, some . . .
my thoughts lie hidden upon these shelves
drifting between ancients and moderns
not knowing the origins of their species . . .
am I to disturb them in their sleep?
or should I leave sleeping letters lie?
some stories are meant to be written
like the one about the cat in the cemetery
the cat that appears only once a year
but goes unnoticed when the sisters come
to pray for the father they never loved . . .

Papa?

Papa?
why do the gods hate us so?

they rain fire down on us from the mountain
send giant waves to flood our shores

the earth shakes and the crops fail
and every year we have to move our home

why do the gods hate us so?
Papa?

slide away

the past is now a million years away
falling faster than a billion tears today
but that’s okay I can let it all slide away
a million billion words can only mean
. . . there’s really nothing left to say
but now it all comes flooding back to me
in blues and blacks and purple greys
the bruises of a child who went astray
his love a fading summer golden ray
. . . there’s really nothing left to say
the future will likely come back to stay
haunting for each millisecond of the day
the present binding me in clods of clay
. . . there’s really nothing left to say

PICT0123a

 

blood and milk

your body spurted blood and milk
I understood none of that
to me you were my mother earth
to others just a vassal
I wept when they raped you
your lush folds defiled and burnt
I swam in your salty tears
leant my head against your soft breasts
when once long ago you held my hand
as we wandered through your lands
you taught me all the songs I needed
that welled from springs and hopes
but now I walk these paths alone
there is no love left to share
only bitter pills to swallow
and the memory of your flesh

give peace a chance

we remember our dead
we pay them respect
but the road that we tread
we have to reject

you choose red or white
it’s your chosen voice
you pay your blood money
you makes your own choice

but choose neither one
take a different side
no bombs and no guns
our world pacified

a fight that’s worth winning
borne from circumstance
we’re silently hoping
to give peace a chance

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l’art pour l’art

opened the curtains
what did I see?
a Henry Moore statue
looking back at me

but which was the back?
and which the front?
and how did it get here?
this bronzed art stunt

I closed the curtains
went back to bed
thought about Henry
dreamt of Braque instead