Find myself horrified by
modernity
maybe I really am getting older
the words we say
those plastic smile
delinquents with too wide eyes
maybe all too well and I’ve
lost myself to it
the vodka no longer does
protest and the butter smooth
that doesn’t seem to mind the
hour of the day
asbestos mouth and flint stoned feet
with hands like a saw mill vice
if they let me rot I will
you never really get old till you start
cruching on asprin with
black coffe at 3am
not thats its what old people do
all ways just lead
further into the woods
I’m up I’m up I scream to
no one in particular
alarm clock is in pieces on the floor and
I’ll need to patch that dry
wall add it to the list
Allegory illusion
Misconstrued contusions
Clouded mind mental block
heartbeat stops
10 inch asbestos floor tile
~
1940's steps gone wild
Making perfect sense, making it very clear
Daunting doubting rainbows, Blended in the new atmosphere
Atomic bombarded Warfare debonair
World War 111 we're all out
bottles broken and empty
just like your promises
emphasis on empty
because that's all that you left me
so for me to fill your cup again, like the fool I am
would forever leave a stain on my honor as an honest man
like planting a seed in a puddle of boiling mud and bubbling concrete
I will no longer feed your hate for me
by being your tree
barren
so you shall receive
an empty plot of land
and eat the tumors we left behind,
blooming with asbestos
and bear the scars meant for me
Loyalty symbols to one’s ancestors,
Who never saw yesterday’s asbestos,
Heard not of China’s radio transistors,
Let alone U.S Trousers Investors…
What one puts on and with every passage
Releases an historical message:
Their patrons Advertizing Passers-by,
In robes they would not want to tell “Goodbye…”
The wears that bodies cover at less cost,
No fears of the seduced eyes being lost,
Yet, while Traditional Clothes are quite cheap,
Money-saving users have had to weep,
Rather few by the next fellow approached,
Save the bold planner to have them reproached;
“Heh you stop there Grossest Masquerade…”
A prompt warning against bringing off raid;
And emergency flights in them quite hard,
When killers appear one has played Bad Card.
Unlike the Famous Five,
with capers, japes and adventures,
boats and well stocked picnics, we lived
a back street life. With a sock and masking tape ball
and mucky fat sarnies.
The Family Allowance Five.
Each one of us an extra pound.
With facsimile school photos,
in hand me down jumpers and carving knife tread pumps,
floorboard cricket bat and under the bed air rifle.
Crab apple scrumping and tresspassing for mushrooms,
rabbitting before school,
paper round before school,
milk round before school.
Everything came before school.
Sunburnt scoundrels but "never any bother"
Corrugated asbestos roof walkers.
Cinema ticket hawkers.
Unseen, inconsequential, together but apart.
No roots or football boots.
Hot pot bollocks.
One foot here one foot there.
Immigrants finding their way,
but without the ginger beer.
Some years from now
the Devil throws a banquet –
In hell, of course – where he alone
unquestionably rules:
A banquet table plated for
greedy fools: to his right,
Barack seated; with Hilary at
his heated left; Bidden,
unable to tell where he is –
so after a brief, delirious spell,
decides himself quite content
with just the odious, strangely
familiar smell – Hunter doing some
cooking – agents told to shy
from looking – ordered not to
allow lawful booking:
Pelosi and Schumer,
for the first time
realizing themselves entirely
powerless...yet, hopelessly
addicted to procuring votes,
hotly plot how to send
the Squad copious
asbestos notes – His Majesty
offers them, another plate of
hot coals, with a side-dish of
charred souls – some fur lined
totes, to go with stylish
Arctic coats –
Tourist to the sun.
Fired-up for take-off,
wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect,
I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold.
Wing walker without a rope,
hurtling to the light fantastic,
untethered.
First to sign up
to step off the map;
where even the silvery surface is marked by dark spots;
even the brightest star is already dead.
With outstretched arms I
surrender to the sun,
glide, star-shaped, licked by flicking tongues of flame,
into the white-hot core;
white heat devouring sound,
eclipsing time,
searing conscience and
annihilating thought.
Not arrogance that brings me here,
but fear.
The elemental need to fly, unfettered,
to pilot my own craft;
to pierce reality,
and seek the truth behind it,
and, in seeking, half expect to find it.
And thus, avoiding bird-strikes,
negotiate safe water-landings
when at last I am earthbound;
within my hand,
a brand to fire my piece of earth’s story
when I return
scorched and burned.
Warning Labels
I remember the eighties, common sense and smarts
big hair and jeans were just part of the arts
there was lead in our paint and asbestos on the floor
if you talked back to Mom your butt would get sore
gas was flammable, a little spark could start a flame
if you got burned by your coffee, only you were to blame
we had Ma and Pop shops, and the cassette recorder
there were no warning labels on everything you would order
ineptness has grown, with technology and time
with so many machines, there are fewer hills to climb
there are bumps and bruises on every street corner
a burn or a scrape should not be a foreigner
I don’t think warning labels are the correct tool
we should peel them all off and improve our gene pool
everyone falls, get up and brush yourself off
Let’s bring back common sense and get rid of the scoff
Martians, they don’t live here
Even astronauts keep clear
Residing though in darkest places
Charred: the eyebrows on their faces
Up from underground they creep
Resembling small asbestos sheep
Yikes they bleat at red hot feet
11 May 2021
Contest: Planet Acrostic
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
[first stanza for Planet contest]
Martians, they don’t live here
Even astronauts keep clear
Residing though in darkest places
Charred: the eyebrows on their faces
Up from underground they creep
Resembling small asbestos sheep
Yikes they bleat at red hot feet
*
Meat and veg are not prolific
Eat it if it’s calorific
Roast Mercurian rat... horrific
Chance a glance and risk the heat
Usually, not much to eat
Rare, the morsel overlooked
Yet what there is... is over cooked
***
Many miles through space to Venus
Earth is far more space between us
Risk those Martians haven’t seen us
Cruise by Jupiter and Saturn
Uranus ain't what you’re sat on
Rush past Neptune on to Pluto
Yup, a planet... shows what you know
The Candlemaker’s Office
was sparsely filled.
The worn brass door knob —
a patina
countless hands
slipping over its surface,
polished and discolored
by each touch.
That oak door —
turning my wrist
lean into it
fighting the rub
door against frame
hearing single pane glass
rattle —
I’d pushed through.
His wall —
dirty darkened oak
framed a wall of glass
allowing The Candlemaker
to gaze
upon
people
machine
if he chose —
yet his view
on equal footing
not elevated
a humble oversight.
Flooring —
off-white asbestos
set in squares
dark from factory dirt
moved by the feet of workers.
A lone green metal desk —
flanked by a single gray file cabinet:
adding machine,
rotary phone,
worn desk blotter,
barometer,
a nameplate
should you not know who he was.
Similar version previously published by Ink, Sweat and Tears 2019
sometimes i howl at every palpitation of your heartbeat
sometimes i growl at every word that you do not hear due to cell phone asbestos
i cringe when you put things in places where cannot find it
i binge when you build a wall between you and the affection in which i crave
when all colors fused
i remember the waterfalls when they were creamy
when all juices blended
i remember the rolling hills when they were dreamy
the aftermath of the beforehand merges in between because they can
the innovations and relations inspire many due to the unique form of elation
the chaos dissipates and the birds chirp to that song by bobby day
it makes me want to slide to the left and push all negativity to the right of dismay
another days goes by and i am dizzy from wonder and awe
how lovely it would be if i could suck the cherry flavored part of life through a straw
i guess i'll go to my office now and skinnydip in the plastic bubbles of my imagination
until my friends acscend from the pen again, i'll continue to reluctantly sin until i win
HAUNTED HOUSE
In haunted log house lived Micky macro mouse
with Mini, his spouse and cousin large louse.
Once I ventured to peep and enter
as carpenter in severe winter.
to fix broken latch but Dino tried to catch
me to snatch my tools and sat on egg to hatch.
From roof of asbestos crawled down Octopus.
Swooped vulture valorous, horrifying notorious.
Eight eyes of black widow sparkled through wide window
Moon cast ghostly shadow on feral bushes in meadow.
Weird witch cunning most sitting with scary ghost
eating rotten mutton roast and burnt butter toast.
Violent viper always hyper, shedding tears,
‘I love you’ to whisper close to my ears.
Champion jumper vampire came to inspire
gifting me a shiny sapphire, me about to expire.
09/26/19
First Place
'All yours (June 27) Contest by Brian Strand
Walking down streets paved in blue-tinted bricks,
Past shuttered-up shops and rust-covered picks.
Mums push their prams, faces heavy with doubt,
Eyes on the pavement, just trying to tough it out.
Charity stores sell the rich people's wares—
Cast-offs in corners, dreams sold in pairs.
Old factories smashed, turned to homes overnight,
Yet asbestos still whispers its long toxic bite.
Fathers now gone, lost to cancers and means,
Their stories forgotten in capitalist schemes.
Schools overflowing with tongues from afar,
Kids dreaming in dialects under the same star.
The great British dream lies torn up in tatters,
Drowned in false promises spilling from chatters.
By ministers blind to the mess that they’ve spun,
Still chasing their “progress” while we come undone.
Like the rays of days, coming from the holes of my asbestos
In my nights of dream, such character you become
Like the dust floats randomly along the rays, the illusionary shapes
Ditto! you appear prominent before my dreams fade
At the arrival of dawn!
Like the sand trickled through the neck of my hourglass
In interlaced neurons of my brain, such memory you are
Like the sand slips from one bulb to the other, for every inversion's
Ditto! your memory traverse in my head for all tosses and turns
In my sleeping hours!
~Ashok Kumar Mishra
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