Best Spavined Poems
darkness threatens
covers all
darkness threatens,
man's downfall
when comes the darkness
goes the joy
when goes the light
goes happy ploy...
...I dreamt a dream
just last night past
of a happy adventure we took
a subconscious repast
We took a ride, drove far away
we saw places bright, 'pon vistas we fawned
the places we went weren't far astray
from the place of my mind, tween dark and dawn
they weren't so great
we stayed not long
they felt like fate
from care we're gone
a strange old house a dark lone cabin
twas dark, deserted, a haunted place
with furnishings old and dusty, spavined
and in this house were you and me
alone and happy, from constraint free'd
And much else strange there of scenery
much that cannot be described
and much faded from memory
when I returned to the world of life
we stole through dens
and crept down halls
we stood and listened
and heard naught but own footfalls
then we stood in a moonlit room
and in crept the mist
we knew it would be soon,
dreams hold no risk
the light was soft
your eyes were bright
our die was cast
the dream devoured the night
we lay sometimes and spoke aloud
we walked a bit, to pass the time
there was no point yet to be found
yet we held hands, a lover's mime
the words were silent, voices muted
the feelings remained, undisputed
the caresses were warm, tender, knowing
the comfort strange, yet surely footed
when we laughed, with gazes locked
we stood in place, all worries stopped
when eyes met, we knew we'd missed
and gently leaned in, for our kiss
The heavy lead blocks
Feeling completely spavined
Ineluctable
Zymotic gulf like nihilism
Hollow skull starved
Explodes wherein of itself
The wells enlarge
And vomit happy
Under sunken stars
As Baryshnikov they
Perform deep under laps
Enveloped lightly and kingdom come
Pallid as an interwar prostitute
The ball in the stomach floating like a foetus
Intense maladies and ulcer-bile-black night skies
Cross-hair river bed
You could chase me if you
I know where the gunshots fire
I know all the exits
Brechtian how easy into slumbers
A real face to death is an occasional depression
A nightmare
after something I'd had,
a cowboy film,
the late-night news
and Cervantes at bedtime.
On a spavined jade
the last of all the cowboys
with lean shanks
astride gaunt flanks
rides down
to Death Valley.
The last of all the cowboys
has soon put paid
to enemy tanks
along Stygian banks
way down
Death Valley.
Ever onward they wade.
to the cowboy's last tune,
some joining the ranks,
some jumping off planks
Close-down, lockdown
at the last rally
in Death Valley.
I hope all this
was just a nightmare.
Thinking otherwise
I do not dare.
The Blackpool donkeys have given up
they have boarded jumbo jets
to be emotional support animals
for those lesser angels
that protect us wingless fliers.
They have opted out.
Once they used to plod from Blackpool pier
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying kids and also others
that drank beer as they heavily jogged along
their thighs clapping sore ribs.
In a dulled daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
backs spavined from gleeful bums and knees.
The sound of swishing waves
lulling eventually
into a sea-green batch of somnambulates.
When they could carry no more -
some were trucked away
to be neglected unto death.
Now the donkeys have retired themselves,
have changed form.
When not flying business class
they surfboard in Hawaii,
their Bermuda shorts billow widely
as if tailored for four-legs.
Those that once rode them
on that uncultured British beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
and hardly ever see a donkey,
but if they do
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobby spine
again bruising their sophisticated
time-worn tight bottoms.
Darkness coiled in the depths of the night.
Where shadows try to hide from your view.
The moon is a mirror reaching for the light.
Rattling on the doors grappling with the dew.
Cigarette rims on window ledges stub out edges.
The marred ghosts of fear misty file foul pass.
The well-known places on wrinkle old folks faces.
When your mind sees and grieves with the ashes.
Moister paint the shadow of your face in the sky.
And night continues impenetrable at a lively pace.
Unawares of the rage consigned conspicuous cry.
This hoary claim might charm all the living race.
Perils bring the way that rides the waves of death.
Turned all ends of pleasure into a darker season.
Freely flying thin into the dying fading breath.
Risky living dreaming of another set of reasons.
Deadly steer rides the night with spavined grey.
Journeying without remorse to throw the woes.
And try to catch a glimpse of the fleeting day.
That wishes to defeat time with all their prowess.
Darkness running along far flung into the night.
Black clouds filled the whole dome of the sky.
Grasp muffle decaying voices along the street.
Water nectar rain, wash, rinse, and balm the eye.
The Voltaire of space stars on a voyage in the clouds
Rival unquiet air shivers with unheeding tremor.
The changed atmosphere invites sleep into the crowds.
Binaries cover the city to make stragglers scatter.
The long night closes with a kiss in the frost.
Pale and fear as dear vintage sauvignon saint.
When the drink is in the wit, we see the rein of cost.
That holds the kingly feast of a mysterious variant.
From the porter’s view drink, is a jewel of the night.
Each keeps its way separate in the flames of desire.
And oozes away in the morning behind the sunlight.
In greater sanctity with dreadful eyes smiling in a fire.
When the dust of morning rises in the grassy skies.
The glint in your eyes, you dare not raise too high.
And risk the manor for how your honor applies.
When your mind likely knows, it holds a deeper sigh.
The Blackpool donkeys have given up,
they have boarded jumbo jets
as emotional support animals.
Once they used to plod between
the Blackpool piers
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying whooping kids and adults
as they heavily jogged along;
fat thighs clapping sore ribs.
In a dulled daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
backs spavined from gleeful bums and knees.
When they could carry no more -
they were trucked away
to be neglected unto death.
Now the donkeys,
when not flying business class,
surfboard in Hawaii,
their Bermuda shorts billow
as if tailored for four-legs.
Those that once rode them
on that uncultured English beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
never wishing to see a donkey,
but if they should come across one
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobby spine
again bruising those broad buttocks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
https://www.blackpoolgazette.co.uk/news/abused-donkeys-not-licensed-work-blackpools-beaches-572591
Feather-weighted by leagues of slumber
old beds reinventing themselves
as hammocks for the distilling
of sweat and foam
into an archive of dreams.
Sprung mattress’ sag like spavined camels,
or twist days and nights together
into sheets stuffed with mental laundry.
Some beds have fallen comatose,
Only to wilt on the branches of time
like boneless owls.
Beds keep their history recorded
in brain-stems, of a thousand
bodily impressions; underneath some,
old horror movies, and pornographic clips
are laid to rest.
A young boy jumps up and down on his bed.
One day he jumps very high,
when he lands he is a teenager. By his side
a young girl (both),
not knowing what to do next, until the bed
begins to whisper to them.
Higgins was the worst Math teacher,
and that year I was his worse student.
Higgins had loose blubbery lips.
When he taught long division or algebra
his words were full of spit
and phlegm.
Higgins had big feet and he carried a large
thick-soled sneaker
which he threw at slow thinkers
It hurt
especially if hit by it 3 times in one lesson,
especially since we had to pick the damn thing up
and hand it back to him
especially when he loomed over you glaring,
daring you to be a wiseass.
Higgins was really very big
his massive form always intimating
to young minds.
Mostly I just doodled his form
on my school math book.
Happy to flunk any test of his.
Once I drew him naked,
his fat backside bouncing on the back
of a spavined mule.
Underneath this masterpiece I wrote
'It hurts don't it?'
Sadly he had snuck up behind me
too late
I felt his hot breath
drooling down the back of my neck.
Higgins was hit by a bus,
but that was years later.
When I heard
I felt sorry for the bus.
Should I start at the middle
and spiral outward?
I mean I don’t know what I’m doing,
just winging it.
I’m going to need some colorless beads
for the scarecrow eyes
of raw memories.
This is more a mandala thing,
a montage of the still evolving.
Maybe I’ll add a few straw stick figures
to represent lost causes,
a few spavined horses and windmills perhaps?
Some snippets of old photos,
fragmented keepsakes from the unkempt
and fading.
Some scrimshawed marks
of misplaced love affairs,
a few scratched runes on a wishbone.
Moving outwards there are vows
and betrayals, I’ll brand these
onto scraps of yellow legal paper.
Beyond the sadness
there is joy, amity, and more love.
How do you represent such things
perhaps with cotton candy blobs,
with invisible ink,
with a rod calibrated
for measuring kismet?
More twists and gyrations.
I should stencil in a trapdoor or two
there will always be the unexpected.
Now maybe surround the whole thing
with autumnal leaf
but I will need more straw
for soft landings
soon I am going to fall off the edge
of this crude model of self-illustration.
I don’t think I can do this,
I see endings and not beginnings,
maybe I’ll just keep a journal.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
an edit
Old beds reinventing themselves
as hammocks for the distilling
of sweat and foam
into an archive of dreams.
Sprung mattress’ sag like spavined camels,
or twist days and nights together
into sheets stuffed with mental laundry.
Some beds have fallen comatose,
they wilt like boneless owls
in slumbering hollows.
Beds keep their history recorded
in the brain-stems of a thousand bodily impressions;
beneath lumpy mattresses horror movies clump,
and pornographic images are laid
timorously to rest.
A young boy jumps up and down on his bed.
One day he jumps very high,
when he lands he is a teenager. By his side
a young girl (both),
not knowing what to do next, until the bed
begins to whisper to them.
Old beds reinvent themselves,
as archived hammocks for the distilling
of sweat and foam.
Sprung mattress’ sag like spavined camels,
or twist days and nights together
into sheets stuffed with mental laundry.
Some beds have fallen comatose,
they wilt like boneless owls
in slumbering hollow.
A young boy jumps up and down on his bed.
One day he jumps very high,
when he lands, he is a teenager. By his side
a young girl,
both not knowing what to do next,
until the bed
begins to whisper to them.
Before light’s encroaching
Beams, across wavelengths
Of glints, in between yawning
Protocols of waking,
The cocks strike a redundant
Note.
Choked by their own sensitive
Yodelling spree, muted by
Spittle of outstretched, moaning
Clouds, frayed and piqued by
The lusts of flying machines,
Hours stretch on rubber’s speed.
The rain is a common spiv, holding
On the crests of soaking waves
Upon night’s purloined
Sleep.
On the roof, the rain pelts
With energy, hunting the
Fire-caked degree of heat,
Insufferable to the dictates
Of yelling protests.
Faint mirrors of earliness hang
Loose on frescoes of heaven, peeking
Through serrated drapes above
Window panes. And these, like neighing,
Spavined horses, wake
Memories of puking slumber...
And the hours of dimmed contours
Stretched. And the lilt from the
Pluvial melody humbles the
Insomnia monody, drummed
Into the silence of fastened hedonism.
No sunrise within the grey
Patterns of veiled clouds...
Cocks’ crows, subsumed within
This muffled protocols, become
Distant trumpets of varieties,
Preening themselves of the usage
Of establishing culture.
Allah, Allah, Allah! ! !
The presence became fixed!
At the very hour of the cocks’ choir,
When piddling gathers the froth of
First waking with the grogginess
Of drunken dreams, the muezzin
Reads out the laws....
From the jungle chambers, elated
Spirits from pricked ears and
Rising furs soothe the voice,
Arched, raised and powered
Even to the birth of essences and
Dehiscing of inscrutable
Energies of efflorescences.
Allah, Allah, Allah!