Lavenders “allure,”
they “lure” bees, butterflies, folk,
toxic air immune,
flower on spike, fragrant vent,
evergreen shrub in svelte perfume
dilute blob oe’r skin,
red blotches, wrinkles, acne,
stoma clogs clean flush,
witch hazel spoon scoop fold in,
with mauve plant a face fillip
Sweet, spiced and salty,
courses, with subtle mint hint,
wild herb a chef’s boon,
its honey glaze gels with greens,
or muffins, waffles, ice cream
Paint smears and blotches
look below the surface
artworks elegance
Who am I?
Am I the glittering pink eyeshadow pallet I crave?
Or is my sparkle dimmed by the hurt that swims amongst dull green
and fading tanned blotches on my face?
Can they see through my veil,
Through the very thing I am not?
I look at my old hand
Blotches of liver spots, slow-running blood vessels
Delivering old blood so I can fold my hands
Once they caressed a woman`s body, who moaned
And my hands were firm
Women used to see me and smile, but now I walk
The earth unobserved and words become a long silence.
If I tell you how much I miss making love
to sit in the park with a girl and see the moon while
smoking cigarettes, inhaling its promise of love to come
The aroma of her hair, the smoothness of her thighs
to kiss her libido and drink her sweet water, her legs
Apart, she has given herself to me.
Asleep, enfolded we are, tomorrow is far away.
My old hands remember so much, I bow my head and try
to inhale from my hands what once was
It is all so hopeless, and soon enough I will be dead.
She left at the yawn of dawn
Between fog-densed waking hour
And rain-soused grey morning.
Veiled, her image was laced in silhouette.
She stood behind the fog-rain, a dark
Painting, sketched in black crayons of
Languor.
Her breath, one streak of ink
Of a satanic fresco on a dingy subway.
And the breath of the rain was heavy,
Brewed in hauteur -
So was the world between us two,
Lame and proscribed.
She wandered through flighty directions.
Grouches filled her lugubrious lungs,
Blotches on the sludged track, echoing
Her slouch.
She was one mass of trembling grief.
I was one hulk of ruinous pain.
Between us, the funeral of love.
Threnodies held court on the once soft
Yolk of hugs that sensitized an ageing
Romance.
Dawn darkened with the pulse of grief
Rain pelted the senses held by solemn
Consternations, recreating a fruitless
Void of hollow trepidations.
She lurched and sidled towards the
Crag-lined route, towards earth’s drooling
Beck... and I knew the funeral
Was over.
Towards the thaw
As the days of spring are here, I should be happy having made it through the winter. The April breeze brings regret, remembering what had been pushed aside, no, I was no mother’s favorite son
Recalling every detail, overthinking every word said, reacting with angry silence as a defense to hurts felt as a betrayal. No, I was not a sweet boy happily playing in a backyard with a toy
The spring breeze also tells me of an ending, my doctor’s remark of scaring bathers with dark blue blotches on my white body, it is like the process of death has begun when still alive
My anger keeps me going. I was dealt a pack of cards and did my best, bought the small blue houses on the monopoly board the affordable ones. I have no regrets and wait in silence
Blaggard blaming the blond bloke for his blight:
Blablabla, bluster and bleat, blathering
Blob, your blue blood bleeds blotches on a black
Blossom. Blaspheme, blabber—I blast your bluff.
My skin has become like sandpaper
Blotches showing up everywhere
A pimple resides at the end of my nose
Some areas have unwanted hair
What 's happening to this body of mine
Seems it's just about falling apart
Ankles are swollen to twice their size
Been expelling a whole lot of farts
It's referred to as the ageing process
Is this what's in store from now on
No more of this sleeping to noon
Always up at the crack of dawn
Needing to pee three times a night
My back teeth are floating around
Cramps in my legs are driving me nuts
And my PJs keep falling down
A hell of a mess this ageing process
Not a damn thing a person can do
Hang in there my friends, it won't be long
The grim reaper will be calling you soon!
Look at the clouds in the sky above
Puffy, vaporous, fluffy stuff,
Ephemeral, illusionary, ever-changing
A moving mass, reshaping before our eyes.
Billowing blotches spreading like
ink on blotting paper, soaking in,
imbibing a recall of inward reflections
that perspective can change sides,
change viewpoints in time and space
near and far, old and new,
up and down, side to side,
rocking to and fro,
for the spell of clouds lies
in their illusions,
on which we dwell.
The Lady of the Night
Alone, Luna dominates the sky,
glowing from Sol’s reflected light.
Her mares, dark blotches set
against the white light.
She is the queen of the night sky,
full face proudly displayed.
Strange things are said to happen
when she rides her chariot across the sky.
Wolves utter
lonesome cries.
Cursed individuals take the
form of the werewolf.
Humans go stark raving
mad.
We have physically touched her face
six times.
We have found her to be a harsh mistress
with no room for error.
She attracts our attention like no
other night figure.
We will return, she is that gilded
lady that beckons us.
We cannot stay away.
The morning's tide of light filters through low-hanging branches
outside the window
entering a room to spread across wrinkled skin
covered in brown blotches
on the arms of an old man lying in a bed of shadows
the world inside his window is dim-lit and solemn
the world outside his window is bright and filled with life
children loudly laughing, birds chirping
both bring a sense of peace and reflection
and are a nice distraction from the constant flood of memories
that drown his mind with too many thoughts of yesterday
in the light of dawn comes a stillness
he embraces
as his days have grown tired and long
the day ends as the last light of life becomes frozen
• Don't be shy
• Have a bite
• You're new here
• So it's only right
• Bare your fangs
• Sink them in
• Pay no mind to the blotches on the skin
• Feel free to taste the blood drawn
• It's good for the undead soul
• Take your time when chewing
• Don't swallow the bones whole
There lies the remains of the day
stiff and clammy cold, in rigor mortis.
Did it die of its own accord?
Is the killer still at large?
Did it die accidentally when no one cared?
What were you and I doing at the time?
Do we have an alibi that will stand up in court?
What motive could we have for killing this day.
Does anyone believe that you or I did it?
The long shadows are like fingerprints and DNA
that you can trace back to who done it.
The setting sun highlights the blood splatters
in red stains and blotches which we cannot erase.
There are footprints and traces we've left everywhere.
Why did this day have to die so soon?
When we have so few left to harpoon.
pitter patter drips drops and plops
blathers blatters splatters sploshes and drips
bitter twitter twatters and twaddles, flips and flops
chitter chatter babbles claptrap baas and blahs
slithering sliding slues, slips and skips
blotches mottles splotches and spots scars and mars
splutter flutter splatter clatters, a kick-started motorcar
crunched cracked munched and punched the whacked gears strips
hipping and hopping, skipping and bop bop bopping, we're not going far
Boomers from here to anon,
What turned us all on?
Our blue jeans of love,
Marched for peaceful doves,
Sun baking for brown.
Skin blotches do cast frown,
Our denim survives,
Silvers staying alive,
So far, so good, I'm stating,
Freckles still proliferating,
Feeling young never grows old,
We're boomers, do be told!
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