Watching from behind
The vibracrete wall
Watching for the
Coins to fall
Butterflies in the tummy
But I'm not about to stall
Me and the boys up to mischief
As I watched the game machines fall
Hacking it with crowbars
Watching for the coins to fall
As they fall everyone grabs their share
Everyone gets their fill
Pockets full of money
We bought a bag of late harvest wine
With mixer drink ginger beer
Man I was more than just tipsy
I was as drunk
As a skunk
Nevertheless I had fun
Because I was
watching from behind
The vibracrete wall
Watching for the
Coins to fall
I remember my cousin so adventurous
Carpe Diem was the way he lived
In the fast lane his motive was obvious
Now without him life is
One big cul de sac
Back then I drank Tip Top
For the first time
our mixer
was Drink O’ Pop
This came tipping arcade game machines
Over with crowbars and looting the coins
When I came home
on holidays from boarding school
I heard Eon was chewed by an Alsatian
On the thigh he boxed at him
What was a laugh
Doors grind at his own thighs
By not listening to his dad
His mom took a jab at his pride
Asking jokingly did you try
to cut of your birdie?
Hee hee !
Drunk like a skunk
Falling in slump
Gosh when I think about you cuz
It brings back a lump…
Damn solar flares made me freak out
Swallow my gum and make me choke
Up the proverbial creek without a paddle
Think I soiled my jockeys, no joke
Envisioned I was going to lose all my data
Doomsday was hanging over my head
My sweetie hid the crowbars and hammers
Feared I'd bash my head until dead
Turned out to be not quite that serious
Lost the Internet for just a couple of hours
Happened when I was having some fun
Curled up in the corner and cowered
But I'm okay now, thank you for asking
Though I'll probably never be quite the same
Now I back up stuff every twenty-three seconds
Modern technology's a scary game
Rough Landscape
In my mind the landscape of Guernica features high on the many
crowbars to unmask that inner prison of conscience and humanity
So many scenes of destruction with no predominant hierarchy of evil
no glass ceiling of guilt so many tapestries of loving lives abandoned
A museum piece in Madrid with no doubt yet an exhibition of madness
displayed on the altar of what we as people have become and behold
Life would not have me nor would I have my life if my father had not
escaped what now is Kaliningrad on one of the last boats ‘cross the sea
As a German court has decreed soldiers are murderers and my Dad
has therefore been one of those martial slayers in history’s temple
There is not much left of the City of Prussian ambition and blasts
from the past just mainly a naval harbour and renegade socialist pride
A rebuilt cathedral and memories of amber and marzipan shared but
I hear Hitler Youths shouting their ‘Heils’ in absurd pubertal screams
For my own sanity and resolution of trans-generational disgrace I need
to visit my beginnings to start telling the story how to scape inner Peace
01st May 2017
When a poet writes, the past has been opened,
pried at with crowbars and curiosity
He reaches,
pulling strands of words and metaphors from cracked corners of faint memories.
Ink pouring from old feather tips.
With lights up all night long, he forgets life is time
darkness circles around his eyes creating an umbra of unwanted sleep
Rhythms grow rapidly, beats pounding, head throbbing.
He is one with the background music
He has loved to much,
pouring light and sudden gaiety onto pages of stripped truth
he has left his heart on paper.
but a poet does not miss what’s gone,
for the book is not yet done.
They don’t know how it ends
Or even how it started
Hugging the darkness of night
An un-sober mind spins
for when a poet writes, the past has been opened
and the present stops.
Remote from the equator, remote from all light
Lie victims in the hands of an angry man
Who sees law as wet clay, who sees the will of the people not at all
And the spring rainshower of life’s bounties as crowbars
The glory of one man erected like a pyramid upon bullet-riddled bodies and graves
An infidel, casting a midnight fog over the landscape
A black-magic sorcerer, spouting ancient wickedness and spells of confusion
Commanding an army patriotically blinded to all but the dark light
Immolating their countrymen for a moment of warmth
Raping their wives for a moment of pleasure
Sacrificing their country so he might be their king in the moment before its fall
History will set them on Libra’s ethereal scale next to devils and hobgoblins
And other fantastical beings of evil
They will be cursed in the name of a holier authority
Mountaintall bears will rend every ligament of their being
To the smallest indivisible jots
In this life or another
In the bleeding shadows threading ***** and deft
Along and above corridors painted white and green,
Fluorescents flickered in their moth-brushed bowls,
And the madness and sweet anguish seethed unseen.
It was felt in the bones of the new and the old,
The creeping electric bristle of marrow and moss,
Sucking like leeches on the calcium and the blood,
Until the ligaments and plasma were nocturnal candyfloss.
Stole by the winds, the whisperings of the grave,
Uttered earthen verses, muttered fever of neurosis,
And the crowbars in the eyeballs of those who slept unsound
Soon let them dream again in a crystal meth psychosis.
Asylum gargoyles spewed their eternal gushing rain
From out of mouths wide open and torrentially agape,
Until the drains were flooding with the sewage of despair
And the land beyond the walls held only death as an escape.
In the clinic by the lamp a needle glinted in the light,
Hypodermic glowing amber, loaded with paraldehyde,
And the king of all insanity, now driven mad by ghosts,
Shot it up until the death, until by his own hand he died.