Cannons sing where dreams ignite,
flanks ablaze in shifting fury.
A tide of hunger drives them forward,
bellies growling, eyes shot with fire.
Empire surges in their veins.
Pervitin hums a dark rhapsody.
Dive bombers scream their discord,
night and day, tearing silence apart.
Blood is absent from their tongues
only steel, only ash remains.
They roll, ruthless, through broken shadows,
flattening all under their sharp wheels.
Fortifications crumble like wet paper,
the enemy whispers swallowed whole.
Nothing stands; all things fall.
Shock trips, outflanking chaos reigns.
Victory tastes of burnt iron,
a bitter kiss of almost-complete empire.
War dreams devour the sky with noise,
and dusk ascends in violent, silent reverence.
In a star-crushed night
something rammed the side of my flanks
woke to an impish leak
trying to suckle the life out of me.
Then there was a black water silence.
It's not like bad karma to suddenly drift away,
so beneath my leaking float
the rammer will probably stay.
Early morning was spent bailing and patching
luring the silver shoals of hope within range
bailing and patching
nibbling and napping
obsessing
prodding the sharkness away-
Quiet day
no breeze-not even one little wave
a hot brain day
missing my chatty gull friend today,
maybe I was supposed to be its sacrifice.
Launched the final flare at a fancy yacht mirage
filled with cheap bikinis and plush caviar-
I rolled over the dream breakers, into the yellow morning
Quite late for work.
you cannot remember white shores of summer
and the metallic taste of the sea on your flanks
and the air opaque with the dazzle of noon
you cannot remember the wine that gleamed like a snake in the sun
and the boats nuzzling the hot pier
and the emphatic simplicity of their message
the urgent peal of the cicada has been quite lost to you
and the sleepy eyes of the horizon late in the day
and the loneliness of the ocean that justifies everything
you cannot remember what the sudden laughter affirmed
nor the startled sweetness of the flowers crushed under your loins
nor the love from which your body drew its pleasure
easily as a child milk from the breast
Artist - derelict and drifter.
Move about like windblown bones.
Bathing in the dry, veined riverbed.
Fashioning crafts and wares unwanted.
Weaving ends that never intend to meet.
Father of the northern aurora lairs.
Dancing with ice bears atop great flows.
So cold, both sun and flyer freezing midair.
Tooth walkers jab the flanks of ice ghosts.
Mother rainforest, a forever emerald charm.
Within every shadow, a deadly smirking slant.
The panther and poison dart hopper.
To the last known being of a dying clan.
They'll all meet within the womb of reckoning.
Far above this temporary mad blue orb. churning.
The mysteries opening only to the searcher.
Like a Fabergé egg on the apron of forever.
The truth is always in the middle
guarded on both flanks
It might stun so much should it escape
we might as well give thanks
Lovely weather for Dunners' ducks (tongue in cheek peek at Dunedin's historic deluge)
"Stares upstairs..
Angels’ weeing above..
Be a good chap..
Show some love bruv..
Turn off the tap..
*****
No refuge from the subterfuge of the deluge..
Parched sandbag phalanxes..
Ranks marching in flanks..
Arching across busted banks..
Quaffing..scoffing..downpour spanks..
**********
Disbelief at the leisurely river Leith..
Despairing at it baring...glaring..teeth
Hurling....haring to unsheaf grief..
Mischief rashly unfurling…
Brashly whirling beneath.
Bawdry..tawdry thief...
******
Baffled..can't they see...squiffy South D in a jiffy downed..
Snaffled..drowned and raffled to the sea..
Don't they care...iffy white caps slaps..won't perhaps spare even sniffy..
Snooty..spiffy St Clair..
****
This rain ruckus.. pluvial palaver...
Whichever not whatever...
It totally sucks..
Planet forever in..
Fluvial flummoxed flux..
Tis rather lovely weather..
Though for Dunedin's ducks.."
Mono Aluminum Pijin they called him. A rascal and a sailor. He buys beef jerky by the bucket. He shaved his beard with a hand carved whale bone. They roll the flanks of mutton in braided lamb chitterlings, and roast them fair and square. The sauce is sweet nuff for dipping. As He crosses his legs to raise his pinky in the air. Far to perfect is the evening, might a woman wish to dance. She'd be greasy if she lean on me, cause I wiped the grease on my pants.
Mono Aluminum Pijin they called him. A rascal and a sailor. He buys beef jerky by the bucket. He shaved his beard with a hand carved whale bone. They roll the flanks of mutton in braided lamb chitterlings, and roast them fair and square. The sauce is sweet nuff for dipping. As He crosses his legs to raise his pinky in the air. Far to perfect is the evening, might a woman wish to dance. She'd be greasy if she lean on me, cause I wiped the grease on my pants.
I think of those who left their home.' To fight on battlefields
Unknown.' In mud and blight against Gallipolis heights
At Beer Sheba and on Tobruks deadly plains.' Where they
Lay low; and let those tanks, roll over them front and flanks'
Then arose to put to shame.their foe' These Men
Of the the flats..Of wheatfields and cane.' From harbours
And citys made forever a name.' Reknown for igenuity for
Resilience wordwide.' Steadfast our bronzed battlers who
Took all in stride.' As the bugle notes ring out today in the
Dawn.' I remember.. I remember.' In gratitude mixed with awe.! So today as i face the struggles that come I shall
Draw strength, and inspiration at the rising of each sun.'
And it will remind me.' That whatever is to come? the
ANZAC spirit is my mentor, i vow to hold it to my memory all
My days on earth, until my final hours beneath the setting sun'
Romantic feelings
If I were a horse
with an unsure bloodline
If you, on a summer’s day
when the field was green
stroked my flanks, gave me
a slice of bread
I would love you more than
The beautiful nurse
Who helped me with my socks
When I could not bend down
hanging
i am the piece that’s lost
caught in the little flanks
for the rooks and vultures
to devour
at this hour
where sunlight and twilight
do more than merely rhyme
hung by wire
i pass the time
soaking up sunfire
hanging
and i dangle
swaying to the winds that mangle
i
am
torn
and
tattered
won’t someone get me down from here?
splatter my brains
and scatter my remains?
(i’ve no need for myself)
save the dirges
for someone who gave a rat’s ass
about living
every day was my funeral
this is my finale
the end of me
October gallops in as stolid as a gray mare,
a blunt wind snorts furiously through autumnal trees.
Foliage rattles, but does not fall, it clings still
to green stems.
Appalachian backwoods have tough roots,
shod as they are into an earth salted
with a dark gritty ore.
Bears are foraging and reaping,
their black silky pelts clamber over gusting winds
to reach the furthest fruits
before first snows overburden stoic pines.
Today the sky is unharnessed
and racing at full tilt
It whips my raw lips like a wet mane,
it rears up to stamp down upon its own
animated onslaught.
I adjust my rucksack and reshoulder a shotgun
grin, eyes watering
caught under the stampeding gale,
buffeted now by its muscular flanks.
I need to bridle this striding wind,
to halter its headlong charge,
or better yet just surrender -
turn my back on it,
let it ride me
as we leap down from the hilltops
whooping it up like cowboys.
Historically the books are written by a well-known writer
The characters are formed to choose the sense of flight or fighter
The library of the mind stows away the facts from the fiction
The sequence of events unfold, memorised with restriction
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
The imagery of barricades in a crowded stark front room
Foreboding silence and tension create a sense of doom
In the old terraced house, there’s a closure of ranks
As the fighter steps forward and the other flanks
The pushing and shoving in the silent stark room
The circle decreases and a flash warps the plume
The memories jagged as they cut like a knife
As she’s hit by the boxer and fights for her life
The dry autumnal street carpets red and gold
The crunch of the leaves cushioned the blow
The flash of the memory vivid and sharp
Innocence held with such disregard
The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry
The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by
It can even be misconstrued as ... A.I.
Mayhaps 'Creation', hm ... read it again.
I know Adam was chosen to lead off in that direction and all those after him--and nobody said stop, not even after the planet Mars, a name attributed a deity.
Jerusalem grant stemmed
Bethlehem be condemned
What kind of God He is
having no teachers His
hm?
The shores of Galilee
sea Peter faith fell he
Galilee be Dead Sea
Peter sunk not to be
A Calvinist earn claim
Horeb like Sinai same
Divergence flanks said he
East West faces they'd be
Eden's Garden not His
we post-label purpose
God name no Earth places
Termed from human races
On April seventh there'll be an anniversary.
Not one in which we celebrate with balloons or confetti...
Sweet cakes, songs, or garish parades.
It will be 6 serrated months since terrorists raped Mother Israel.
Sprayed the olive groves with her blood.
Six months since they raked a couple hundred innocents.
To cover yellow flanks-to prolong their fun.
Six months the innocents have spent underground.
Within the tunnels of cowards.
Nobody talks about them anymore.
One by one they're being dropped.
Like sparks from a broken tailpipe
While the media bunny hops away.
onto the ratings bonanza glade.
Their names and smiling faces have melted off our back pages.
Into Dali's clocks, into the final note of a broken windchime memory.
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