I'm not sure who you were speaking to but the man in the greatcoat assumed it was him and he could have been 'the thin man' or 'the third man' but not the 'bird man of Alcatraz'
see me and
it's jazz painting by Dali
or possibly
Toyah slings Goya on the canvas
she's a lass is our Toyah
but is she from Lancashire?
doubtful.
Tracey
will you race me
around your unmade bed?
There's
nothing peculiar in being peculiar
the peculiar thing is it's not.
Categories:
greatcoat, fantasy,
Form: Rhyme
Like bullet holes in a starched white shirt,
they prop the gravestone in the dirt,
a ruby stitch across the face
of veined pale marble carapace.
They held my gaze that winter day,
beneath black clouds with streaks of grey,
the wind howled for the distant dead,
ice crystals bit the greatcoat thread.
Stiff cards bore words upon each stem,
five mourners and the names of them,
each severed bloom, blood red and still,
clashed colours with the graveyard chill.
Five flowers and a funeral done,
alone stand I the wayward son,
and no one cares that I'm alive,
imagining six instead of five.
Categories:
greatcoat, death, introspection, life, sad,
Form: Verse