Blakean ghosts' boasts..frollicking in rollicking
Rolling hillock hosts..ripe shenanigans..perry toasts
Believing in hefty heaving heroes
Hallowed harbingers..halcyon hedgerows
Harbouring tranches of branches..ferry very merry berries
Majestic mosaic montage barge of balletic
Incandescent flowers..weaving wherries
Showering prophetic kaleidoscopic poetic dreams
Streams through towering mesmeric green tunnels
Full to the gunnels..reams of sheens teem..flowing funnels
Bestowing.. glowing transcendent beams gleam kinetic
Luminescent aesthetic barrage..overpowering iridescent fluorescent flowering
Every single one of Mother nature's tendrils tingle
Mingle..saluting seasonal succour..mooting rebooting from fruiting..pukka
Our love began so sweet and expectant.
Full of hope, becalmed in a sea of roses.
The swell rose and fell gently enticing,
a lover's waltz, a warm embrace.
But the storm clouds gathered,
the winds rose, the sea swirled,
the stems of roses twisted
to reveal the thorns hidden
beneath the sea.
The waves dashed menacingly against the
tiny boat in which we huddled.
The stems of roses began to fly
over the gunnels, with the petals,
caressing our cheeks with soft wet flowers.
But the sharp edged leaves and thorns
on the stems began to scratch and bite
against our faces and bare limbs.
We were tossed about
in a rocking churning sea of roses
begging each others pardon.
Laid back over oarlocks,
arms akimbo, hat slouched;
slow riding the Loire.
The river pushes
into a bobbing place
a sylvian picnic
where female bottoms convene
in soft repose.
Iridescent thuds, a thrashing of fins.
A large trout flops in the gunnels.
Wide lips, mouthing Gallic obscenities;
the rainbow splashing
of a disgruntled fish.
The rowboat rolls, rights and recovers.
Upon the shore
bottoms rise like plump geese
from green lawns.
The fish sneers,
flips a glowing Gauloises
between thick lips.
Full-figured forms rise
to watch the watery fuss
then shrug
as more wine is poured.
The trout jumps into the river.
Parasols open and twirl.
We all smile behind our hands
as Renoir paints on.
Somewhere between an in and out wave,
my boat broke; it's an essential
scaled down vessel of my body -
I become somewhat alarmed.
Water being almost always in a fluid state
did the unexpected and played dead.
It attained a most unusual state
of neck down paralysis
and so, head moving left and right
yet frozen beneath,
(assuming there was a beneath),
I remained trapped upwards,
caught like a fruit fly in a glass of merlot.
The boat, though riddled with holes,
sinks only to the gunnels yet plows on,
gliding gracefully upon a moon-path
toward a moon that had hid its face under
a soggy pillow.
By now I could hear the bed creaking
under the strain of being nudged
by several icebergs.
‘I am not a fruit fly’, I shouted,
as a rising sun
raced to a corner of the bedroom
to watch my dreaming brain
struggle up to the level of its eyes
while I reluctantly bobbed
in the stale undercurrent
of that fourth unwise
glass of red wine.
Fog slow-dances over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
Too early to tell
if any birds are awake
besides, my ears are muffled in the wet air.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary,
gulls just visit.
I could row out to the ocean from here,
but the thick haze would eat my soul
and I would be caught between two worlds.
Leaning over the gunnels
a Sea Bass curiously nuzzles
my trawling fingers.
The languid coils of water,
the fish and this blanket of mist
are all that matter now;
later when I sit by the cabin porch
maybe I’ll wonder why
I didn’t head out to the coastal waves
at least as far as any swimmer might go,
but I know the answer:
keeping this ageing body safe,
that’s all that matters now.
Kelso has a boat
smeared to the gunnels,
with cawk and greasy weeds.
At a prow of dawn
he hauls dripping lobster,
and their pots
up the scummy steps
of the silty stone harbor,
pushing a barrow
into the towns brick narrows.
Kelso barters claws and tails
to barkeeps, crab-mongers,
to fish wives and their
salty daughters.
At close of day
he returns
to the bight, the bitty harbor,
to eats mackerel
from a spray-seasoned skillet.
Then Kelso lays back
with his reeky brown dog
and smokes a care-free
funky blue fog.
Methinks aliens are preparing to invade earth
Warning, this gives us time to prepare, for what it's worth
Man the gunnels
Prepare the tunnels
Some may perish but I'll still provide the mirth
Methinks aliens are preparing to invade the earth
Warning, this gives us time to prepare, for what it's worth
Man the gunnels
Prepare the tunnels
Some may perish but I'll still provide the mirth
Any one for the 8-10 to Allepo
His suicide lorry packed to the gunnels there hoisted on his own petard
another loved up modern muslim the stupid silly selfish silly bastard
What a waste one man in his white gown going to his death
a lot of passengers waiting there also wanting a last breath
Buses much better eighty eight in a bus pack em in it is for the best
welcomed sitting each one with there black comforting a suicide vest
Queues forming what sweating work here sheep queuing like mutton
taking people to heaven is hard work so careful mind the red button
Meeting death going to their beloved god and dreaming
me I cant stop laughing look my eyes they are streaming
Floating on a sea of dreams
In a craft of woven wishes
Holding fast to helm of hope
Trimming sail with fishes
The waves advance
We waltz and dance
With gunnels near awash
A sudden shout
We come about
Clinging to the sheets
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