He weighed his mind,
it had dissolved into a tar pit
and was getting heavier.
He was thirsty, hungry to get away -
from himself.
Three shots later his eyes released him
from their deep-dug jailhouse.
Sooner than expected
the crowded bar emptied,
the saloon rocketing blindly
into a darkening planet.
Outside,
the evening was smeared with red,
low dusky lights hung like a punctured lung.
He walked one step ahead of his shoes.
Back home
he dabbed damp jowls, waiting,
for his mind to wander off
inside a humming keyboard.
Meanwhile he dripped drops
of static silence onto a word
to give it a half-life,
yet only for a moment –
it was going to be a long summer.
but oblivion was only
three shots away.
I barely fit in my dressing gown
sucking in my gut all over town
I am more than a fleck of old
was that a roach that left my fold?
I look in the mirror with a sigh
fat jowls smiling, no idea why
I am more than a fleck of old
was that a roach that left my fold?
is this my legacy, my fate?
Obviously, I am aged and overweight
I am more than a fleck of old
was that a roach that left my fold?
for braver hearts that dreamt of me
accept my dearest sympathy
taken in a silent rapture
and not wont to admit capture
by my mouth would raise a scandal
but flamed jowls betray my candle
each face, yours alone in a crowd,
and yet your kiss shall make me proud
When beauty’s gone bye bye and slack flesh becks
Jowls, crow’s feet, graveled voice and turkey necks
Too old to be a narcissist
what’s left is a pacifist
*Tender genteel haters do not make good peaceniks!
You are getting on, old fruit
Too obese to wear your new suit
Your face resembles a wrinkled prune
Old age is showing on you too soon,
What has happened to your lustrous hair
Your scalp is shiny and noticeably bare
Your jowls are hanging lower than your chin
My word, I cannot believe what a state you're in
Shoulders that were broad and strong
They are now all hunched and look all wrong.
Your knees are knobbly and a little bent,
The left leg forgot where the right one went.
I can not understand you when you talk,
Your brain, not your legs, has gone for a walk
Your eyes look blank, staring into space
You have lost touch with the human race.
We lost touch over the years,
After sharing much laughter and some tears
I have just seen you interviewed on TV
Old fruit, it was a shock to me,
To see you sitting in a chair,
With all the hoi polloi and fanfare there
Smiling happily from ear to ear
Holding up a glass of cheer
With the TV presenters and your guests
Wishing you the very best
And the audience stood up to say
Many happy returns of your 110th BIRTHDAY!
I can’t rid of the bags under my eyes
The crowfeet despise, all were lies,
Conjured was an illusion of you
Throughout my groping confusion
evasive, flimsy
A-m-o-r-p-h-i-c, innuendos
I was subjected to your derision
dissing me relentlessly
deriding my appearance,
disparaging my intellect
as I stumbled and fell into the abyss
Mocking doesn’t suit my countenance
My lips desert dry, thirsty, parched
An amazon no longer beats its drum
My buoyant nature now laden with coarsened shroud
Leaving a cardboard moon deprived of its shine
Stars like candles blown out one by one
No use waiting for the rising Sun
The end of world does come,
stopped spinning neath heavy ebon clouds
Expectations unreal
All zeal gone, listless is my spirit
along with my illumination
Now you see me
unmasked in raw anguish
I d
r
o
o
p
jowls hang from endless
torment endured
like the drenched and cold, wounded hawk
taken flight, eagle-eyed, a warrioress
more determined and bold, traveling on
with unlimited range
and self-esteemed
This bird,
you
c
a
n
n
o
t c h a n g e
Serpents, scorpions and owls
are things I can’t endure.
The contents of a bovine’s bowels,
albeit as manure,
or monks in over-shady cowls,
their faces kept obscure,
the sex-life of the larger fowls,
for me hold no allure.
Threatened badgers’ hostile growls,
an overflowing sewer,
others’ stains on bathroom towels –
repugnant, these, for sure.
A dying pig’s pathetic howls
(at least that’s one pig fewer):
Walter Matthau’s drooping jowls –
for these, there is no cure.
Margaret Thatcher’s tortured vowels
are dickish, not demure:
and Ian Paisleys, Enoch Powells
are ignominy, pure.
He was obnoxious almost to the point of repulsive
Constant banter escaped his always yapping jowls
He gave you no space or peace, monopolizing all conversation
Many stopped attending family reunions due to this brazen boor
Where the children go to play
Is where the summer grass endures
And sunbeams - like a cascade -
Pour down upon their bronze shoulders.
This - the children have learned well:
Butterflies don't really flutter -
Instead - they dance a sky waltz
To the cicadas' fond clamor.
Every breeze is a giant's sigh
That brushes their roseate jowls;
Every cloud - some foam in the sky
Behind which angels may be found.
What they know - they won't divulge
But they know what each new day brings.
Pity them - some drab adults
Who are ignorant of such things!
This can't be my age!
I am still young at heart
The life of a party
Though hitting the bed by ten
Gained a few kilos of weight
But can fit into my youthful jeans
Grew sluggish and shorter in height
Although ready for a morning jog
Have to wear glasses now
As the print size has become smaller
A few grays in my hair don't tell my age
Merely a fashion statement
That adds a touch of elegance to my carriage
My knees hurt from the cold not stiffness
The reflection in the mirror shows what I'm not
An elderly haggard lady
With baggy wrinkled eyes and sagging jowls
As my passions still drive me forward
And I am still living my dream
For age is just a number
It's only the spirit that counts.
There is no place
Like a smiling face
It sets the pace
It makes the case
For a happy heart
It’s a cinnamon tart
All spicy and smart
No frowns allowed
Said the sign on the door
Tis not a place for disgruntled souls
All we sell is happy inside
There is nothing to hide
Your face much prettier
When graced with a smile
Your life more buoyant
Times more enjoyed
Yours to unstitch
Come comrades, come
Lift up those jowls
With a mighty howl
Let the world delight
In the jewels on your face
For this is the place
To enjoy the art
And relish the poetry
Of those smiling faces
Standing in front of you
A whispered shhh hung in the air
Tall grass rustled nearby
A slight sniffy, snorty snout sound
Preceded the crinkly crunch of dry grass
Sweat slithered across my brow
A large head appeared
Violently shaking
Hanging jowls jousting
Saliva arcing aimlessly
A growl ruffling the air
We ran
Screams scurrying ahead
Saliva spewing demon behind
Fear fueled our flight
Her hand thinly slipping from mine
She fell
The demon approached
We heard her
Breathlessly shriek
“DAD
….CALL THE DOG”
In the woods with naught around,
I spot a dog, a grand old hound.
He spots me back and starts the hunt
Dare I approach him from the front?
I see the teeth and jowls loose,
There I am the waiting goose.
Yards are closing one by one,
Underneath the noonday sun.
Approaching quickly with lightning speed,
I stand my ground with frightening need.
He howls at my steadfast stance.
A knight here jousting, without a lance.
I howl right back and start my charge,
Arms are flailing, feigning large.
The pup takes note and slows its stride.
Perhaps a fear instilled inside?
Can this beast be scared of me?
Unknown is my fear of he?
We both, now walking, see it plain.
Man and dog will both remain.
Stuffed heads on imposing walls
beady glass eyes, glare.
The house is stuffed with horns,
tusks, fangs, and jowls.
Many a taxidermic glower,
gazes down,
with a moth-farmed visage.
Slaughtered beast
hang heavily from high mounts.
Teddy Roosevelt’s elephant gun
leans against a hollow elephant foot.
On gaslit nights
light gleams upon eyeless tigers.
He ‘bagged’ them all - a manly trait,
(historical context is everything),
truly, great men often display,
their overstuffed ego’s.
Later, Teddy Bears make amends,
as best they can.
Often, It is said,
that these wood-paneled veneers’
echo yet, with the lion's roar,
the panthers rage,
and the rhino's blind charge –
their spirits lunging once more,
toward their now, out-of-date
fate.
Crimson streams down
Salvant fluid at the jowls,
D r a g o n fruit k i t t y
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