I don’t even want to think,
My life is laid down black as ink,
All the good is in the past,
For those three hollow faces I did what I thought was the best.
I worked a couple poppy fields
where my fate on this passage was sealed,
Filmed by military drones
using, under their fire, someone’s clone for a human shield.
In a little rubber boat bobbing up, dropping down,
At the edge of the deep and by forces unknown,
In a little rubber boat at their mercy …
Each was loaned a ton of seed,
And to sow and to harvest the weed
implements and nanobots,
As the government decreed, with allotted lots.
I drift in and out of sleep,
Armed gink on my soul to keep,
Nineteen tied up to a cage,
Life support alternating at twenty-three k. K.P.H.
Faulty insulated coil
Tension leads try the transport’s foil,
The heat and Gs are thrashing me,
Someone's unfunny joke, we were bound to turn over the soil.
In a little rubber boat bobbing up, dropping down,
At the edge of the deep and by forces unknown,
In a little rubber boat as they will …
Burning like the brightest, golden, glowing amber ember, shining lightning light against the blue, Hallelu.
Categories:
kph, boat, political, space, stars,
Form: Rhyme
no
officer
i was not
going over
the limit
licence and
registration
please
as he walked
back to his car
i tried to think of
how to get out of
this predicament
sir step out of the car
this is not your first
offence over 10 in
a 24 poems per
hour zone
your pen and paper
will be confiscated
until you are deemed
fit to write with a
certain amount of
responsibility
Categories:
kph, muse,
Form: I do not know?
It is always after days like this one,
of a kind of proverbial snake chasing
its tail, its form flawless, its strength in
numbers of its friends all rolling together
carrying me to the end of a long day,
the end being where I started, just as
dark, my breath as clear on the concrete
platform as it was twelve hours before,
my insides still a Colombian neck tie.
But I am still one hour and at least two
languages away from there, here in the
bar car, my head against the stretch window
as the Norman countryside smears by at
200 kph, a drop of casis stirring towards a
mandarin horizon fuller than my plastic cup of scotch,
tilting with each banking of the train only to
level out sharply seconds later, the minimum
time required - I suspect - for the stubbly
driver to refresh his senses with a good chuckle,
which would surely be more
frequent if they let me ride up there with him,
playing "I Spy" with our eyes closed,
testing the emergency brake and
scaring cars at crossings with the horn.
Categories:
kph, business, me,
Form: Free verse