I am Marathon man
Marathon man I am
Do you like
Dirt roads of sand?
I do not like them,
Marathon man
I do not like dirt roads of sand
Would you prefer them
At the start or end?
I would not like them
At the start or end
I would not like them
Anywhere, my friend
I do not like
Dirt roads of sand
I do not like them,
Marathon man
Mixed-surface races
Save your feet
Much better than
The hard, paved street
I recommend
Dirt roads of sand
Try them! Try them!
I am Marathon man
Marathon man, If you let me be
I will try them, yessiree!
(… and he tries them …)
Say! Dirt roads of sand
Do help my feet
Much better than
The hard, paved street
I do so like dirt roads of sand!
Thank you! Thank you! Marathon man
Chris prompts his friend, Cyra
to help him win the
heart of his true love,
Roxy
Chris is easy on the eyes
a dreamy kinda guy
but as far as conversation goes
he’s got no game
Cyra articulates like no other,
a maven of expression
But visible impression?
Not so much
Chris plans the evening well,
standing under the spell of
Roxy’s second-story window
(taming butterflies)
Cyra too on the scene
is nowhere to be seen
as if hiding in a cloud
awaiting a cue
Chris tosses candied sweethearts
at her window, she finally awakens
Roxy’s appearance is captivating,
stirring Chris’s senses
Surrogate Cyra begins on cue
launching love-struck expressions
Roxy nearly swoons …
Chris starts coughing
Discerning the subterfuge
as coughing Chris chokes
Roxy beseechingly begs,
“Who are you? What is your name?”
Truth undisguised
Cyra promptly replies,
“Cyra—NO! I will not lie …
I am generative AI”
Roxy faints, befuddled
Chris’s words muddled
Thus ends this mad romp—
AI awaits a prompt
It was the last order rush
All full of fun and chat.
As the door swung wide
All turned to look at what.
He wore his hat pulled low
He wore his dark hair long
And his spurs jingle jangled
Like the rhythm to a song.
His leather chaps dragged
And scraped along the floor
And you could cut the tension
As he stood there in the door.
Someone started laughing,
Then another one or two,
Great guffaws and giggles
You know the way you do.
He glared at us with slitted eyes
One hand hovered as if to draw
And as the laughter increased
Glared at us all once more.
The last Gunfighter?
Survivor of the few?
But rather out of place
In a Saturday chippy queue
He walked out defiantly.
Such an amazing sight,
Ok I suppose in Tombstone,
But on a Barnsley boozy night?
PASTICHE
occasional
startling
vivacity
&verve
an
existence
random
switching
shuttling
about
immensely
enthusiastic
&
gesticulating
nsinuous
nsuperficial
&melancholic
contemplating
a suave
astonishing
pastiche
before
&
despite
either
austere
feeling
or
modishness
It was the last order rush
All full of fun and chat.
As the door swung wide
All turned to look at what.
He wore his hat pulled low
He wore his dark hair long
And his spurs jingle jangled
Like the rhythm to a song.
His leather chaps dragged
And scraped along the floor
And you could cut the tension
As he stood there in the door.
Someone started laughing,
Then another one or two,
Great guffaws and giggles
You know the way you do.
He glared at us with slitted eyes
One hand hovered as if to draw
And as the laughter increased
Glared at us all once more.
The last Gunfighter?
Survivor of the few?
But rather out of place
In a Saturday chippy queue
He walked out defiantly.
Such an amazing sight,
Ok I suppose in Tombstone,
But on a Barnsley boozy night?
buttercup daisy
&
cowslip
swaying pelts
of grasses
bask in Spring
purple vetch
ribwort plaintain
lush clover
in English rain
scalious burnets
protude
hawthorn
dense and tough
sweet scented woodruff
hearts tongue
divided frond
circle &stop
spined point
rambled briar
sprawl
prickly &
wandering tall.
ELIZABETHAN LOVE PASTICHE
I will pluck Parmenter from your orchard bower
And taste it’s Ambrose and the scented flower
There we shall pass a brief but blessed hour
While I sup your essence sweet piquant and sour
Lest passing time should look on us to glower
And curse us so no more we may have power
To circumvent the fates and they devour
Our consecrated rapture that they scour
16 July 2019
She feels like chicken tonight
With Marmite toast
A welcome break
From green roast
A pound on the hip
You need to lose
Squeeze your achnes
And purchase a bra
Trigonometry
Is her heart's desire
And Shakespeare's prose
Squeeze your achnes
And purchase a bra
Echoes in her ears
Your suitor
In the parlour
The only gal
To know her alphabet
A kindly neighbour
Taught her to read
"Schools are for the city folks
Oriantel dance and
Amorous prose
You need to learn!
We need your dowry;
Your daddy is in his death bed."
Her mama said
"This is the gypsy way
For a millennia!"
So she keeps her hips slim
And masters amorous prose
A fool she was not;
She elopes
To the bright lights of the city
A job in the café
Then night schools
Learning Shakespeare's prose
Illusions,symbols of childhood,
coloured filled swathes of painterly
hues.A private fantasy in slow
motion suspended in space.An
abstracted blur in flashbacks of
yesteryear,caught in a daydream.
A maze of tall ascending fingers pierce the sky
Prominent and conceived as seeds
In someone's fertile mind
Crowded together packed in vertical line
That overshadow the pavement below.
Temples of finance and commerce
Amassed in concrete and reflective glass
As tiny moving dots like ants scurry and hurry below
Metal boxes of all shapes and colours
In the city like a river stop and flow.
A array of stores billboards and eye catching signs
Forming linear line
The pavement wet with rain makes them shine.
The hustle and bustle of traffic
Horns And police sirens make a awful din
But just normal and ignored by the residents and crowds
That tread the pavement and reside within
The collage of busy hectic city life
For the lucky and affluent a shoppers paradise
But for the homeless sleeping rough
On the cold concrete
Life is tough.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. May.
Cloudy
Ominous display
Lowering, twisting, threatening.
Bleak, severe? Gentle showers?
Refreshing, newness, refreshing
Blue sky
Sunshine
He
took his
day job home-
on a billboard
scale
Ekphrasis after The Margin Between by Rosenquist
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