Desiccated mice thus far do gnaw shreds of scant regret.
Good and bad love, honey-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpack pockets,
bags billow under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls turn to cry
their mournful ‘why’s’, more kitchen towels
to mop tear stained flops.
One horror story lives on, much chewed over
by skeletal moths.
Pots of peeled moonlight inhabited creaking lungs,
their beams slowing curdling.
I still store a few pickled smiles for saucy women.
In my book of lies there are half-truths worth more distorting,
fields plowed over far too long,
fallow earth where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on the graves of the long entrenched.
Those drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
great works that now slack and dodder, sent unfixed
back to the soured whirlpools from which they sprang.
Yet here I am, this spark in a potash of smuts
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic beings hover
to grab up my rash stash of tawdry self;
and I say:
Yes let them come, and god help these,
my patched and paltry wings.
Categories:
smuts, poverty,
Form: Free verse
Slaughtered animals
Now just meat
All jazzed up for a foodies tweet
Would rather view a life in form
than cuts of smuts to only mourn.
Categories:
smuts, animal, food, words,
Form: Free verse
A Skin Full of Dust
Smuts cover skins barely breathing scorched on hungry hope
no coat and no crust trickling from upper echelons of greed
dry shrivelled breasts do not feed the babies screaming in pain
Shallow sunken eyes speak louder than words falling foul
Star dust sprinkles from magician’s dreams sends a rainbow
gushing water crops of plenty justice life and dignity dispensed
sharing is caring and stockbrokers applaud broken domination
It was a dream after all and I cannot return to slumber and peace
22nd March 2017
Categories:
smuts, hope,
Form: Free verse