's not what you'd think,
altho' no saint nor sinner,
for, quick as a wink,
what occurred to her during dinner,
turned from a tiny tickle in the throat,
when his Daughter coughed and wheezed,
into a dribbling trickle from her nose,
then, 'Atishoo!', smilingly she teased,
“I really couldn't help myself,”
yet, seemingly feeling somewhat pleased,
but, with a helpful handy tissue,
the discomfort it was eased,
as, politely and penitently, she observed,
“Bless me, Father, for I have sneezed.”
Social critic, Gershon Wolf
has been known to joke and spoof
But at a meeting of TV execs today, he was dead serious
And here’s what he told them – if you’re curious
Where is wholesome TV programming today
or something vaguely familiar anyway
We need family shows like ‘Andy of Mayberry’
where everyone teases and tortures ‘Poor Deputy Barney’
Or ‘Leave it to Beaver’ where Eddie Haskell steals every show
Kissing up to Ward and June, a sickeningly polite fellow
And how about ‘the Three Stooges,’ where real culture
is assaulted by three execrable humanoid vultures
Now, I hear one of you is bringing back ‘You Bet Your Life’
a show about a mean man’s negative outlook on life
Anyone game for Nazified fare like ‘Hogan’s Heroes’
or totally inept and stupid, ‘like Archie Bunker’s Zeroes’
Can't wait for the new 'Re-run Season'
Featuring Pee Wee Herman and Lassie! ~ 'tis bound to be pleasin'
I was only a boy when it happened
when they came for me
my family all cried like kittens
I was only a boy when the door opened
they came in like snakes
their coats casting strange shadows
I was only a boy when they fetched me
when my life changed forever
and the colours in my mind turned black
I was only a boy when they struck me
a blow that took away my youth
and my song died in my throat
I was only a boy when I became a man
not knowing the souls I would suck
nor the blood I would drain dry
I was only a boy when I saw them
falling as snow in the east wind
like moths when you rub off their skins
I was only a boy when death came
when I realized the time had come
and I stood there, hollow and empty
I was only a boy when I understood
when the darkness was pierced
And I felt regret beyond my years
I was only a boy when I finally earned my title
When I could no longer distinguish
And I wept
I was a Nazi
Words like thorns, stuck deep, they choke,
A silent scream, a shattered spoke.
My shadow flees, won’t show its face,
Lost within its hollow space.
Time’s rusted blade, it carves with grace,
Slowly tracing my fragile base.
Hands of emptiness, cold and pale,
Cradle a doom that’s set to sail.
On edges sharp, where whispers race,
I hold the night’s forsaken grace.
Throat
The mass of
tissue in
the rear of my
throat sparkle in
humidity.
The roaches keep launching attacks.
Then scurrying back into Satan's dirty crack.
Covering their backs with the children of Gaza.
Launch, then hide- launch, then hide.
When they lose ground, they call for a ceasefire.
Understand, there can never be peace.
As long as these hellhounds are off their leash.
Nobody in these three-ringed regimes mentions the hostages anymore.
Nobody remembers October 7
or September 11
let alone the holocaust.
Short-term memory problems for those with long-term limits.
Nobody dares to put the bullseye on Iran.
Who has the real blood on their hands.
Billions of U.S. dollars fund the attacks of these ogres.
Whose soul do they own, just asking for a friend?
Get their undivided attention.
Lay waste to the Persian oilfields.
Parch their treasure chests.
Maybe then peace can prevail.
Then the Bedouins of heaven and the children of Christ can rest.
Until then, I think we're heading down the plutonium throat of Armageddon.
The knife is against your throat and I don't think I'd regret it
Stop picking at my skin
Pull your teeth out of my neck
Leave me somewhere between life and death
Pain and emotionless
Good to know I don't have to fix this
I know respect
Your blood will stain my hands and the collar of your top
I'll pick at the little meat on your bones and keep the rocks in your pockets
My knuckles cannot be whiter, permanent stains in my vision
Your face so far away or non existent I can't remember the shape of your eyes
In time dissolved silence we watch,
vibrant, throbbing jugular notch,
connecting head ovoid to heart,
gifts of silence, we best not botch.
All nodes entwine, none stand apart,
since bliss has been added to cart,
whence as we frolic in delight,
each life breath is a work of art.
Touched by spirit by day and night,
embarking on a wingless flight,
doing nothing, remaining still,
one with God, we garner clear sight.
Nectar flows, we drink to our fill,
sounds of silence within us trill,
brought forth by divine magnetism,
graced thus when we surrender will.
Can you forget that piece of cheese
that you inhaled? Oh, just a crumb it was.
But breathing while chewing, then choking!
Was it Cheddar, Cheshire?
Or that Limburger, Parmesan?
But, oh, that piece of cheese!
Not a morsel you'll forget,
or a temporary amnesia that will bring you peace.
A double Gloucester, some feta or mozzarella?
What about that Parmigiana-Reggiano?
Better, far better, not to inhale
a piece of cheese. It's peace you need.
(8 Jan 2024)
It croaks all day long
short bodied amphibian
that's stuck in my throat
Bhai shoru me tum meray mun me daltay thay,
Shayad yehi vajah say mera gala kharab rehta.
Note.Bhai throat fukiing is unkind please stop it.
Winds whirlpool wildly
Dry leaves surrender sadly
Autumn at his best
Winter waits
Each knows its cycle
Who leaves who, yet?
Who considers who?
Each chasing the other
Bend on destroying each...
Sun laughs
Moon laughs
Stars laugh
Each laughing at each other
Yet, doing the same...
13 July 2022
At the crossroad
Where I cried and rise to stardom
Unchained from within
And sing a song of freedom
There my seed would be, shouting "Father well done" !
At the crossroad
Where the scriptures were misinterpreted
And puzzle rearranged
There my people would be, dancing on their veiny drips
At the crossroad
Where the throat of the pen would not be stuck
and chest not tight
It teeth will be given it greatest bite
At the cross road
Where the pen will drip venomous ink
and cast silence to it earliest dark
There we would be, celebrating success
like yesterday's event
At the crossroad
Where my demise will be displayed
And wounds scraped open,
Where the titles of my pieces will be swept under the mud
There I would be, with a soured heart
repainting my darker past
BLAQ POET
PAKAMARA
Many years ago in the mid-70s
music was my idol especially concerts
Glasgow's Apollo was my regular venue
loved night's there fabulous to be a cert
The Queen of Punk in these times
Siouxsie and the Banshees was a doll
so had to book when Siouxsie was due
really excited when gig was near my call
But on the day Siouxsie took a sore throat
so the concert canceled was a real blight
look to hear 'Happy House' being 'Spellbound'
'Hong Kong Garden' took me 'Into the Light'
On the night traveled up to be let down
the gig was off so drove back home
halfway home the car broke down
left alone in the wilds, need to phone
I saw a house way out on its own uphill
went and asked to phone my dad, please
so he came up the A77 but drove past me
stunned I was left to look up at the trees
Thankfully dad realized having missed me
turn around and found me waiting on roadside
so towed my dead car all the way home
that night in my thoughts did always abide
(This is a true tale when in my mid-20s when a canceled concert by my fav punk band 'Siouxsie and the Bashees' left me stranded in the wild country in the evening but rescue came to pick me up.)
Mere catch in throat, not so mere, dear
It somewhat inhibits
Though God near and bliss throbs yet spear
Outdoor play prohibits
Thermometer in hand
We nod and understand
Such is lay of the land
Cough’s got our goat
Mere catch in throat
22-November-2021
Quietus
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