Evisceration

‘Tis a nifty thing,

this feline embrace.

To pull you in firm,

to a soft furry face.

 

The claws not yet out,

but very soon to be,

the back legs kick hard,

simultaneously.

 

Pulled in at the top,

but kicked away down below,

a mouse’s insides

adorn the patio.

 

Ripped roughly in two,

I remember that mouse.

His pain is mine,

we shared the same house.

 

Laying gutless and torn,

the cat bats him around,

I look away now,

and make not a sound.

 

I shamefully allow

a thought to escape;

‘I know how you feel,mate’

Not before though, just now.

 

Self indulgence abounds,

my sympathy wanes,

I think more of my own life,

my heartbreaks, my shame.

 

Metaphors, analogies,

comparing two pains,

no death on this planet,

deserves such disdain.

 


Bridge Burner

Burn bridge, burn.

I need you not.

Not now, not ever.

Burn like a shameless inferno.

 

You false promise.

You false hope.

Burn now.

Burn forever.

 

I need no bridge.

I am happy right here.

Here, on this poor island.

 

And if you reappear,

in a different guise,

in a different time,

I will burn that too.

 

I am a bridge burner.

I shun your hope,

your promise,

your glittering prize.

 

Burn now.

Burn forever.

I am happy right here.

Here, on this poor island.

 


Naïve

So naïve?

What? To see humour

in a cat’s eyes?

Or nonchalance in the

swaying of a leafy branch?

Of course she wants me.

The pavement gently

caught me as I

stumbled and fell.

I own her.

Not for forever.

Just for now.

The pavement told me

with its gentle caress.

Its cold embrace

soothed my doubt.

Naïve?

The drink in my veins

screamed its protest

at the accusation.

A warmth enveloped my jeans.

I welcomed it.

My legs were wet as I stood

and eye-balled the moon.

Its wink reassured me.

Fucking naïve…

Of course she wants me.

 


My Monkeys

Monkeys make many mistakes.

Mainly my monkeys.

My monkeys meddle.

My monkeys mess.

My monkeys…..misbehave.

Mistreating my mansion.

Making my maids malevolent.

My monkeys malicious mischief

means my mistresses miss my messages.

Messages my more mad maid maybe misplaces.

My monkeys make me melancholy.

My monkeys make me mad.

My melancholy means my marriage may

make my mistresses more mistrusting.

My maid more matriarchal.

Married men make miserable

monkey masters.

Maintaining maids, mistresses,

marriages, mischievous monkeys,

mansions, makes many men

more miserable.

Miserable, mean-spirited me

met mad mechanic.

Mucky money materialised.

Mad mechanic mechanised maids,

monkeys, mistresses.

My miserable marriage

momentarily mended.

Moral: Money means mischievous

monkeys, mistrusting mistresses,

malevolent maids make magnificent

mechanical machines meaning my

marriage may maintain merry, mirthful

monogamy.

 

 


Bad Boy

Bust before bed-ridden brother’s birthday.

Bought basketball biography by baller

but began betting boxing bouts.

Brother belittled belated birthday book.

Belligerent bastard.

Because bets became big

by breakfast busting brought back

bad behaviour.

Besides betting boxing bouts,

borrowed bankers BMW,

burst bank’s barricades.

Bank bills bountifully boosted

bank balance.

Beautiful bounty became

beyond blatant.

British bobbies brought battle back,

became brilliantly barbaric.

Bang!

Bars become bloody boring background

behind bland bedspread.

Bugger.


P

Pissed pirates

playing poker,

powning players.

People perceiving politicians

potentially predatory.

Personality preventing

proper personal payments,

public purse plundered proudly.

Postmen posting post,

pretending public philosophy pertinent.

Priests praying pretty

persistently, perhaps pointlessly.

Procreating police provoking

protesters punishing phony

powerful planet polluters promoting

propagandist programs.

Privatisation painfully picking pieces,

passenger platforms,

peoples pride pushed past.

Poets providing proof,

prose, perceptions, publications,

prolific proper poetry.

Please pay pounds prior,

possibly previous partakers paying

percentage personally.

Pints.

Peace.

Promise.

Pub?

 


Homonym and a Prayer

I rose grumpy from bed,

the petals tickled my head.

The dog’s bark from the tree

has messed up my settee.

 

I reached for the ring,

this damn phone never stops.

If it wasn’t for that

I’d already be at the shops.

 

The mirror reflects

the state of my hart.

These animals in here

are impeding my art.

 

It just isn’t fair

this dark hare of mine.

My hope is it will

turn grey over time.

 

I’m in no mood for my mourning.

Another one dead.

I shouted not of my upset

but disgust instead.

 

I headed down to the kitchen.

I opened the door.

I took a bow from the corner.

I have archery at four.

 

A quick snack though first.

I cut ham by the length.

That sandwich was good,

it mustered my strength.

 

Now on into town.

I can’t bear this reign.

Anti-monarchy stickers

adorn my new pane.

 

I passed by the church.

No clergy in sight.

None is unusual,

it just isn’t right.

 

The vicars a bugger.

He preys on the weak.

Just one more offence,

he’ll be in front of the beak.


Rum Song

a black heart is dying.

an old deck’s awash with blood.

afore you send me away

look back to that day.

i opened my chest

a hinge creaked as i did.

to show you that love

that love that i kept.

it grew pale in the dark

but you showed it the sun.

afore you send me away

look back to that day.


Product

I’m a producer of products.

Production’s my game.

This poeting business

Is a shortcut to fame.

 

Packaged in plastic

And displayed on a shelf.

I advertise my words

As being good for your health.

 

Thieves will be prosecuted.

Don’t try your luck.

These words that I sell

Are copyrighted to fuck.

 

The poets of old

Had not a clue

Their flowery opinions

Are no match for the new.

 

I’m booked up solid

With corporate events.

To think that last year

I was doing festival tents.

 

My agent’s on fire

The phone never stops.

Celebrity TV,

My face in the shops.

 

I’m richer than sin

There’s no point in lying

Please help me, for fuck’s sake

My old soul is dying.

 

 

 


Headwear on Footpaths

“They’re meant to be somewhere.”

“Not here,” I said.

Wear without wearers.

Hats without heads.

 

Pavements of placards.

Litter of loss.

Leaflets discarded.

Politics and dross.

 

Competitive opinion.

Numbers decide.

Marchers and voters,

Changing the tide.

 

Batons of fairness.

Truncheons so kind.

The enforcers of order

Help make up my mind.

 

These hats on the floor

Some speckled with blood

Become cushions for boots

Some speckled with mud.

 

Woolly ones, beanies,

Bandanas, and caps.

Symbolically leaving

Their owners in packs.

 

Coalitions disbanded.

The end of the pact.

No partnership so strong.

As a wearer and hat.

 

Tis a sad day for all.

This division and rule.

To leave heads without hats

Is unusual and cruel.