Category Archives: PROG-PROSE

BECAUSE PICASSO COULD DRAW .. .

because Picasso could draw .. .  ..                                                       the battle scene lay behind us  the … Continue reading →

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GUERNICA .. .

Guernica after Picasso Guernica grey blood shivers runs through my veins where are the brothers of your tortured canvas wiped with a paint-rag to your Spanish bull like an ass wipe of Richthofen’s bombers greeted only by mothers, lovers their … Continue reading →

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AURORA-METEOR FLASH LIGHTS UP MY SKY .. .

Aurora Meteor Flash Lights Up My Sky .. . .. . …. when late skies of the aurora part there is no feeling in my hands no senses running through me death is a dim cloud descending like cold water … Continue reading →

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A MASH OF OATS AND MAMMARIES .. .

a mash of oats and mammaries .. . buildings grow from scaffold lines indian red and maroon-esque squeezed out from the landscape a bedrock of social-ution collusion and there the dark prince comes tripping upon the telegraph wires architects shading … Continue reading →

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THE TRAINS GO THUNDERING BY .. . .. .

The Trains Go Thundering By .. . The trains go thundering by more a figure of speech I sit at the corner of a dusty road forlorn much of hope The tanks came after then the larks sprung forth and … Continue reading →

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featuring NICO .. .

featuring Nico .. . Around this woollen ball, this puff of life jangled strings zip, zang across the bridge echoed voices caught tap tapping on the backboard white noise an alternating love song Did you get inside Picasso’s head or … Continue reading →

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KEALING .. .

kealing .. . I was John Betjeman I was Mata Hari executed at dawn thieves to the left of me saints in red robes to the right absorbed into the darkness today you will be with me you will kiss … Continue reading →

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HONESTLY .. .

honestly .. . .. I wandered by my hometown station no trains run anymore they dug up the track there is an antique dealer there he opens up on three days a week to sell old things not chicken wings … Continue reading →

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THE BICKER WOMEN .. .

THE BICKER WOMEN .. . Who wears best this shawl of uncertainty  whose mind is trained of fears furrowto bow at noon – the bells of the Angelus  when blackened clouds of hell descendaround the fair shoulders of the puissant  … Continue reading →

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PERIWINKLE MEETS INDIGO and THEY HAVE CHILDREN .. .

Periwinkle meets Indigo and they have children .. . . . There is a gap in the cloud today     where the ink has run and stained the sky the most perfect blue where rain falls through     … Continue reading →

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