Tag Archives: POETRY

ON WAKING UP .. .

ON WAKING UP .. . the psychologists are appearing in the Metro   or down by the open sea the viridian and the creamy white cliffs so fed up with August promises slipping away off the edge of time the … Continue reading

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BEATNIK SALAD DRESSING .. .

beatnik salad dressing .. . .. upon the copulation this vast landscape of one generation with another an age of explosions around the world victims victims cold and fragile a violence bedraggled half-baked extravagance rise of the extremists curtailed death … Continue reading

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THE CLOSER YOU ARE, THE BRIGHTER THE FLAMES IN MY HEART

The closer you are, the brighter the flames in my heart .. . Combustable your so combustable it is a song I wrote to tell you how I felt but then I burned it up Nothing is real that doesn’t … Continue reading

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IN THE MORNING .. .

IN THE MORNING .. . REVISITING A HUMOUROUS POEM I FOUND ~ THAT I WROTE IN 1986  .. .                               IN THE MORNING .. . . … Continue reading

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NOISY OCEAN .. .

noisy ocean .. . .. as January passes   and February starts scent of dopamine roses   sounds beneath the sea a madrigal of excellence   the tanker passing by windfarm helicopters   hear no ocean clicks insurmountable beasts   … Continue reading

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HOWL LOUDER .. .

howl louder .. . hands that are tied hold faces    traces of love shed from caverns sinews wrenched, borrowed shoes    pale and bruised, whitest lilly petals teasel spikes, black hole shapes    silhouetted on barbed wire brambles the … Continue reading

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AUGUST .. .

august .. . Breezette by glass of august moon just a few more puffs upon your marijuana cigarette before I die lend a moment basking in the sun for those inclement of fun counter-weight my loss of intelligence with excitement, … Continue reading

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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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. .. ‘les deux caméléons’ .. .

. .. ‘les deux caméléons’ .. . By the turnpikewe stopped off at the cornerwhispered stories to the windmy spy glasses slippedand fellyou crushed them under foot Sondeliqueno more secrets any morein the glass menageriewe’ve all been seen beforescrutinousapplies to … Continue reading

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