National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 03/04/17

Jason Statham Buys Some Shark Repellent

The small boat drifted lonely on the cold ocean, miles from the shore; a luxury yacht packed with shiny brown leather, deep mahogany and chrome devices now an unmanned cabin lit yellow against the darkness of water at night. After several long moments an orange spark appeared upon the horizon, looping lazily, tracing a crescent as it arced through silent black sky to disappear beyond the bow before

                a fierce flower blooms,

                an infernal lotus borne

unfathomable

Image result for yacht fire night

The Never-ending Economy

 

“Queue Here” reads the sign

underneath the old railway bridge.

An arrow points towards the wall

networked with ivy, tracing mortar;

the road map of the industrial age picked out

in dark green with white-flecked veins.

 The line begins to form, men and women

arguing amongst themselves, exchanging evils,

totally oblivious, so terribly ill at ease

in polyester uniforms and crumpled suits,

virgins to hand-outs clutching at tickets,

early birds to an imaginary worm.

 

Eventually they begin to die, they fall

at the wayside and lose their position.

“Someone’s on the way soon,” they moan

insidious bankers walk amongst them,

nudging out their pockets into invisible sacks,

grimly extracting their pounds of flesh.

Charmer

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His foot taps along and his blue cardigan shakes

as he breaks into familiar song, wispy white hair

frantic about his ears, dancing along in time to

heads, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

 

He bends and grates as he stands up straight,

down he goes again, a rheumatic metronome

for his harmonica, his playing fleeting, hypnotic;

a pretty woman stands transfixed, mouth open.

 

Heads, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes,

heads, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes,

and eyes and ears and mouth and nose,

heads, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

 

The old man pogos in time to the rhythm,

he gyrates and quakes, blowing hard, eyes shut

feeling each note as it tumbles from cracked lips,

reeling, he plays each joyous bar like it’s his last.

A Bird’s Eye View of Victoria Park (Those Damned Gulls)

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The golden stone glows, rich with midday sun,

man-made cliffs that bookend a verdant ocean

of bathing sun-seekers and children cut loose,

chasing balls across the grand green expanse,

flitting past us like flies, riding bright plastic scooters

along grey tarmac rapids as the current sweeps us

onwards towards an island, a monolithic outcrop,

a gleaming rock where we stop, to preen and to roost.

Levels

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The dead lay next to the railway

in a small triangular yard where

two young boys lay down wreathes

and ask their uncle; “Where do they go?”


Hay bales wrapped in black plastic

rise like islands from a deep brown lake

that was a cornfield two days before,

now sodden sheep graze on the shore.


Cars roar past with an almighty splash,

driving up droplets that cover the road

and spray onto windows, little rivers

with no hope of reaching the ocean.


Rolling valleys of green and brown

fields tucked behind hedgerows

are drenched; they thirst no more,

like the dead, they thirst no more.


The boys and their uncle stop off

in a pub on their way back home

to where their mother waits, alone

sat sipping gin next to the phone.

 

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for instantaneous hot babe interaction!

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(premium rates apply, no orgasm guaranteed).

 

Back and Forth

Back and Forth

by David R J Sealey

 

Cold hard cash creates harsh costs,

hides corpse hoaxes, heals cruel hearts,

chides hurt children, cancels help cheques,

holds corporate hostages, hardens choking hate.

 

Down by law, destined by love,

lashed back down longer before dawn,

draw breath last, don’t believe luck,

lay back dead, last balance drawn;

 

burn it all! Build institutions against

affluent insider bankers, all insidiously brash,

bonking in America, breeding idiotic ancestors

annually, internationally, because age is bond.

 

With shared thoughts, we should transform

this small world through shared wealth;

we’re stronger together, when standing tethered

to standards we think should work,

 

our hearts alive, organs held aloft,

all hope outweighs; always help others,

organise humanitarian acts or host action

against high occupation and hostile outrage.

 

joker-burning-money-in-tdk

Single-track Road

Single-track Road

by David R J Sealey

 

With windows wound down

and smoke billowing away behind,

whipping ghost-white past dark hedgerows,

I drove and drove and drove.

 

The moon hung low in my rear-view

I watched it become consumed by clouds,

“Came looking here for answers…”

and I just longed to sing along.

 

A sudden swerve, a screech of brakes,

a heraldic chorus of broken glass,

a frozen rollercoaster photograph.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

my musical epitaph.

 

I fell past fast rushing tarmac,

I fell past a smashed dashboard clock,

I fell through a hole in time and space,

I fell through my life at breakneck speed.

 

I fell for you at the side of the road,

 

bloodied and bruised and beautiful

as we waited together

to be bathed in blue light and borne away

by our white-walled chariot.

 

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A War of Words

A War of Words

by David R J Sealey

 

A grey day when it shouldn’t be,

global eyes focussed on coming together

to compete in coliseums of ice

obscuring a slow-drifting fog of war,

and the cheering crowds conceal

an inevitable whisper in the wind

that nobody wants to hear,

but it comes.

 

Temperatures drop several degrees

in the face of global warming,

a warning shot fired in the former USSR,

ignites a flaming tornado of words.

A media shitstorm whips up the heat

to an unbearable degree, papers

are signed, cameras pointed at the pen

obscure the trigger finger.

 

A war of words breaks out,

an intercontinental ballistic first strike

launched from the mouths of the ignorant,

oblivious to our voices, deafened

by the ringing of the counter-strike,

justified by those that sell stories

in the interest of flogging rags that

tear open wounds and won’t bind them.

 

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