National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 08/04/17

 

Off We Go to the Circus

 

Polished Spam beneath a cloud of hay,

full of grubby dollar bills, shit and piss,

gargling garbage, stinking like a drain

grabbing at pussies and licking his lips.

 

Full of grubby dollar bills, shit and piss,

he’s made of bacon, baking up hate,

grabbing at pussies and licking his lips,

sweating primal musk in your cornflakes.

 

He’s made of bacon, baking up hate,

swaggering about, bragging about his,

sweating primal musk in your cornflakes,

rubbing greasepaint straight on to his tits.

 

Swaggering about, bragging about his,

gargling garbage, stinking like a drain,

rubbing greasepaint straight on to his tits

polished Spam beneath a cloud of hay.

 

 

Image result for trump lookalike bird

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 07/04/17

No News is Good News

Jack Wagon stared out of the window as hills and rivers rushed past, meandering busily alongside the track. He wore a purple zoot suit and a pair of wombat skin brogues and carried a newspaper strewn haphazardly across his tiny lap but, to his great shame, he did not know how to read it.

“Seat taken?”

An uncaring voice interrupted his landscape enjoyment. A small bald man was leering at him from the aisle. He was dressed in a sort of trench coat and may have been nude underneath. Certainly he had his knees out. Jack formulated a response.

“Well, I think that…”

“Cheers, mate.”

The stranger plonked himself down, already too close for comfort. Jack detected a dirty citrus tang in his nostrils. The invasion of his personal space continued unabated.

“This weather, eh?”

“Yes.” Jack answered, immediately wondering if he had been too terse. The man did not seem to notice.

“What are you reading there?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“The paper, is it the Mail?”

“Aren’t they all?”

The conversation was veering into uncomfortable territory but luckily, greed intervened and the lemony cue ball revealed his true motivation.

“Done with that? Mind if I have it?”

Relieved, Jack handed it over, glad to be rid of the wretched thing. The man snorted his gratitude, rolled the paper into a tight tube and bent over the hand rest staring back knowingly at Jack. He pulled up his coat to reveal his hairy cheeks as the train crashed violently into a Volvo dawdling on the level crossing and Jack was spared from witnessing the act by a swift and fiery death

        the paper phoenix

           fluttering into the flames

emerges unscathed

Image result for purple zoot suit

National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 05/04/17

Linked

The man with the yellow hair approached the cave with caution, crouched and creeping, scheming a solution to the problem of possession. The lizard men, purple skinned and feathered sat or stood, some laughing, others dancing, all guarding the object of his affection, a solid oak box bound with brass fittings. The air was thick with the stench of lizard men together; a dense, musky funk that stung the nostrils and clouded his thoughts

the sword of the stone

    calls your inner warrior

to bathe in their blood

He stood, holding aloft his wicked curved blade and shining shield and charged the nearest lizard man, catching him unawares with a cut across the throat. A club crashed down beside him as he wheeled on his heels and clattered another with his shield before back flipping away, firing a flaming arrow at the peak of his flight through bone as he caught a wicked club blow to the chest that knocked him backwards, down into dust and darkness…

awaken saviour!

                  the Princess needs her hero,

       your name is foretold

 

Image result for zelda

National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 02/04/17

Marina Bay Sands

An enormous surfboard structure sits atop three white skyscrapers, towering above the bay. An azure blue sweep of water, speckled with tourists and selfie sticks, stretches the length of the gigantic shelf with no edge apparent, seemingly nothing to separate the laughing and tanned from falling fifty seven floors into the tarmac heart of the resort

        the great and the good

                    suspended, floating in clouds

forgetting to swim

Image result for marina bay sands

Blockbusters, Abridged





The Fast and the Furious



Some people go fast

in Hot Wheels cars.

Vin Diesel sports

a grappling hook.



Legally Blonde




 

A blonde woman

isn’t stupid;

she is instead

an attorney.



Moonwalker




 

Michael Jackson fights

drug gangs and Joe Pesci

to save kids; he turns

into a freaking robot.



Lethal Weapon




 

Riggs!

He’s crazy!

I am too old

for this shit.



Titanic




 

Leonardo Di Caprio

fucks Kate Winslet;

I think we all know

how this one ends.






Image from: www.msbnana.blogspot.com

A Flight and a Crash

Tradition,

religion,

our flight plan repetition

dead people’s luggage clogs the runways of the mind.

Terrorism,

fundamentalism

exploitation of the blind

grounded forever in the baggage of your kind,

Tradition,

religion,

tied up together in tales of better times

with snapped straps that we have chosen to rebind.

Ignorance,

delusion,

travelling through life, imaginary friends at your side

  tell us all exactly what it is that you expect to find?

Illumination?

Inner peace?

Enlightment?

An afterlife?

My friends, the truth is that we are all just flying blind,

  whirling on a rock, staring at a star with streaming eyes

and we are all alone, together, hoping it will rise,

and that we are just a moment, blinking through the sky.

Image is “Earthrise” from Wikipedia taken by William Anders on the Apollo 8 moon mission: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earthrise

By Hook or By Crook

Frost vs Nixon

 

Smashed in riotous circumstances,

he wobbled at every function

fanatically followed by “the sheep”

he called them; and they followed

bleating their two-bit ambitions

in the wake of his rising star.

 

He really didn’t care;

they liked the money,

he liked the company,

it was lonely at the top.

He popped another

and dove right in.

 

The flock grew infamous behind him,

braying loudly, squabbling furiously,

eager to sup from the hand that fed

too busy clutching at bottles instead,

fighting dirty, spreading muck and filth,

he was theirs, at least in their heads.

 

They really didn’t care,

his cash stopped flowing,

he was empty inside,

they’d drunk him dry.

They waved goodbye

 

The shepherd cried out

but nobody listened;

it was all just an act,

the boy who cried wolf,

nominated by the Academy

consumed by the herd.