Grown Up Stressed Bards
Frantic endeavour
Copious buddy of work
Escalates apace
Paper smokes trail pens
Million words a minute
Copulation explosions
Consenting adults freeform
Open ended sentences
Frantic endeavour
Copious buddy of work
Escalates apace
Paper smokes trail pens
Million words a minute
Copulation explosions
Consenting adults freeform
Open ended sentences
Amber russet orange red
Rowan burning bronzed pure gold
Hope glows eternal
Ancient political networks
Fuel everlasting bonfires
rebellious groundswells
Bluster mocks lustre
Earth burns hard ore core
~
Burnished furnaces blossom
Forth molten volcanic biles
Carbonised cadavers caught
Out inside grim treasuries
Consumed in seething lava
Heading hillward in mansion
Taxis are soon consumed
In overwhelming flames
Antebellum
cerebellum
war winds blow
storm clouds gather
bidding no one no good for
crafty watchers
sporting adaptable sussed
liminal subjects
venal sentinels.
Yes, you spotted it.
Saturday morning once again.
Bumptious wireless nattering.
Time is a smartphone lost in the wash.
Turn back the clock an era.
Pete Conrad is goofing on the moon.
Retreat into dreams.
Vacate white screaming rooms.
Hide keys to secrets
in fast forgotten crannies.
Robbing the rich is a crime.
Robbing the poor’s Capital.
Get that coffee down you, pal.
You need it more than you know.
Elliptic cryptic triptych
Larder of Turkish Delights
Erroneous Bosch
Chemical cosh created
For dosh crazed Eternity
Polemical cant
Canonical rant
Never behave as your told
Act your shoe size not your age
Dolores del Rio
Slept naked and light
Under a mosquito net
When the howls started
Red ants enveloped her
Wading defiant ravenous
Steadfast as Durutti columns
About her omphalos
Lapping crass molasses
Slow high thin black cloud
Bisected the fulsome moon
As a cut throat razor rent
Her mindseye’s worst nightmare
Of being eaten alive
When our hero Joe Gobi
Got wind of what happened
He hit the tin roof
‘A travesty…that’s what it is’
Silence loud as no cicadas
Echoed round the caravanette
We had no stomach for the sea
Night was falling anyway
It was back to the pueblo
For anchovies al fresco
Tea tree pungency
Midday twenty three.
Kilbride’s secret went
to the grave with him
everso tiny
peanut butter sandwiches
stitched into his stomach lining
there were no flies on Kilbride
just wasps and hornets
Pretty common for late August
In Andalucía
Observations of a soggy flower
do not set the world ablaze.
There’s enough grief to
go round these days
I suppose
common old perennials
grow back when people don’t.
So sorry Lily,
you’ve had your fifteen minutes