Life Dancing in a Rear
View Mirror
I'm a double edged samurai sword in a pregnant tsunami,
a conundrum, an atheist, a monotheist.
I apply a three blade razor to a two year stubble,
the mirror coated in more blood than an erupting aorta,
Touching the pain of passing, I eat daisy chains
constructed from barbed wire fencing and knitting needles,
when a reality check finds me eating dried apricots
to cure the cancer I caught from just being alive.
I bite back fear, obliterate mind numbing memories,
and place carefully on a rough round dining table, souls
that have been hung out to dry on a windless day,
the irony, cooling on a line where clothes haven't been for months.
I suck Lollipops with bad teeth, bad vibes and a very bad breath.
The dustman empties my outtake weekly, the rest I keep,
and so the Sword of Damocles cuts deep,
my face bleeding with the pain of despondency.
The dark annals of my writing echo my living thoughts,
and those reading my dying thoughts will cringe.
They didn't help me - families, the depth of my ache,
several children who don't ring, siblings who squabble.
I pass my memory to the volumes of poetry I have written,
my knuckles bare from years of chagrined living.
Succinctly, I approach the sunset of life, the sword gone,
just painted visions of a life lost in a missing rear view mirror.
I'm a double edged samurai sword in a pregnant tsunami,
a conundrum, an atheist, a monotheist.
I apply a three blade razor to a two year stubble,
the mirror coated in more blood than an erupting aorta,
Touching the pain of passing, I eat daisy chains
constructed from barbed wire fencing and knitting needles,
when a reality check finds me eating dried apricots
to cure the cancer I caught from just being alive.
I bite back fear, obliterate mind numbing memories,
and place carefully on a rough round dining table, souls
that have been hung out to dry on a windless day,
the irony, cooling on a line where clothes haven't been for months.
I suck Lollipops with bad teeth, bad vibes and a very bad breath.
The dustman empties my outtake weekly, the rest I keep,
and so the Sword of Damocles cuts deep,
my face bleeding with the pain of despondency.
The dark annals of my writing echo my living thoughts,
and those reading my dying thoughts will cringe.
They didn't help me - families, the depth of my ache,
several children who don't ring, siblings who squabble.
I pass my memory to the volumes of poetry I have written,
my knuckles bare from years of chagrined living.
Succinctly, I approach the sunset of life, the sword gone,
just painted visions of a life lost in a missing rear view mirror.
Curdled
She showered me with
pepper,
spicing a lost
relationship,
I already had enough
salt,
27 years of hard slog
In a Navy that spat me
out.
She garnished me with
bacon
to go with my cheesy
grin,
sandwiched between
two daughters laughing,
a burgher take out.
She plied me with red
wine
to make her kiss
more receptive
I swallowed my pride
and her inquiring
dances.
She bathed me in goats
milk,
to curdle for the
cheese,
my spinning action
calculated
to deprive me of my
sanity,
I rinsed with tepid
water.
A Day when everything went tits up.
Her embodiment
personalised
plates on a car for ego
to exhaust and exhume
drive flotsam and
jetsam
into a tide receding
like her mortality
she lives the day when
rabbit
cottontails flutter in
a breeze
hurricane force of
course
the wind licks white
horses
into shapes of
demonising
staffs of adventure and
ice cream,
I lick postage stamps
and stick
figures dance the danse
macabre
as blades of light
sever ties
on businessmen
travelling the tube
of toothpaste and
pregnant smiles
littering the space
between Heaven and Hell
a song made famous by
some aging rock group
might have been Ozzy in
a manic representation
of ghouls and ghosts on
a train track
carrying sleeping
passengers and crumpled clothing
and suitcases of
nutters on bikes zig zagging
their way into
notoriety, named and shamed
on a bulletin board on
an internet
sold for a bargain on
Ebay and TradeMe
the same item, double
dipping, stripping
the wall paper from a
gloomy room in a house
where the repatriation
of soul and spirit mingle
with the Battersby's
next door, hunters, gatherers
at Christian festivals
where God is High, all say Hi,
Hallelujah kicked the
bucket, suck in Nantucket
Only In America, the
Land of the Free
with prisons full to
overflowing, the grass mowing
to keep the weeds at
bay, to protect society, ramshackle
the pace of life and
Electrocution, starvation, Africa
south of the wealth of
Golden Europe, banks
on rivers swelling with
the afternoon sun
and a skinny dipper,
paint stripper, Flipper
alone in his TV
stardom, back flips, twists
of hair in my brush as
I beat back the mullet
a fish full of oil and
ten quid of squid to catch
a schnapper, clapper,
boy he's dapper, rapper
of heart and mind the
words lost in hip hop
at the shop where
Rajhad sells porn to wankers
and wankers drive
tankers during the day
their prostate
diminishing in size and effect,
we reject Pamela
Anderson and Tommy Lee
as Hollywood wannabes
and a Scotsman
with gonorrhoea in his
prick and his ear
espouses the virtue
according to Robbie Burns
the toast in the
morning and smokes the house
down the road from the
Dairy and the Wholesalers,
across the street a
lamp flickers in dim dusk
the colour gray of
course, plain suits
law suits, funeral
suits, cheroots smoked
and flamed and the
whole world goes to war
a place where bodies in
the forties were incinerated
what mentality does
that? I follow dementia down a vein
injected with heroin
and sugar sweet reality, puff
a little huff a little,
crap a little die a little, glucose
and I'm back on the
road again, as is she who started this
a piss in a lake where
swans make love and children swim.
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