siesta minute
easter
every year we die
every year we resurrect
last year’s war
as this year’s war
but i didn’t start it
you did
forgive you
don’t make me laugh
i’ll have a stitch in my side
golgotha
at mar-a-lago
a hole-in-one
but on the other hand
this fool’s gold
tried to serve
both god and mammon
and no one won
*#%!!~
the currency of expletive
is the dilution of effect
the power of expletive
is the universality of its use
what is the return on investment
at a new expletive’s birth
conjuring by conjoin
of mind and tongue’s redress
is worth not one wit without
its due effect
fuck! fuck!
we’re stuck
braggadocio
the cat
shot up the post
tore along the fence
bounced off the tree
and landed on the shed roof
that was a long time ago
forever and i say
if there was an answer
everyone
would be shouting about it
everyone
would singing the same tune
everyone
says i have the answer
as everyone
says different things
everyone
has the reason
here is the meaning of life …
to be continued …
forever and i say
a wet sunday in wales
a wet sunday in wales
the congregation of trees
swaying to the wind’s organ
their silver-capped rabbits feet
drenched with unease
their mink stole’s incongruity
as black as the slag’s sabbath
the foundry’s wrought iron cold and wet
gates and railings handled with waiting
for the pub doors to scrape open
with the squeal of the trains in the yard
their steam depressed by the rain
dampening the hearth’s cold cinders
teapots steeped in yesterday’s tales
the length of this day
twice as long as any other day
when the sun was quenched in rain
of biblical proportions that the
sunday school ladies label as the
libatiousness of the inn-keeper’s elbows
that never said a prayer other than
to plead for a barrel’s life expectancy
before time is called
both in the bar and in the pews
where both have been intoxicated by the rain
that exudes the healing properties of holy water
anointing their prayer
dear god ~ oh dear god ~ never again
turn again
i bleat like a spring lamb
at the gathering clouds
their winds of words
chopped like mint sauce
are they not the staple diet
of the slaughterhouse
the buttercups and daisies
watch on helpless as
the mob’s grass is fertilised
and the lamb’s grow fat
carried by the tumbrel of their reading
helpless in the town square
we point out into their laughter
the grim reaper is you
as they wrap their blood pieces
in the newspapers on the spike
they are in the shit for
all the good newspapers
are behind the pipe torn into squares
they have had their chips
wrapped in their staple diet
history shouts season
season of change
the dusty relic of a good shepherd
doesn’t seem so amiss
we feel that indelible dirge
that this is the only hope we have
look them in insistent’s eye
vote for volte face
turn again Dick Whittington
turn again
reading a writer writing about a writer
now i am all wet again
again soaked by his words again
again the hardback again
his reign
it will never stop
