braggadocio

 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

 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 

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

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

 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 

child stood

 child stood

a plaid mind 

where all five senses 

are intertwined 

in a time when time

itself ran wild 

bouncing 

hoop stick rolling

wings on heels

having spun spin some more

and laughter was a giddy delight

hanging upside down

the world at the end of your hair

grasses shivery shaking

oh by god we did

do you remember 

when i carried you 

mystery

 mystery

memory

as cloudy as a memory

lost around a looking

past the fences

around far misty ways 

around the outside of

looking for that memory

that as you recall 

was a true memory 

if only you could

recall how it was that

it slipped away from you

you left it somewhere 

you had it you did 

you know that 

now just think