The drummond cough, the diamond scoffed
The dear Jon toffed at the toffee cart
He was in a huff, he sniffed some snuff
And broke with lily and her heart
The Frogman jumped,
The loggerman lumped
And lumberjacked his art
As trunks they cuffed
In chains as huffed
The Policewoman who was miles apart
She maced his base, then aced his face
Tears of disgrace and pain did start
All too rough, they did act tough
But now the fire's too bright to see them
The fire that burns between them
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Down in the dumps
Where everything jumps
The rabbit thumps
And the old dog slumps
Down in the dumps
Where the sea gull stumps
His old broken leg
Over the lumps
Well things are looking up
Down in the dumps
Full of rubbish, and garbage and waste
Full of tubes of tooth paste
And the bitter taste
More pace less haste
Leads you down the road
to the dumps
The tip, the refuse heap
Where they give you a clip
Tell you to pin yourself
To the dart board
Where the bicycle pumps
Don't work
Full of knots, and cots, and hotspots
Full of nettles and kettles and forget-me-nots
Where the flowers grow over
Other people's junk
Some ships have sunk
An iron hunk
These are the things you find
Down in the dumps
But there is blue sky crying
Its colour into the grey
Leaching its powers into
better days
And has-been machines
That should have been on their way
But stay
Like a museum
To remark upon decay
Yet the sun always shines upon them
The birds will still sing
This spring, that winter
Days have past and been seen
Some things were built to last
Some are known as sure things
Some in racks some in ruins
Some wrecks are the balls of a giant
Many are marked by the strong
Sinewy muscles ligaments and tendons
Of diggers turned to rust
But stand unyielding to the last
Waiting the dying rays of the sun
They endure
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Killern, Killern
Strange in remembering the numb
Bum of ttack
From boredom
And reverie
The dream of Gerontius
And the father of flea
Or was it flee, jump fly
Escape
Take the leap of faith
Even you yes you
Could be the next winner of
The exclusive tape
Wound about the ears of priests who listen
Dogs who don't
Frozen Christenings
And bottle neck births
Too tight
To know
Their ass from their elbow
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Matis sitting down
the ruly Matis in the pompadue centre
The big time piano
Perhaps now I think that the book in the house
Always Matisz is on a postcard or poster
Lots of production
The Matisz is reproduced a lot
Lost in the modern worls
Its reproductivitivy
He stops in the force
Very truly an artiste
In the xposition
If Matis is always here, he rests
We look for colour, absolute resolution
It is used therefore the period
Take it always the it encourages the artist
A p
And I demand the
The first impression is a plastic
He consider the first the expression was conserved, he was complex, until he could move into tphotography
Vanessa progressive
It is truly an expression of force
29may
For exmple in the first tableu
A liberty characteristic
The old lines
Matis started a tableu
On the table beaucoup
It is closed until next year
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
All aboard on the Danish coast
The glowing reports
Of nethermost
And birds that heard the shred of lies
The truth in tatters by the pork pies
A call was heard from Amsterdam
The chocolate toast, the raspberry jam
And colder nose, but older ties
Hold those most, until he dies
Freezing in the underworld
Of doom disappear over a girl
Achilles swears then shoes away
A hornet from his ankles sway
And castanet, and bells they jangle
As fishing nets and horns they tangle
Up in the deep blue of Grecian seas
Oh me oh my oh me
For further down the lullaby
A dog is labelled an Angel now
And the angel is in the house how
Does it go with thee?
The birds they fly in kaleidoscopes
And other tires bring other ropes
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
It is the fourth wall
The fourth time around
That my cliffs fall
And time's oceans roll
In delicate rhymes of whale song
Down garden paths where I belong
Too too-fated prices of corn
In the gob of the chief of the indians
I cut away his tongue and say bull
Bully bull finch
Through fried green tomato skies
Of the Northern lights
Where cold eskimo people dwell
I clash like a four-poster bed upon the shore of
Your reeling consciousness and hope stands guard
Out side the caravan of your despair
That makes its way through the desert and the tented ladies there
And camping hands are sprung in traps
As baby birds are eaten by reindeer
And filtered back through water taps
In the fourth wall that is broken down
And segways of conversation
That never muster dreggs of disintegration
Into holes like sheep jumping over bars of soap
Or shower head reaching epiphanies in the graveyard shifts
Of cat and dog mouse trap trips
Where each tail is tasted like a bead of sweat from a heaving bible
Carried on the back of the Siamese army
Marching through twin town
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
When my day comes
Everything is gonna taste sweet
There'll be Candy Castles
And Sugary people, all down the street
I'll lick the lamposts
I'll chew on the kerb
The chocolate soldiers will stand at their posts
And there'll be toffee trees and sherbert herbs
When my day comes in Chocolate town
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.