On zoom sat at home
It could be Naples, Florence or Rome
I am bleeding
Ones and zeros
Come here into my room
Come here to my room
I want you to be
In real time focus
Like the Entire world seems fuzzy
At least on zoom
My head has gone
Come see me in my room
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Little bit of rain
Little of wind
Shaking the stems
Moving the strings
Playing the tunes on the violin
Crickets rubbing legs
Trunks entwined twisting
Whistling and creaking
And Praising like a shaker
Devout in wind bowing
Bouquet of flowers bending
Breaking the bough
The whole howling orchestra knowing
Conducting these instruments of woodwind blowing
Clarinet of lime, bassoon of bowling ash
Proud deep oboe of pine
Brass tacks failing
As the barbed wire fence is plucked out
The catastrophic beat of the Oak drums thump
As they fall in the fields
Where the rain is hurled
Like sweeping bows that dart
Back and forth as tiny fish in a pool
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Well, Well the squirrel walked along the street
Only sure thing was
He would meet the crow
On his toe, on point
And the baby was crying in the cupboard with the
Stocking filler
And the pipe cleaner was working double time
In twin town where two eyes ruled the place
With iron pupils
Who shielded all the suns and daughters of the planets
Who were coming to eat us up
I said to squirrel why don't you throw
Yourself upon the mercy of the great Nut God
Squirrel said
I beg you for I have buried my God
I give them sacred burial in hallowed ground of oak
And crow stands in the juice of the well
Is brought up through all the sacrifice
Of cathedral people
And Cats with claws the length of a
Long dark night
Until finally it can be seen in the bolus of the hedgehog
Dragging cats through himself backwards
Then feeding himself to a dog
Because it is a thousand times better
Than being flattened on the road of no hope
Or chastened to a marry -go-round being dragged by a rope
That says but never delivers the zen master at his track
With the Elvis jumpsuit
Doing the dynamo jack
And star jumps in concession queues
To buy his quesy groceries under speculative gazes
Of the bespectacled eyes
In Twin town
Waking in the morning Squirrel sees he had forgotten his gods
And they have grown into saplings of oak trees
And that's what happens when you ignore your Gods
Then hedgehow spoke from the wayside to crow who
Was peeling a walruses skin from his shoulders
And asked him to pass the salt
Oh mighty hedgehow, how does your hedge grow?
In the seedlings of hogs?
In the dirt of underground tiffany dining sets
All orchestrated and cut up in diamond soup
That you know is knowledge of the beaten spoon
And drowned in the kings pallete of plate glass painting
His brow like rain, falling on the bow ceiling
Of his cathedral of pain
Where many fine orchestras play
Oh Jesus Sancti, fire my brains out of your mouth
In a stevendores grace as he laces his boots to the sky
And prepares to unload and die
But Noah was riding in on a Mare calling Night, Night
Beware for my Ark is wrestling in the light
And my dark is a hero of the knight
And sutres are dyed a billion colours
The length of kidney canned
And left on supermarket shelves
For dog food
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
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.