Bloaters or anchovies - bad poetry

Last night, the ice cream man told me,
"Son, you got to decide,
On your own, if you want bloaters of anchovies,
Because I'm just an ice cream man,
I can give you tutti frutti,
That tastes like something that came out of a rat's ass.
But bloaters or anchovies?
That's your choice."

THE DAWNS...

Selina

(Photo by Rod Lane-poem inspired by Ezra Pound)


Bah! I have sung men in three cities;
They're all the same.
So let me sing of starlight and waves.

Smiles,flutters--you snare them.
Fantasies, words--they curl into your hand.
Those spells of pagan times:
Candles, incense, burnt offerings to the god--
You call them your own,
But you are nothing,
Just the whisperer of dead songs.

Smiles, laughter, touch--so the night goes.
I take my wares to the road once more;
Forgotten, I continue--
They must tune their instruments for the next singer.
You are nothing.
Yet they say, Selina, the moon goddess,
once hidden between the linens,
Selina of the sorrowful heart.
Silver lighted,bursting into bright flare.
How well we sit between her thighs.
Would that she would visit us again--
Taunt us once more with her silky voice
While we wile away the nothingness
As the moon and stars become one.
Yes, the dream continues...

I have sung men in three cities.
They blend into one.
They know nothing of sunlight,
So let me sing of blackened waves and dark tides.

God's blood! You mock us, woman!
You forget the chants of old--
no more warbling of strange enchantments.
We knew you once; we'll know you again--yes, all of us:
While you break your glance upon the rocks.
and curse the vileness that sought us out.
You say we are nothing.
This we know.

You choose

'You're behaving like a woman who's poisoning me.'
'What! I just told you how much I love you.'
'Exacta-fucking-lutely!'

Within an hour one of them was dead - sprawled on the formica.

RuKsaK

Mothers-in-law

Taken 11th November - Dunoon.

I would suggest that the collective noun for a pair of mothers-in-law should be a competition.

It should be noted that each in the competiton has an identical role but with precisely opposite aims.

.

modern crime

400,000 people are dead

2 million people have been displaced

more are dying every day

this isn’t poetry

this isn’t prose

this isn’t art

this is criminal

this is sudan and it is happening now

now in the dust and the dirt

underneath an unforgiving sun

watched by an uncaring world

our world

400,000 people are dead.

I want to fuck her

She walks in the room flicking her hands and eyelashes because she's arty. She wears a shawl in some kind of bright Eastern colours, just so she can talk about artistic things.

I want to fuck her because she's only a work of art when she comes.

RuKsaK

heroes

It may sound absurd
But don’t be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed
But won’t you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me

Stones

One stone from the desert, one stone from the beach. Which is which? And what if even I couldn't remember?


.

sounding - sinking - sweetly

SOUNDING
the sounding sea beats
in my heart for you, lover
i throb for a taste

SINKING
my heart screams your name
press'd - soul-splitting howls
sinking into grief

SWEETLY
love whispers your name
sweetly, in the dark corners
of my wilting heart

grace grotesquely crumbles

your grace
crumbles
into grotesque flakes
as your fingertips slash
my tender silken face
with rage and vengence

steeped
in self-loathing
you infect me -
impale my gauzy soul
on your poisoned barbs:
hatred and lusty greed

once, i loved you -
worshipped you, adored you
and darkness
eviscerated my heart
as i watched my adoration stream past
your inert, stoney heart

my trembling eyes splinter
into a thousand tears
when i look upon your face -
my reflection -
in the looking glass
you ... you ... you ... always ... you

this dark riverbed of adoration
that flowed in my viscera for you
has dried up; my heart --
which once glistened sublimely inside yours,
now lies in eternal anguish:
dessicated, petrified, searingly denuded

your grace crumbles
into grotesque flakes
of grief, rage and greed
soaked in the brine of remorse
you beg, like i did, for morsel of mercy
i will starve you of forgiveness

Dying Season

I haven't posted here in a while... been too busy updating my regular blog. But here's a little something:

Sickly words drip off her tongue,
I turn my head and vomit.

He puts his arm around me,
I shrug him off with eyes of stone.

I invited them into my fortress of ice
and melted in the rain.

Drip
Drip
Drip
I fell apart,
so I pushed and ran away.

Repulsion escapes a grinning face--
Irritation evoked,
Emotions provoked
sadness for loss
full of remorse
of gardens portrayed
to always stay in bloom.

Winter is here,
the flowers have died--
I sigh...
count my blessings,
and move on with life.

Copyright Eating Poetry: www.eatingpoetry.com

discharge (that enigmatic breath porcelain skull)

"he loves him and he dreams him
he smiled him into kisses, so
he bent blind between him
for him all night to whimper
then joining seperate spines"

Porcelain Skull see's things that have never been.
his tongue is morning mist.
his eyes are from a distant place.
he tastes of cork.
.
.
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speak to the dark angels