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God of the bus stop
Dying to feel fuck all, get a buzz on at all times Bristling at cold whistling Spandau’s Gold at the bus stop, Ormeau Road With my hand out like a cordial offer to a former foe Passed the old graveyard, whistled Hymn to Pan, accidentally invoked Chaos I couldn’t control in my left hand Tossed…
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Are these earplugs ghost child proof?
Sock drawers stocking more rocks than Dorset Move like a boxer if the task’s enforcement Hot as red dot topped faucets Pinky out snout up drinking tea with saucers My worries are an aborted child Won’t arrive, soon or anytime. In the wild of night hear loud crying From down the hall, something calling Pitter…
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Who needs another description of night?
Niche, my sheesh-provoking teachings have narrow reach, low yield “They” police my preaching but I’m still breaching Each release a rocket screeching Bleaching even the blackest evening Thousands of stars I could see; Cocaine remnants sprinkled across a switched off tablet screen. Moon like turned eggs all Yellow flecked white.
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The last picture
Lightning flashes Like a flasher’s camera On the date of his capture Plans carefully made suddenly unravel Hidden pasts given up naturally, Time’s way of caring. The light from the bolt divorced the victim’s last picture From a night alike a whiteless knight’s colt’s black coat. In a dirty alley, his curt life ended badly…
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The secret of sitting for portraits
Sitting for courtly portraits Hours unmoving, some find torturous I slink off, go somewhere else, you see Escape through a portal into outer Me Gateless, without palisades No corners, shapes or names Where elephants, grapes, bridges, hadrosaurs and regretted days Are each one and one the same; A place where is and is not shame…
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Alchemisland 