Driving Up the Dusty Lane

Driving up the dusty lane,

Up and down as the valley

Rolls and pulls the vehicle

Into troughs and high ground again,

As on a fairground Ferris ride.

It’s lazy down there,

On the corner where the red poppies

And the hay corn on the other,

Surprise you constantly

With their fire cracked, wind rushed

Red and gold.

All this in a car.

You see everything, everywhere

In a split scene,

Striking, but ultimately lost

To memory,

As soon as you pass by.

But I remember the corner,

Just before the dipping lane,

The rubies and the crowns

Created by nature for nature.

Beckon Me On

Beckon me on, heart

Heart of gold like a tank of tigers.

They rip at my riches,

Juggernauting and might defying,

Crashing silently into my identity.

My heart wrecks

Like a ship caught on the rocks,

I’m splintered hard on the depth defying

Gravity.

Beckon me on blunt charity,

Keeps me guessing

Edging myself upon the slippery pedestal

Which has a kind of

Buttery texture,

As lard has upon the frying pan.

So the tiger tank pounds its energy

Right through my whole heart,

As I, in the shade of

A tree look around

At nothing and bare witness

To nothing as the blood cells fight

The tigers, rocketing their way

Through.

WordSpeak #02

A great photo journalist,

Taking pictures, taking time,

Flying, hoping for the perfect shot.

Making ready the digital magic,

Clicking, spluttering, lens, wide eyed,

Bushy browed, bright blue bucket,

Self pity, enveloped, pushed into corners,

Flittered away on an indian summer breeze.

Writing reports of the African trip,

Seen no longer as a safari,

More a crisis of illusion. 

Breathing locomotive smoke, sideways facing,

Always mentoring the troops,

To take themselves somewhere remote,

Like Antarctic.  

Word-speak #01

Words splatter, whenever I am by your side.

Beach whale shore, new vale over eyes,

Accelerates and kick starts into life

Your bleeding heart.

Feeding frenzy, in house get togethers,

Plunging in and stoning crows,

Belonging together, all in rows,

Sanctify it down, eight beside nine,

Thinking in over quickly,

A pallisade and rhyme.

Killing brain energy, with a single massive cake,

Would fool anyone, if you want to stay up late.

Stupid Bosses

Stupid bosses, writhing around
In ignorant blunder.
Nobody speaks to you, 
Except for their own contemptible good.
The bad things they tend to keep to themselves,
They who are bereft of soul,
Absent of worthwhile matter,
Stubborn in their office,
Of choice and robotic stagnation.

They're an emblem of the code of Jack,
They utter silently, partying
Hard to a diet of
Nonsense tasks and 
Futile audits.
It's hard for the normal people 
To understand the horrible
Nature of the cranking and fuming despots.

Baking in backlog,
Faking in figures,
Jesting with their guts, 
Green with the envy and 
Joy of watching people fail.

untitled #131113b

Inside a plankton cloud,
There are rules to be seen.
Alongside the bombed angels,
Who hide up and in the mist and the fog,
The quality control forgoes
Marble glasses, bend, shift,
A mouse hole, kingdom,
Full of size and strength and white,
Moths flutter around,
Full of air and surprise.

Glass eyed vision, fills the 
Cloud with Jesuit conundrums,
That crinkles and keeps on running. 
In the bottom of his tummy,
There is a complete tank,
Where green and red collide,
In vase shelf bedrooms, in mazes.

untitled #131013

Blame yourself silly,
Leave it to the professionals.
Believe in your kin,
Believe in time,
Don't defend the instinct that creeps back from your crime.
You'll be back to front all day,
Pray for the soul that repents against the unbelievable,
Truth that is part of your every waking moment.

Blame against blame,
Brings negative positive,
Two souls bagging against a brick building,
A stick in the mud,
Criteria making it easy,
To be sleazy,
Anyway bang and bang again,
Juggle with ecstasy
Take over your attention,
There'll be a lot of changes
For the boys and girls.