entrapped within webbed wide world
weft as a rump pulled stilts skein
at warp speed exhibiting
my heroic trumpian wiles
cuz he (johnny come lately) a then
exemplary hedonist, narcissist,
and polygamist dons
comical, farcical, illogical, lunatical...
offal dolled up endearing guise,
when inconvenient truth broached

BONFIRE

As we approach the fifth of November
Few may recall the bonfire’s significance
An act of treason, if you did not know
Guy Fawkes discovered, match in hand
It was just in time, you will understand
Many gunpowder barrels ready to blow
Targeting Parliament in its magnificence
Something we all still should remember

I’m already there
Somewhere else
The only way I can still be
Anywhere

Turned in my receipts
And tore up the old timecards
I’m not owed anything
I decided I’m free
When she left me

Time can’t hold me anymore
Even if I wanted to squeeze back in
Even I I begged
I couldn’t pry back into
That old story

I’m already there
In the new place
On a couch
In the living room
On the Blackfoot river
Drinking cocktails with my good mother
Watching music videos

Gods house

If I could write like Kipling,
Swinburne, Poe or Noyes
My pen would never cease to scratch
Tales full of hope and Joy.

Maybe songs of misery,
Of woe and long lost loves,
Girls I kissed with a passion
To rouse desires thereof.

Of gardens soft and verdant
In dappled sunshine's glare.
Deserts bare and sunbaked
Where bleached white bones lay bare.

Tales of high adventure,
Buccaneers and gold,
Of worlds in space, so far away
Adrift in realms ice cold,

The world seems
to have lost hope
in the streets of
uncertainty.

Compassion
became a bench
that none of us
will sit on.

Love is a rose
that was hidden
from the sun,
waiting to fall,
petal by petal.

Words turn into
fists that break
frozen hearts
into a thousand
pieces.

If only for a moment,
we could disappoint
the evil that
rules over
mankind.

Call me insane
for believing
in the times
when we
were united,
not divided.

Harrowingly
holding up
a glistening
golden glazed
glass of yesteryears
above a
withering wishful
world of
blackened blood worn tears.
Looking down
the leisurely
limping line
whilst wondering
what I would
leave behind. Footsteps
seeping
into the solemn
ground worn
with age never to
be found .

Poets are damned to live and die
beneath this sacrilegious sky.
They pen their petty piece of rhyme
They’re slaves, so they must steal the time

to pour themselves upon the page.
(They couldn't work without a wage!)
They hate to focus on themselves.
Their lives lie shattered on sad shelves.

They seek some kindly eye to see
(a heart in love with poetry!)
A kindred kind with selfsame soul
who’ll criticise, and yet console.

it was a beautiful flame
and it had to burn
the paper with our names
it had to wash away

each side of the coin shall always remain

I had a vision of a lonely Man
Who on his shoulders weight was laid
With every sadness that sorrow can
That in his eyes was Spirit made

To capture time and tame the rage.
His pouting mouth formed early age
But in his blood he sought the fight
And always knew a sense of right.

I read his words and heard the shout,
“Not yet will I turn about!”
I looked long for him, his never die
And found him in the wind’s dark sigh.

The creator of mortals, but only of men it is said...
Instigator through portals, of many flames blue to red.
Punished by Zeus, his liver a feast for the birds,
Left alone and not heard, but actions are louder than words.

The epitome of honour, eternal pain to help men
Out of the fire came knowledge, progress, and then ..
Pandora opened a jar, out flew much evil and sin
From then women were shamed, the men would win.