HANGOVER

It ain't fair that you still turn me on-
It aint fair, though you don’t try…
Damn, damn, damn!.... I've been turned on again:
I am what I am, and I ain't what I ain't…

Oh What of Love

Oh what of love
Do you know?
How within the inners
Of ones heart
It does glow
It ignites
Nay burns my whole
That do you know?

`

Feathered flight lifts my gaze
and dreams aloft once more
Petals caress time-worn cheeks
reminder of benign carousal
My chest thumps and pounds
this ardent inmost wish abounds

While on a lily pond a drop
of heaven queries my heart
It offers a choice of toads
will one be picked over the other
shall my mouth be pressed
to amphibian lips, I wonder -

a celestial jest beyond compare.

`

The storm clouds are gathering inside my head
I’m far too troubled for sleep in my bed
I’ve got worries on my mind the world’s all bad news
life’s getting me down and I’ve got the blues.
But I know what to do when the feelings all gloom
I’ll put on the stereo and play that tune.
The one by Neil Diamond a favourite of mine
that old little melody called Sweet Caroline.
I’ll listen for a while as the blues drift away
everything’s alright when I hear that music play.
Some time will pass and I’ll be troubled some more

My legs get me where I am going
with my eyes, I see my path up ahead,
in my heart, I know my progress is slowing
my mind deals with that, and what has been said.

My arms can't carry as much, now
my mind likes to think, that they can,
my heart knows there's no time, to make two trips
so, my mind must try, and understand.

I pick up the pace, in bad weather
so with haste, I scurry for days' rest,
my senses tell me others are watching
so I strive, to give only my "best".

`

I slaver with anticipation
as your taunts fly past
let me grapple you
while your fangs pierce
and vilest venom spreads

numb my soul and mind

let me scream and cringe
agonise upon this page
let blankness reign supreme
slay this potent pen
for all of eternity

make your emptiness pristine

hover around my carcass
you scavenging vulture
eat away my rotted entrails
tear at sinews, limb from limb
pluck blind eyes and vitals

drain the fluids of creativity

In the world where day meets night
gather those who crave moonlight
these devils
await

As the madness in their minds
fills them with deadly designs
these creatures
salivate

Monsters' faces always vary
so of strangers' eyes be wary
for it may be that deep inside
far beneath a pleasant hide
a monster lurks so very near
with a snarl and a sneer
needing just a minor jolt
causing the human shell to molt
unleashing the bringer in disguise
as you become its tender prize

Someone dropped a pen.
His name was Prose.
"Write." Said he.
"Use it to bind ideas
With its tears as the rope."
So I tried.
But my strength
Rattles with his weight.

"Let me interfere."
Said Poetry.
"Scrape what you have done
And let your heart
Do the talking."
So I did.
Now I speak
In deeper linings.

Broken Mirror

What am I?
But a broken piece of glass
Spread across the floor
Smashed yes,
But not shattered yet,
Sprawling like a mirage
In the desert of time
Moving along the shadows
Of the sun and sand dunes
Cast by shades and inclinations of palm trees,
In the vast seas of humanity
Lying nude in the arms of wanton time,
Unknown

A magical hand to turn
letters and words into
poetry. To a writer their
pen hand is priceless.
A talented utensil which
poets are blessed is
the hand to crypt with.
Not to be abused nor
misused.

A writer spend hours with
their pen hand burning words
into paper Their mind is steaming
with visionaries. A dreamland
in which no toher person can compete.
The writer's imagnation churns.
and the hand with the pen solder
with ink with paper.