The stream (all workshops)
all property is theft we know is true
this knowledge will now free our thoughts from chains
and corporation's death will soon ensue
with revolutionary spirit we pursue
the boss's lies to death till none remains
all property is theft we know is true
we fight for liberation overdue
our struggle will alleviate our pains
and corporation's death will soon ensue
these hoards of wealth continue to accrue
the trickle-down’s a sop for empty brains
all property is theft we know is true
Way up in the northern marches
far back among the oaks and larches
where winds blow a melancholy tone
take caution if you walk alone.
When winter's burden cloaks the land
and all is gray and white and bland;
the silence rings and all is still
frozen solid as each tiny rill.
In hunting, keep gun close to hand
load bullets of a silver brand.
Stay alert, keep all in view....
a hunter may be hunting you.
A hunter stepped into a clearing
Found monkeys playing oyoyo
A family reunion to end a busy day
Hum – hum – hum, ‘one tell one’
The message of his presence went round
They jumped on the trees and ran away
The hunter, in exciting disappointment
Stood there, crafted a dangerous monkey plan
Mixed sugar with Ogogoro, gin brewed locally
And poured into a basin, the spirit elements
Of air, earth, fire and water, long distilled
Then tempted the monkeys to their follies
I’ve fallen in love with a mermaid
She captured my heart with her song
She was singing her scales
And upsetting the whales
As she knitted a seashell sarong
Well I smiled at her, very politely
And she put down her knitting, and looked
She bade me come here
There was no sign of fear
And from that moment on I was hooked
So we sat and we chatted for hours
We talked about that and of this
Then after a while
She gave me a smile
And she bent down and gave me a kiss
Droplets of rain dancing on a lake
ripples caressing the shores,
Mother nursing her sleeping beauty
weaning her with sacred love
Sorrow is a communicable disease,
you get it by being alive....
There was no open casket,
a simple mahogany box with golden key
rested on the table
amidst pictures
of a twenty-two-year-life, silenced
by a too-long fall;
the camera's eye caught
his boyish smiles
and generations of men who wore the green
stood together
and women who held him close
now fall apart.
Who was this man-child?
We'll never hear his children's laughter,
Ashes, ashes, and we all fall down.
Click.
Booze Hound On regrets .............
With the benefit of twenty twenty hindsight
should I have stuck to milk.
Eaten my greens and taken bracing walks,
filling my lungs with fine bright air.
Should I have stayed at school
followed the rules.
Been a model son.
If I had married and had kids,
Oh fuck you I have to admit
I'd of been boring.
Eking the years ahead
I always wanted to be James Dean
and leave a good looking corpse.
A rebel or Marlon Brando,
but not in his final years.
Sing if you will of crashing seas
and battling through the surging waves
or of being the sea's slaves.
Write, even, of white caps and breeze
above fresh water-flooded trees.
For there are those who seek such strife,
searching for the spice of thrill
(perhaps testing strength of will).
They say that danger adds to life
even forsake their kin and wife.
You hear the wind chasing your dreams
through the leaves
of your promenade,
blind valleys of your breath.
Ritual and denial snarl and guard dandelion fields
of Spring's easy
grace.
Daffodils in the park, in the rain. Like
tomorrow.
Never let it be said that I dish out what I can't cop.
Iambic pentameter
I leave my door and peer around and up
the coast seems clear and so I venture forth
my shopping bag is empty now until
I fill it with some beer and treats and grins.
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