The stream (all workshops)
We got a kitten, Siamese
my little sister could only grok Chinese
hence his name.
What do I hear, I hear the cars,
what do I see, I see the trees,
while the gulls huddle on the lake`s rectangular blocks of floating ice,
and the weeping willow`s pale green branches sway in the biting wind,
yellow squirrels tracks, seeds, brown leaves,
Cleveland`s grey skyscrapers grey against the grey sky
grey, grey, grey to the horizon
that melds with the distant mist,
silent presence, lake,
vast,
wide world
so small.
This demon’s tongue and its hollow soul,
gravediggers that dig an empty hole.
The angel’s wing and her gentle ways,
dying people and their futile days.
A bloodied face and an impaled eye,
a lover’s spat, both will die.
A baseball bat and a caved in face,
yellow police tape now wraps this place.
A gunshot accompanied with an exploded chest,
this careless cop, wore no vest.
DEGE
If I compare myself
to Bukowski, Burroughs, Poe or Thompson
Take it not as literary self-aggrandizement
Just that in many ways I made them all look like wowsers
and yet will probably live fifty years or more than any of them.
I've contracted a terrible disease.
Where I expected to be immortal,
I now know I have
DEGE
Degenerative Elven Genetic Enhancement
oh woe
alack alas
I won't live forever,
nor my poetry.
But I'll have a fucking great time doing it.
Limbless trees ashore, like spars puncturing slate grey clouds of sail
Racing with monster white capped waves of leaden green
The heaving motion of rain swept deck
Undulates beneath my feet, like a twisting serpent
Smashed against jagged rock, the sea scatters into needle spray
Brine stings the eyes, and crawls the skin
Breath labors heavily
Yet there is exhilaration in the moment
Defying the power of Neptune
I shout out obscenties
Barren land is visible, through my glass
I claim it as my own
People only view you
from far, far away.
You are the richest painting,
the tops of the tallest trees;
to be seen,
but never touched.
Your arms stretch,
and swell, but never seem to strain,
though the clouds swirl
above your golden curls.
The storm above
just bides it's time.
The rains drop heavily,
on your over-burdened shoulders.
You are solid and strong,
but struggling to raise
the gray mass
that would tear you down.
This thing we share
Has brought me to insanity
If this here is love
I think we invented a mental disorder
At times I fall for the fairy tales we used to tell
Now I think about the hours I wasted on dreaming
And it makes me want to break all my mirrors
See, everybody knew I loved you with my heart and soul
If you couldn’t see that then I can recommend an optometrist
An old man sits on a churchyard bench
with his memories of times long ago.
When he was the Vicar of the church
and the people he’d come to know.
He recalls when he married a couple
on an almost perfect summer’s day.
And how with joy in their young faces
they knelt there before him to pray.
He remembers when he christened twins
who cried the whole ceremony through.
Their mother tried to keep them quiet
but there was nothing she could do.
My dad was a man of many words,
Unfortunately most of them consisted of profanity.
But it didn’t stop him clipping an ear,
or the side of your head, if as children we produced vulgarity.
He would weave sentences so intricate and clever,
constructed entirely of, Fuck, shit and wanker,
that left a person astounded,
that made neighbours scatter.
If a clergy man passed by, the air was azure with blasphemy
and thick with malediction.
he made it quite an art,
And took great delight in his addiction.
The open casements by my bed,
speak the sound of the Georgian shore,
when the moonless black night,
blinds in dark my open eyes.
I can only listen
to the rhythmic lapping water’s edge
on the nearby stones and sand,
saying,
Swoosh to sleep now,
Swoosh to sleep now,
In the whispered shush,
like the small curled waves
seeping back from shape,
I softly curl away,
into my seeping dreams,
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