Archive 2016 -2020

7 syllables per line ...
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 Imagine this scenario. For centuries, millennia, your ancestors have ploughed the fields of Britain, milking many a moocow, pulling many a lever, scrabbling at many a coalface, been frogmarched off with bayonet, rifle, sword, to stop the whole place from caving in, as they were told by those who owned the silos, who fattened up the empires, whipped the natives, shot the rhinos.  Your ancestors were Irish slaves, Welsh miners, English shepherds, they laid the ...
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Aries. You’ve had a tough time lately making ends meet, but all your money worries will soon be over! A socialist windfall is on the way as the downtrodden masses rise up when Saturn enters the house of Capricorn. Taurus. Problems at work have been troubling you recently. You and authority don’t mix! Hold on tight until the twenty-third, when you’ll seize control of the means of production and smash the chains of worldwide imperialism ...
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for Juliette the love I felt for you waned as my lust waned looking at you standing naked at the sunlight window throwing baguette crumbs to feed the pigeons (sometimes that squirrel) I want to tell you it's all gone stale but you are singing a soft song from your home in the Auvergne walking to the bed coquettish like Delilah offering your self for love and my mouth is stopped ...
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a very recent first draft free verse ...
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Feed the masses on their leather sofas juicy murders, shrewd detectives, blood, feisty women sleeping with their chauffeurs, spotty kids with magic wands, a flood of swoon-inducing swanking Casanovas, dialogue packed with “guys” and “dude” and “bud”. Unless you want to die a penniless nobody, whatever you do, for Christ’s sake, don’t write poetry. But if you can’t resist the Sapphic charms and don’t mind dying in a flammable shoebox, don’t feed the masses. Don’t, ...
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A black bird and a red bird were pecking on the same fruit hanging on the topmost branch of a tree. Seeing this poets wrote poetry on scarcity, fiction writers paged power play, playwrights added colours of discrimination, a painter’s doodle sensed courtship beyond imagination, reporters staged a cold war, an ornithologist was simply amazed at their ability to share, while a photographer caught the parents carrying food for their baby dudes ...
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Without the old it's not just a typo, but a mistake to form the world ...
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February gives way to March  slinking off with stale memories of childhood fun, schoolboy ambitions, hope-fuelled dreams   adulthood lurks at the door, poised to engulf me, I am destitute of place and property.   Nobel Prize winners, future presidents, will relieve themselves easing their bowels, underground in St Giles’ where I curl, foetal-balled, on condensation cubicle tiles    beyond the reach of snow, but not the withering cold   urgent workers rattle my door,  ...
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I've always hated buttons ...
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The original Bengali version, written by Tagore. In English O, my Emperor! How divinely dressed have you come in the realm of my heart, to beat. Millions of Moons and Suns shamefully bow to you, in willing defeat. All pride shatter into pieces, they collapse merrily on the ground, my whole body and mind dances, plays like a Veena*, without a sound. What a beautifully sad tune is humming in the wind! All flowers in ...
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I’m sitting in a twinkling shack or palace, call it what you will. Porcelain angels glint and crack on the windowsill. She stirs my tea, she jams my toast, she scrubs my plate until it bends. I mustn’t help my shuffling host, as that offends. So I just wait and sit and stare, waited on and hypnotised. I’m locked into a frilly chair, immobilised, a helpless slave to servitude as years are syphoned off my ...
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Leave me in peace from all this morbid stress, where competition has been made the law of laws encouraging all and everyone to beat each other in the universal junk production where the only thing that counts is quantity so that the worst can only win by stifling all the lesser quantities; wherefore we have this junk society, this planet drowned in junk and litter, this by man's shit poisoned world, the sickness and morbidity ...
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No one can escape it, it is always there, a lurking ugly thing, that keeps reminding you of its existence, threatening invariably your life and whole existence: Who shall find it out? When will the whistle blow? There is no one without that secret that will certainly undo him, and that is the only thing to reasonably be afraid of. So let's not try to analyze or to define it further, but let everyone alone ...
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our days are now nameless days our days are now aimless days   we have been gifted to share the timeless life enjoyed by sucklings, ferals and fishes    tuning our minds to receive erased transcendental truths   we are not human ciphers born to dance to chimes of bells workplace hooters, clocks, whistles, calendars’ conformities   we are gardeners, lovers, readers, writers and thinkers Earth shapers and Earth changers born to restore lost Eden ...
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