Happy New Year to all the lovely people who find my words, read my words, follow my blog, etc.
It’s been tough this year, so hopefully, 2021 is more positive.
Happy New Year!
Tag: poet
My Flower
Where pinks and blues once
painted the scene, now
a set of greys have moved
in to silence the mood.
The evidence no longer exists,
unless science and meticulous
scrutiny set to work in this place.
When the flowers bloomed,
the life came back to this place
and the bloom in her cheeks was
the shade of soft sunflowers.
The evidence of her existence
lives in my mind alone;
her beauty will forever remain unchanged by time,
for I killed her in this place, and I buried
her many pieces in amongst the different flowers;
she will forever be my
many-flowered girl,
and I will cherish the love
we will always share.
Summer Breeze
A warm Summer breeze
ocean waves moving slowly
considering things
Summertime
December arrives.
Spring isn’t letting go,
as Autumn intervenes.
Tupperware Party
A forthright proposition,
misrepresented as arrogance:
A gruesome Tupperware party.
Thistle Regrets
Dreaming of the way her hills of green surround me, how her waters flow, that flower on Mum’s brooch.
That Bonnie Lass kissed me, and I was in love until I backed off and left her standing still, crying like an angel.
A bloody git with no love to give; I sit on park benches wishing for a bit of ‘The Guard’ treatment once a week.
The lassies don’t love an old cock, so I use face paint on me face to enhance my features, but it don’t help.
To think I feel ancient at 30! Not even Belle and Sebastian can save me ass, as she’s getting married today.
I swore I’d pop over, stand up like Elton John wanted to, and say I love you babe and I wanna kiss the bride, yeah!
Her vagina is for him now, so I can’t be taking a vagina that’s been freely given in the pleasures of consensual coitus.
I’m shite at love, yet there’s always hope in the valleys and the Loches that are 21st-century ladies and lassies.
Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t a sheep shagger; I just didn’t know love when it bit me or hit me between the eyes.
Speaking of the devil, there’s a lassie coming my way.
Could it be her? No. Yet she’s like strawberries and cream; I might have a tub.
Young and Foolish
Lips of rose, powdered ivory cheeks,
dark long hair moving as she moved,
eyes of violet ice, mitten coal hands.
She was a flower blooming and dancing
for freedom on the lake that snowy day.
I was only a young, foolish boy watching
the way she moved, captivated, knowing.
Lips of rose turned white, ivory cheeks froze,
dark long hair became still, her eyes closed,
the mittens no longer danced in the snow.
I fled from her stillness, forever running from
that beautiful face I never stopped to love.
Night Kiss
Obscured by darkness
Revealed by moonlight
Beauty amongst roses
Ugliness in those eyes
Purring for a night kiss
Lips cold as winter ice
Entitled
Saturday morning blues.
‘Let me sleep for one more hour!’
you yell yet whisper.
Dreaming of something
to do with Russians, mowers,
and manicured moustaches.
You’ve got a thing for the
Way moustaches grow, move,
and fly about demurely.
The Russians excite you,
as you think about bedding
another Oligarch or two.
Today will be a random kind
of day where you become
a semi-exciting philosopher.
The cat looks at you with
her resting bitch face;
she’s plotting your demise.
You knew when the two of
you met that the cat was a
capitalist, yet you melted.
She reminds you of your
tricky dilemma: Justifying
21st-century slavery.
You move from your Egyptian
Cotton sheets to your lush carpet,
then to your opulent shower.
‘It’s a hard life being so philosophical’,
you say quietly, yet you’re a CEO of a
company and you just fired 40 people.
Looking in the mirror, you can’t see it;
there’s an entitled air about you and
it moves with you through your life.
You play the down and our philosopher,
yet you don’t care about people;
just the clinic of gold bars in your safe.
The cat looks at you with disdain;
She swipes your leg with a paw, then
runs away to her food bowl.
You know she is just like you,
yet you better go and appear as though
you care for all those slaves.
Eat your fruit and vegetables
Taking the piss,
and hating the morning.
They made a tape and
called it “Eat Your Veggies”.
When dawn arrived,
they turned up the sound.
It was the sound of a fierce
wind against their windows.
Underneath,
a subliminal message repeated
the words
“Eat your fruit and vegetables”.
After a few mornings,
gardening utensils, trucks,
and gloved hands appeared.
The street is known as,
“The Fruit Bowl Street
of the South-East”.
Now for another experiment.
C & K 