Ice Cold

dark icy river –
suns warm touch wakes
tormented waters

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Complex Apartments

carpet under my feet
dulls the slap of a hard world –
caveman cries below

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Cunning Detritus

Based on my years of motorcycling and the things that have tried to stop it. Everything on this list has in reality whacked into me or my bike or been ridden through or over. There is a metaphor or two in there for good measure.

Several half smoked ciggys
and a damp Havana butt.
A broken kiddie’s tricycle.
Enough planks and beams of wood
to make a large dog house
And an old dog house.
Nuts and bolts and the spanners to tighten.
Bottles whole and in half
And assortment of branches,
a thick trunk and a bundle of sticks.
A bonnet, two doors and a seat,
enough tyres to stack as high as my head
and a black bended steering wheel.
A severed dolls head and a dead cat.
A huge double mattress hiding
the mangled end of a ladder.
A paint can not quiet crushed flat.

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Glad-Handing Death

You are a useless pointy headed tool
discharging a piecing barbed trident.
Your wishful lies whip though my eyes.
One blade scoring my mind, left to right,
triggering distant memories of actions.
The second tyne unhooking safety catches
so that the cog clicks another notch tighter.
The final point, roasted in repression,
blackened, scrawling, marks you card.

My arm pistons out, punching hand flat,
fingers form my trident crushing your larynx,
You and the lie take a few moments to die.
This image, flashing ever deeper on my lobes,
fades as you finish up your weasel words.
Inside, deep in my mind, energy pulses
are channelled away, lightened into a smile.
We shake hands firmly before you move on.
My hand and soul left empty like your promises.

Maybe next time I’ll give you my vote.

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