Spilled PetrolLife purges to lead to cathartic misery. Escape.Fictionalisation from within drains to tears.There's the fakeness of substance not inEither a scripted show or one long life.But short is the story measured in years.When a finder idly threaded the founderWhose noose hangs across it, above theScreamed meekness, at once a corpse inThe moment froze -immobilised rope, in spiritOr not, the rainbow is the death untimed,Waiting for repose.Spilled petrol smelled of fumesAs his body lay up the roadBy the farmhouse by the chickensThrown there, clumsily, thrown.
WineSave reels of time,Watch them, closely;Decant the chimeInto a glass ofWine.When spilled, or droppedBy age, morosely,Enchant the drops;You know it alwaysStops.(In time).
ReposeHeartbeat seconds while awayAnd - for the infatuated day -We live as though minutesCould be wasted in idlenessOr thrown into the fray.Fast hours time one heartilyWith resolute urgency -We live with little satisfactionAnd wholly scrambled minds.
Crows at Two 'o' ClockTwo at once and one alone,They suppressed a coldly shiver,The lonesome one made stately home,The remaining duo quivered.Those two crows crooned mockery,The single one who stood alone;As it darted to its tree,And settled gladly in its home.
FagThe tar that lingers(The unfiltered stuff)At the butt of the fagIs star-shapedAnd, after the last drag,If you've succumbed to boredom fully,You can dig out that filter,And see its brownessAnd wonder just how much was savedFrom the sacs in my lungs?Are they this brown?The star of tar surpasses the grotesqueAnd scales the dizzy heights of the fantastical,The magical connotations,If you're bored enough,You can become lost in it.But it remains just stuffTo be avoided -It eludes me,The prospect of cancer,But it niggles at my subconsciousAll the time I smoke,During every starry drag,I think of the loved ones lostTo the musical killer -The fag.
ReverenceThe raging chill quietenedOver a slanted, peaking hill;Coniferous trees - leafless, frightened,After a night that blew, became still.Grass blades and oak barks, enlightened,By a hanging, yet rising, sun;With a new, fresh haze that heightened,In reverence - as all is one.
Jazz Music and CoffeeJazz music and coffee -A stereotype I can handleWhen it's followed by HandelAnd a big double dose of She.To smile and sit and write -Sipping ravenously dark espressoGleams with seemless infernoUnder a hundred spotlights.