How exciting would it be to see her at work.
Does she hurry while sewing or does she ignore the clock?
Would my taunts motivate or would she give up when I mock?
Well I think she'll do well for a girl that needs no luck.

She finds colour in the darkest places.
She finds beauty in the saddest of faces.
She kills worries and leave no traces.
I surmise she's been kissed by the rock of ages.

Have you read a poem lately; they're all written in ‘free verse’.
Like the murmurs of a hippy high on drugs or something worse,
They're a dangling meander through the tulips of their time,
Where the last thing that they care about comes on the second line.
Seems the weirder that you make them, the more you are adored;
Proving anyone can write them, stringing words of scant accord.
Like a drug-induced arrangement, spewing text because you can,
And as I've yet to try and read them out‘s a clue - I'm not a fan.
 

glum eyes
staring
hard
gray
steel
barreling
face to face
hearts race

scuffle
trip
fall
maw kissing
pistol
click

nothing

frozen
silence

'split scene'

me,
buckling
breathless,
he,
flinching the
misfire

retreat

dumb
disbelief
lingering

What do I want?
I ask this to myself every day.
Do I want to have ten cars in my drive way?
Do I want a wife?
Do I want kids?
Do I want to go partying every weekend?
Do I want to enjoy a good book on my porch?

Well…

I want that and much more.

I know that I want to be the father that I never had.
I know that I want a beautiful wife to love eternally.
I do want to go out and enjoy myself once in a while.
And I do want to enjoy a good book. Many good books.

my room, the room I spend most time in,
is small and dark

that sounds dismal to you
I can tell
and I agree, it is

It sits there
an unlikely temple,
wearing an air of stale neglect.
Cracked concrete leads to peeling paint,
grey pebble dash and
grilles at the window:
a local committee decision,
to stop anyone running off
with the tea urn.

Inside, the musty smell of old curtains
is at curious odds with the
clumsy, poster painted pictures
embellished with egg boxes and dried pasta.
Kayleigh, aged four
seems to have been a particularly dab hand
with the pvc.

Pornographic Papist genuflects and smiles
conspicuously lacking in remorse
for fondling young Altar boys he expertly beguiles
by Father, Son, and Holy Ghost of course

Baptismal Fount is full of blood, the Virgin Mother mourns
at seeing babies sacrificed for lust
childhood dreams impale upon a multitude of thorns
the iron Crucifix is leaking rust

Two Arms, two legs, a torso and head;
They don’t listen to each other anymore.
The brain says “charge” and the other parts
Just look around, survey the field;
They might as well be thrown on a conveyor belt,
Stuffed into a cereal box
And buried in a toy chest in an attic.