The spider queen will eat her mate
Tag: #poetry
Wild Hares and Hummingbirds
I Important, it is that the hummingbird hawk moth and the humble hare heedlessly high-five, unhinged by spring’s lunatic new moon. II Fat book, fed phrases of flower-drunk floating moths and fierce hares fighting. III Hummingbirds reach Mark, as summers expand, so hares pack up for Scotland. IV Hunkered, hidden toad indistinguishable from the foliage,…
The Night Crane
It has snowed tonight.
The land is untouched again.
I watch from a bridge
the night crane in the river
call out it’s mate for dancing.
Sep29
It’s always a loop – love. Echoing in the chambers. Her name tattooed across the night by a drunken fool who lurches into front gardens, disturbing foxes and dustbins, for some unrequited romancing and a bit of dodging father’s shoes. That name will never be smudged and the fool remains a fool, to chew on…
Sep28
Guilt is the worst motivator. It mutates good intentions into monstrous forms, Like Frankenstein’s monster. The bad bits are sewn together hurriedly In a collage of twisted, distorted limbs. Forethought, sense and design are absurd When the minority must be appeased At the expense of a majority. It doesn’t help the needful when The provider…
Sep27
In turquoise seas she plays with salty breast And rolls in foam, the sand coating her chest. Apparent ease at close up camera clicking. Paraded coyly with her long legs kicking. The waters clean her skin but not the marks And rising tides wash-up old memories Of glanced-at prints that flooded flawless cheeks: A touch…
Sep26
Ode to Being. Arise good folk that fortune passed who toil on now in gravid fields to reap the grain and end the fast with course, fine grist milled so it yields a gift of golden rising bread, laid on the Master’s table spread. Their bellies called like howling hounds baying for hunting at the…
Sep25
Milking the Witch. Burning! burning high, upon her altar, Stoking blazing beacons for the broken, She weaves andsacan magic Deep into the folds of her jet-black cloak. Adorned with rough head-dress of oak mystically warped, Spiked rosewood hoops hang around her neck, piercing and scarring her pale, waxy skin. She unveils her breasts, brimming with…
Sep24
Sonnet XIII. If I were to whatever forever while cinematic backgrounds still play on, no one, not one person whatsoever, would listen to me or my mellotron. Maybe if I strip naked, dance in time, and paint my skin a deep orangish tint, be naughty with water pistol and slime, pepper them with glitter and…