egalitar
Egalitarianism
No fish nor alga live the stream that flows
through the city of the dead in the republic
of Basil. Nothing floats on its shiny surface,
autumn oak leaves sink without a trace as
there is no riverbed but a blank, as a mirror,
in the locked room, where Maud hung from
a rope of silk when receiving a fake message
that her lover had drowned at sea. (The lover
married Eva, Maud’s sister, they had eleven
children and when the lover died Eva opened
orphanage, and why not she had experience)
The river does not continue to where life is
lived but abruptly tumbles down a cave and
human bones are washed to lucid calcite and
everything is equal.
rate this poem: 
somewhere else
Somewhere Else
I used to think life was lived elsewhere,
went to where the loudest music was and
met people concentrating on having fun;
they lacked serious laughter, a declaration
of war would have been more hilarious.
Next venue, a kaleidoscope of nauseating
colours whirling about till vomit cascaded
from the sky, dance to nihilistic Latin beat,
till death do them part. A black painted
night club, tables of coffins, phosphorous
light, how bold we are when not alone and
living life to the full.
rate this poem:
College Orientation
Never has there been
Such a compressed conflict,
Such an oxymoron,
As College Orientation.
The ones who survive best
Are the young residents,
Moving about,
Clustered together like cattle,
Inching their way through
The mire of meetings, greetings,
Registrations, designations,
Purchasing paperback books
Over a hundred dollars each,
And eighty dollars
If one can find them used.
I am a clumsy woolly mammoth
In a world of gazelles.
I am confused and alone,
Walking from building to building
Jotting down the cafeteria location,
A commuter, full of unease,
Who doesn’t have the luxury
Of time spent in residence,
Discovering things together
With newfound roommates
And potential lifelong friends.
Still, I am just as starry-eyed
And hopeful,
Given a second chance to finish
What I started years ago,
Knowing some will never
Take this awkward walk
Through hallowed halls, like me.
rate this poem:
the netherworld
The Netherworld
Drugged by sleep defences down the corruptible
are coming out of their caves, open sores, puss
worm holes in eyes they defecate, piss up walls
dance on excrement, excited seeing Eva having
sex with god, dressed as a serpent, a paedophiliac
as Adam stupidly grin and masturbate, howling
monsters goading me to have sex with the rotten
corps of my sister….Eternally dissatisfied they
retract back to their own stinking dungeon while
shrieking and licking each others diseased organs.
As dawn approaches and Midas touches the ridge
streaks of light shatter my window and strew gold
coins the bedroom floor, my mind is at ease.
rate this poem:
facts
It’s the Fact
The kitchen clock was
so full of hours that it
began dripping damp seconds
and minutes
on to the floor,
a pool of spent time running
into the day room, where
the TV was spewing out
and endless stream of
yesterdays mayhem
mixed with excess of time
it became mud
where those who,
do not have right the truth
of the day, get stuck.
They haven’t looked up and seen
the Monday banner that reads: “The truth
is whatever you believe to be right.”
rate this poem:
drinking holes
Drinking Hole.
The last drink, the last song from the jukebox in
doomed bar: “I did it my way,” barflies anthem.
“Used to be an Indian chief, those with chicken
feathers called me golden eagle” I told the ninety
year old barman, he shrugged in a un Gallic way
despite the fact he was born in Montreal, mixed
fruit-salt in plastic cup, drank it slowly collapsed
dead onto the floor, looked like a frayed doormat.
Wine-bars had sprouted up, like lethal mushroom
in my neighbourhood, bright lights, suits and tie,
high heeled shoes, bra less women, fake tan and
manly earrings, closing time for stalwarts. I step
over the barman take my leave, fine drizzle, damp
eyebrows “A bottle of your best wine, my man.”
Thrown down steps by posh bouncers; the bar that
is closing still is open, had last drinks there, for free.
rate this poem:
The Guard
His face is a mask, guarding prisoners who
are so much richer than him, of those who
have got the strength of an unyielding faith.
His face is a mask, avoids eye contact with
prisoners who make him feel inferior, mock
him with intelligence and unspoken disdain.
His face is a mask, chocked with fear cannot
speak, but shout futile orders, hits them with
a rifle butt; he dreams, they see his erection.
His face is a mask, must not betray the idea
fomenting, that he’s their a prisoner in green
and they are waiting him to lose his mind.
rate this poem:
sleeping beauty
How I love to see you sleeping sound
Silently beautiful, quietly dreaming.
Your little face so soft and round
How I love to hear your tiny voice
Giggling enthusiastically, singing like a songbird
Your music never turns to noise
How I love how you play and how you learn
Clapping hands, jumping high
You never cause me to concern
How I love to hear you say you love me
Your tiny hugs, abundant kisses
Your love always clear to see
How I love that you’re my little girl
To cherish forever, to love always
Your little being, my precious pearl.
rate this poem:
old friend
Old Friend.
Biking along a country lane I saw, at distance,
a sartorial elegant man, a real gent, grey suit,
white face standing in the shade of a big tree,
clearly not a man hanging about in the sun.
Stopped took off my sunglasses, the man was
an amputated tree, his face a brutal chainsaw
slash, petrified tears made of sap glinted.
I should have said something I should have
spoken; what do you say to a tree that has just
been maimed and is bleeding white blood?
An ice-cream van came; I bought a strawberry
sundae, as I was eating the sweet stuff a hearse
comes gliding by, and behind the subbing of
feet; the lid of the coffin opened, my friend,
Finn, who I hadn’t seen since he fell off a cliff
fifty years, sat up looked around smiled and
sang: “If your chewing gum losses its flavour
on the bed post over night” then slunk back in
his coffin. How much we used to laugh about
that song, how much I loved him then.
The subbing feet belonged to old school friend,
Only I didn’t know they were, till one held up
a placard: “We are your school friends, don’t
you remember us?” No, why should remember
old men looking like headmasters with faces
made stern by the north/westerly wind and small
town Christianity. Finn was the only young one,
he would never grow old like us. On the face of
the sartorial tree, more sap came from the chain
saw slashed face, it tasted of sweet melancholy
rate this poem:
Omission
He writes me off
Like a check
And balances his lies
With a strong dose
Of contempt and sarcasm,
Hoping the light
That once was me
Can be brushed aside
And renamed ‘blight’,
An error,
And now, an omission
But a vacancy,
Nonetheless.
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