Observational Poems : Paris by night : DU Poetry

Observational Poems : Paris by night : DU Poetry

 A Vision

Eifel tower the old whore is lit up again

her wide open legs still drip blood, and

her hips are white and slim and she   has

blue-rinsed hair. She is ready to welcome

the masses people without an ideology

 and those who think that having sex in

a hotel near the Seine where millions of

condoms that slowly find their way to

the sea is the heights of romantic living.

Young men came, they had a creed wanting

to destroy this Sodom and Gomorrah, but

the tart in the centre of Paris tells us we will

survive because we are Godless and place

lust for life first

the stiff and a naked imp | Write Out Loud

the stiff and a naked imp | Write Out Loud

The Stiff and a nude Imp

They lowered the dead body into frozen soil and

frost smoke arose or was a door opened into hell?

A nude imp stood by the door to welcome the dead.

Who giggled the imp walked so funnily on hooves.

The imp saw the snigger and took offence the dead

one apologized after all it had been a long day.

They sat in the ante- chamber and chatted about this

and that the imp asked what are you doing here

I thought you were destined for the place at the  pie

in the sky.  Can`t
bear bloody harp music and virgins

with damp hands. The imp went purple when blaming

the Chinese for taken the last reserve of coal and hell

 would freeze over they
had to go above ground to use

the solar power.  You
are coming to the right place

the four horsemen are riding again, the dead one said. 

what remains | Write Out Loud

what remains | Write Out Loud

What Remains

In a man`s life

There are two happy stages

Childhood

Not a teenager be

And old age

When you have nothing to lose

King or poor man

You can afford to treat with equality

Or contempt

Yet some fears remain

People who want to teach me their way

I fear the illiberal amongst us

Racists and warmongers

And those who have forgotten to laugh

14/11 Paris | Write Out Loud

14/11 Paris | Write Out Loud

 14/11. Paris

14/11 another fine day in Portugal to wake up for but the news

from Paris turned the sky grey and the sun a spent cartridge

cooling in the body of a man in a café, beer, wine and blood.

 Allah Akbar, god the great and merciful, what a horrible irony

in the streets of deaths.

I walked in the sunlight that unashamedly shone on a day of dread

and it warmed my cold face and somewhere in Paris a man sits

outside and plays “Imagine” on a piano it is heart -breaking and I`m

filled with conflicting feeling anger and trying to understand what

 is impossible to grasp.

 I fear the backlash and the fascist demagogues who can use the shock

 to their political goal and they will be believed by an incensed mob,

Arabs will be killed for belonging to Semitic tribe that have suffered

unbelievable bad luck that never seems to end.

Spiritual Poems : what remains : DU Poetry

Spiritual Poems : what remains : DU Poetry

What Remains

In a man`s life

There are two happy stages

Childhood

Not a teenager be

And old age

When you have nothing to lose

King or poor man

You can afford to treat with equality

Or contempt

Yet some fears remain

People who want to teach me their way

I fear the illiberal amongst us

Racists and warmongers

And those who have forgotten to laugh

Fictional Prose : a bus ride : DU Poetry

Fictional Prose : a bus ride : DU Poetry

A Bus Ride

 I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home,

 a half an hours ride
up to my village.  I looked at the
headlines

and noticed the paper had no date, were I reading
yesterday’s

today`s news or tomorrow`s? 
The bus was empty this afternoon

and it struck how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of

 rubber against the
asphalted road.

Then the bus stopped for the first time on this journey outside

my house, so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on

 the steps waiting
just for me. The bus door opened with a sigh,

but the dog didn`t run to me.  I hesitated something was wrong it

 was the same house, yet
not the same this one looked immaterial

the flowers were pale; this was a copy or a painting
forgotten at

 a rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP.

 Not my village, I
said to the driver and sat down

“Are you sure?” the driver asked I didn’t answer and the bus
rolled on.

 Opened the newspaper
it now had the right day and it was Monday.

the last viking

the last viking

The Last Viking

There had been a war in my part of the world, peace there is never one,

people fight wars in other parts of the world more brutal than ever before.

The first winter of peace was the coldest anyone old could remember and

ducks feet froze on the ice they could not move and became prey to rats

and human scum who threw stones at the ducks satisfying a biblical instinct.

A tree in the park had fallen and a skeleton was discovered it was to be

excavated the next day, but it disappeared I think it had reassembled itself

broken into a dress shop and covered his bones with the skin of dead people.

A long very thin man had been observed outside a lady`s lingerie shop late

one evening, masturbating, what else to do after being dead under a tree for

five hundred years.

At a museum in the Isle of Man, I saw the thumb of a Viking in a glass cage

within a glass cage surrounded  by precious objects ladies wore at the time

It was pathetic there he was fighting and living not knowing his thumb would

live forever in a tiny glass cage