Desire broaches,
While sense reproaches.
To go down that well worn path
And laugh
With Kath
Or Lou
Would, its true
Be easy as the wine that flows,
And the hole-in-the wall
From whence, man knows
All
Passing pleasures fall
There was a young lady called Claire
Who married an elderly billionaire.
She spent his money on shoes
And many a world cruise.
He tripped, and died on the stair …!
The Romans threw
Christians to the lions.
True
This we no longer do,
For modern man is civilised.
Yet, it is no surprise
That there is now reality TV
Where we
Watch with glee
As the inadequate, Sad
Or quite frankly bad
Are flayed alive.
We viewers pretend not to derive
Any satisfaction
From the interaction
Of a host who weeps crocodile tears
As the audience in turn sneers
And jeers.
So we self righteously shake our head
At the living dead.
Today society is humane
For the gladiators now remain
To be pointed at in the street,
For they are no lions to eat
Them whole.
Merely their soul
Is by the entertainment industry taken,
Leaving them forsaken.
But some do tell,
There is no soul to sell
“At least he wasn’t rough” she thinks,
And drinks
To forget
Her regret.
In the evening drear,
He recollects a timid deer.
Swallow after swallow of beer
Fails to hide
The hollowness inside.
“Never again”
The girl says,
But when he calls
She falls
For he who pays often finds
That money binds together ,
Birds of diverse feather.
I am pleased to announce that I shall be appearing on Vancouver Co-op Radio (http://www.coopradio.org/), on Thursday 4 May, to talk about my soon to be released collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”.
My interview will also include me reading a selection of my poetry. To listen please tune in at 1:10 pm Vancouver time (9:10 pm UK time).
For my previous interview on Vancouver Co-op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series, please visit http://worldpoetry.ca/?p=11413.
My thanks to Ariadne Sawyer of the World Poetry Reading Series for enabling my appearance.
Kevin
The attraction
Of an abstraction
Holds the reader’s attention.
There would be dissention
Where I to show my muse,
Soaked in booze,
And guzzling pub grub,
And her shoes
All covered in mud.
I think
My readers would
Say “You do your muse confuse
With a girl sozzled in drink”,
Then, continuing with a wink,
“Morris has lost his marbels, poor old chap,
What a sad mishap!.
Or perchance he has taken too much wine
And thinks a girl divine
Who (one must confess)
Has no idea how to dress)!
Shall I break the spell
And tell
The truth about my Muse
Or would she her mystery lose?
I do maintain
That the abstraction
Of an attraction
Should continue to reign
The crowd cheered
As the stones flew,
While a few
Among them feared
(for they knew
It was true),
That the thrown
Stone
Does not discriminate against any particular bone.
The birds fail to drown out the thought
he perhaps ought
Not to entertain.
But can a man
Who’s blood is hot
Constrain his brain
To dwell always on Keats
And think not on sheets?
A group of girls walks by.
I sigh
And wonder why
My love most true
Is not you, or you, or you!
The kiss that lingers
When the other’s fingers
Are cold
Can hold
No joy
For girl or boy.
