Corporate types programme their likes
Into computers,
Where they are heard
By commuters
And a middle-aged poet
Who romanticises vinyl,
And exchanges a final word
With the barmaid,
Who doesn’t remember vinyl.
Corporate types programme their likes
Into computers,
Where they are heard
By commuters
And a middle-aged poet
Who romanticises vinyl,
And exchanges a final word
With the barmaid,
Who doesn’t remember vinyl.
I heard a Blackbird
And did curse
The inadequacy of verse.
He knows not poetry,
Yet outdoes me
In verse.
I can not count
The amount
Of girl’s bare feet
That have passed
Before my glass.
Time depletes
Us all.
Then we fall
Into a bed
Where all
Lust is dead.
Janus waits in the wings.
As with previous dead years
He will bring
Laughter and tears.
Doors open and close.
The futurologist thinks he knows
What the future holds.
But Janus thumbs his nose,
And history goes
On as before,
And where it goes
Heaven only knows.
The cash machine.
The gleam
In her eye
As she
Followed him home.
Chanting of shoes.
Later, alone
At home
He considered ”choose”.
She bought shoes.
And when they are gone
The profession will live on.
In the wood
My dog chased
A squirrel.
No thought of good
Or bad
Had he,
For he was free
Of morality.
In my mind
I often find,
Squirreled away
A thought
I ought
Not to think
Of play
With prey.
The memory remains
Of cold flames
And skin
Against skin.
I may have learned
Her real name
But my memory retains
Rough carpet burns
And a skirt
So short,
That, on first look
I mistook
It for a belt.
No lover was spurned.
She never returned.
There is still snow
And ice
In the churchyard nearby.
But below
There is know sigh
As vice
And virtue lie
Under December sky.
Me, on the periphery
Engaging in desultory
Conversation with the barman.
As they sing karaoke.
I say goodnight
To the lone barman.
Momentarily partake
Of the firelight,
Then forsake
It for the night.
In early December
November’s leaves still adorn
The woodland lawn.
Man’s pattern is made
In light and shade.
But the gardener’s rake
Rakes all leaves.