You in just
Your heels.
Me and my lust.
Sometimes it feels
Like love.
But I won’t lie
And go with your pretend
That I am your friend.
We have known each other
A long time.
I buy dinner and wine
Then we go back
Like 2 lovers
To my bachelor flat
Where we pretend
At lovers and friends.
Next day we chat
Of this and that
Over hot tea.
You smoke a cigarette.
Then leave me
With my regret
And thoughts of how
I am growing old.
It will be minus 3 tonight.
The light
Dies fast in winter.
There is a splinter
Of ice in my heart
With which I make art.
True, sometimes the sun breaks through.
But for now I rhyme
Of wintertime.
Spring will bring birdsong
But winter’s splinter is forever part
Of my poet’s heart.
Though birdsong does not last long
It may live on
When I am gone
In a rhyme of my wintertime.
Beyond the light
Of the commuter train
The falling night
Is full of rain.
I came
From this night
To play in sunlight,
But must return again
To night.
Men may choose Chinese
Or whatever they please
For in the great marketplace
A girl’s legs and face
Can command a price
(Which some call vice).
The girl studying for her degree
And the single mum provide fun
But the fun
Commands a fee.
In what some call work
A pimp may lurk
Somewhere in the dark shadow.
Perhaps it isn’t so
But how do men know?
A wicked young lady known as Follett
Has relieved many men of their wallet.
But me, being pure
I am perfectly sure
That my wallet is safe from Follett …!
—
A wicked young lady known as Follett
Has relieved many men of their wallet.
I hide mine behind the curtain
With a girl called Miss Person,
Where its perfectly safe from Miss Follett …!
A gossipy young lady known as Nell
Likes to claim she knows me well.
I remember Miss Jane
With her mean cane,
But I really don’t remember that Nell!
On a day
In late November
A cold autumn breeze
Rustles through the trees
Seeming to say,
“A freezing December
Is on its way”.
Do you remember how we
Sat on that fallen tree?
I love the wood
In which that tree stood.
All must decay.
Though we had no love
To fade away.
Just my middle-aged lust
And fear of dust
And your need
To somehow feed.
Now that fallen tree
Reminds me of thee.
When a young lady named Miss Foster
Said, “sir, come with me to Gloucester.
Me and my girlfriend
Want a dirty weekend!”,
It ended with hot coffee in Costa!
Continuing my experimentation with Google Bard, I asked the AI to “write a poem in the style of poet Kevin Morris”. For any of my readers who are interested, you can read Bard’s poem here, https://g.co/bard/share/44ce659bcef2
I don’t think I need worry about Google Bard plagiarising my work, nor do I believe that any other poets need be concerned, at least for the foreseeable future.
K Morris - Poet 