contemporary poetry

breads will roll…




Poems are alive

yet often vermin

& sleep deprived

all toss & turnin'.





Poems are good friends

of most knaves & thought-trains

yet naturally wary of focus,

plus understandably partial

to mystery parcels

& how they love munchin' on locust.





Poems are the sounds of the bastard hills,

poems are a lovely monkey

in a dream,

most poems shoplift

but only from the big stores

safe in the knowledge

that they'll outlive the Queen

...

the old gods here

Yes, the old gods here

have been very quiet now

for coming-on-at-least-a-ooh-good-week,

without 1 cheery warning

or blatantly divine sign

no, not a single boo, whisper or peep.





Have they gone on holiday

or have their powers gone away

or maybe they're planning

a surprise nasty flood?

Maybe it's virus-related

or possibly 'family problems'

- I think they need more blood

 x



...

story fishy

"There's Got to be more

 to bastard life than this!"

Exclaimed my Goldfish

& fellow speaking Creature, Chris

before collapsing on the sofa

- good effort fish bliss.





"There is"

I replied

"My memorable pal

my Icthionic friend,

just sometimes swim further

- or possibly sideways

 you'll get there in the end"





"As there's often more to this shite

gilled chum

than often again

 first appears"







But Chris was sweetly sleeping

& proper bolloxed by now

so it fell on deaf fish ears.





THE END

...