Man!  He wanted to keep writing

Down through floor and keep writing

Doing it all some more

Just writing, burrowing under ground

And writing through layer, after layer

Still writing – and layer again

More writing, until – until – until

You reach the core, start scribing

Then the wicked explosion – publicising


This time on leaving, she left

A tale of algebraic rhyming

So rigidly perfect … I couldn’t

Help smiling and then, I remember

Keats used to spend hours, and hours

In his mirror before meeting her


He just kept writing, obviously

Convinced he’s doing the right thing

Actually made sweet words sing

And boasted, ‘this is love I bring!’


And if you are a real Poet

I mean the serious and proper thing

Swiftly sure shot, and bringing-it

With this boom t’ing, rivet – rivet

Then drilling him pure bee sting




Innocent Lies:


There’s that window which allows prying

Eyes good view – to a room – exposing

Hidden, immutable Virtue’s

Most simplest imagination

Suitably succinct and, duly

Engrossed – conscience’s cuckolded

Loyalties, wholly surreptitious

Caught unbeknown; subsidiaries

Compelled to fractious uprising’s

Love between feuding rivalries …


Old Years hangover :


Mornings After …. not something we’d

Be proud of – sore head heavier

Than loaded brick, thick congealed sick

Splattered-in, most unlikely places

Past memories blur long gone faces


Mouth sore as lemon twist – and

The mess!  Enough, to make red

Eye mist – hard, remembering what

Happened, seriously – woke feeling

Some, yesterday’s broke-ass left-overs

Proper; history just passed

December, never ready to

celebrate new year – better duck back under

Bedcover ’til my head eases clear ….