(20 minute poetry)

Fortune
plays a strange tune
on a strangers bed
in a strangers room.


I bleed a dime every
cent she takes
and
she takes me every time.

At the crossing point
where all life intersects
and lines of reference
blur
she is there
awaiting
my return.

Going beyond where we've gone
and even before
we went where the
wolves stood and
howled at the door
and the three piggywigs
squealed.


Sealed in and feeling somewhere
someone's shielding
the real me from
forgers and forgery
from wizards and sorcery
and no one wonders
where we got it so wrong.


But the magic's not gone
it's under the toadstool
it
fools the unwary
and the blind
who don't see
the colours of the rainbow

where the eyes goes
I follow.

In the spell lies
the mystery
the answers to
what we see and
the dreams
of
the fancy free,

do you fancy a whirl?

My tissues typed,
wired and sound
tested

waiting,
a waste for the longing I taste
in my eyes, on my tongue, on
the tips of my fingers,
time
lingers in doorways
on dull rainy days
waiting.

It's kiss and tell and
the road leading to hell
has peen paved with inventions
conceived in dark dungeons,

I'm on the back foot
burning the lights out,

if there's hope then I
hope that it finds me.

Wednesday taps me
on the shoulder
wakes me up
to remind me that I'm
one day older

*******.

(20 minute poetry)

The elves are convening a meeting
to decide
on the wording of this year's
Christmas greeting

Merry's so passé
and not very classy
Happy is no longer apt

humbug's a slam dunk
and matches the krap junk
they'll sell in the shops.

The voting stops when Claus comes in
and ain't he looking very thin?
but everyone has to tighten their belts
even the reindeer have got cheaper pelts

so
Humbug it is then
no merry gentlemen
just lords a leaping
keeping
the aristocracy
fit.

Meanwhile
the Pound shop's sold out of pounds
dogs roaming wild
as Mary's boy child sleeps rough in a doorway on
Christmas Day in the yawning
chasm.

What is the half a dozen of
when the other is six of one?

More questions that crucify me

there should be a book we
could look in
full of answers to
things we can't pin down,

like why is brown called brown
and an adjective also a noun?

There's a fire in the decks down below
and
blood on the walls
but
sometimes that's the way I
blow
hot and cold
at some times young
but
mostly old.

Happy to be alive
to thrive and
markedly
happy to survive

and there is a familiar ring to the kiss
the church of my childhood
the things that I miss

Boom
and I'm back to more questions,
the
answers I lack.