Wars, the real thing

I like wars, the real thing as it was in Stalingrad
and now Mosul, wish I was there.
War, is ******, messy Sadistic, violent and merciless.
body parts, all over the place bombed out building,
shoot the ******* and if the enemy survives
**** and throw them in the river Tigress.
Their **** ******* ****** had slept with the enemy,
string them up; there is no excuse for youth, hang them
high and let their disgusting corpses twist in the wind
and be eaten by crows.
“Good Morning Vietnam”. Oh, *******!!!
“Saving Ryan.” What sentimental twaddle.
That's why I dislike American war movies, with a love interest.
The colour full explosion in the jungle, do they think it is 4th of July.
I love real wars it gives spectators and soldiers a meaning.
living at the edge of life and death.

Was it a Painting?

Did I write a poem called “Pieces of Sky?”
Apparently, the poem was well received, and I'm glad for
this boast to my flagging self- confidence.
The nearest I can think of pieces of sky are mountain lakes
which mirror the sky when it is blue and the lakes ditto.
This happens in Tibet or thereabout when the mountains
scrap the heaven and pieces fall off.
In the holes they make you can see forever, before unseen
hands **** the sky into blue velvet,
that is ok, you are not meant to know everything
and become a tedious know-all.

Was it Arizona?

Endless road, in flat landscape of shrubs and sand, no elevations
no distant ridge of a mountain, no coast and sunlight gleaming on
a calm ocean.
Trapped, I drove slower and slower, doomed to drive on this road forever;
the thought of getting out and start running, when I saw a few trees at
the distance, soon some houses too and a petrol station,
I needed to fill up the tank; the attendant wasn’t there walked over to a café,
where an old man sat reading his paper,
didn’t look up when the swing door slammed shut behind him
A fat black woman, behind the counter, was watching daytime soap on
an ancient TV  set
she turned and looked at me; I said: “coffee please.”
She gave me a cup and said “fifty cents,” turned her massive back on me,
continued watching TV. I looked and out saw the attendant, hurried out,
wanted to be sure he didn’t take off again; I never drank my coffee,
not that anyone took any notice.
The man looked foreign, and I said: “must be lonely living out here?”
“Yeah, but it sure beats living in Baghdad, the he murmured.”

Was it, Trieste?

An odd place half dour Russian and half lively Italian
I sat in café drinking beer and waiting for a tall American woman
she smoked cigarettes, which back then was a novelty
for a lady to smoke outdoors.
I had never met her but was sure she was a spy.
I was told she was at the railway station when I got there
the train had gone, but there was a picture of a lady smoking
A cigarette called “Monte Carlo”.
Walking around I saw a small lady carrying a heavy suitcase
I offered to help her thinking she lived nearby.
We walked and walked the road was muddy and the ****** luggage
heavy, we walked out of town Trieste was behind us when the little lady
stopped outside a house said she lived there and invited me in.
By now I was sweaty, tired and fed up, said no thank you and walked
back to Trieste. Later someone said she was a famous actress like I should care
The suitcase was so ******* heavy, and perhaps she was a spy.
Back in Trieste, I sat drinking beer when a ******* came and sat down
she was telling hilarious jokes about the men she had met in her life it
was funny but not flattering for the men.
We had something to eat and switched from beer to wine when a man
came and talked to her and she had to leave for business.
She asked me to wait for her which I didn´t do the thought of her
having had *** disturbed my sensibility, I drank the rest of the wine
and found my way back to the hotel

The Wasteland

Through Gobi
I walked
Alone
Dislike
Smelly camels
A pilgrimage
God and I
In this dramatic
Vastness
Journey no
Wasted
Came out of this
Enormous
Real estate
Knew a lot
About sand
In shoes.

Water Bill

Driving down from my eyrie – I only said this to
Sound educated- I thought that since there is no proof
Of god's existence, I have been reflecting about the man
Or is it person- in charge of the rainbows.
I want to do something about it not always the same colours
5 I think and when you get to the point where it ends
It is a miasma of vanishing tinges.
An Iris should be firmer and sometimes yellow or red
Stick to the ground so children could climb on it not all day
But say, once a month.

At the bottom of the hill, I crossed a bridge it was dry and
Looked like the tiny bits Palestinians are allowed to live on
I remembered I had forgotten to pay the water bill and
Sometimes in the future, there will be wars over water.

Water Everywhere
A dam burst in Iraq and that's how it began it rained for months
and no one had thought of building a Noah’s ark fill it with pigs
to feast on when Christmas came around but there would be
too many objections from practising Jews, vegans, not forgetting
Muslims and the two Semitic people's family would squabble as
they have done for centuries and the vegan's would eat seagrass.
When Himalaya was a reef sailors on ships had eaten each other
sardines, a metre and twenty long, danced in The Radio Music Hall
a shimmering synchronised display entertaining dolphins; and
the Wall Street was a hangout for hammer- head sharks as were
the way of the pre-flooding days. Finally, the water ebbed enough
for the only man left to go ashore on the reef and dry his feet,
burning his raft, smoke a cigarette and wondering, what happened
to the blue whales.

Water shortage

In the deepest valley where the winter is short
summers long, sheep come home for safety
of bears and wolves, he bought an old house.
From a two hundred years house, a cane roof sprung
splendid isolation he lived the seasons fair.
Unknow to him and other dwellers of this Paradise
plans afoot to make the valley into a water reservoir
filling it with water to serve the city far away.
This ancient village, built stone by stone, drowned.
No, the dam didn’t burst lack of rain made it dry.
It was an eerie sight to see his home again
reminds him of a Paradise lost to development.

We are Brothers

I'm like you
My flaws are human
My vanity too
I'm what life has taught me
So much so
I can dare to disagree
With you
Yet hold you dear
I do not hide my nature
The good the bad
And the ugly
I'm a human, not a robot
Was not made
To be a diplomat
Consequently, I have
Few friends
Those I have I treasure

We, the conjurers

The USA wants Venezuela
And the worlds' press follow suit
demanding an undemocratic coup.
We have been here before
we remember the vilifying of Iraq
and Libya those two counties were lied about
before being invaded and occupied.
Our compliance with this crime is staggering
and do nothing for peace in the world.

Wedding in Paris

Coming out of the church after the wedding
smiles and cameras clicked.
From the steps, I saw a ***** in the park looking for
something to eat
he found a half slice of a pizza.
With all the clatter going on, I slipped away
had a whisky in the nearby bar.
I saw the ***** coming out of the park my idea
was to give him money.
I was self-conscious, hated the thought
of looking patronizing, so I had another whisky
Before joining the wedding party.

Weekdays

I like Mondays
it starts hopefully
Tuesdays
are a setback
then it goes
downhill
all the way
to ****** Sunday
with nothing to do

Weekend in Cascais
On Cascais glittering Saturday bay, slowly rides a rust stripped
bulk-carrier, sailors on the deck look at the town and think it
is Paradise, from the soot hallooed green stacks, whispering
smoke dissolves their dream of ever going home.
Tourists, fishermen and drunks, the eager and the weary and
the sad eyed mills about.
A blind woman sits on a folding chair sings Fado, Portugal's blues.
her voice is cracked, but full of soul, she keeps score with a tiny triangle the little plink a feint echo above the crowd.
When footsteps fade its faint sound becomes cymbals
clasped together by men of steel, her voice a storm which
cleanse streets clean.
Every morning Cascais is reborn, a wet pearl arisen from
the green seas, before sandaled feet descend and drown
the day in a cacophony of disharmony.

Weekends


In the afternoon sun
the asphalt road shines like an ice rink;
flanked by green trees that
cast black shadows,
helped by the breeze
they flutter slightly,
soundless articulation a symphony for the deaf
My memory brings me
the aroma of curried
chicken and rice,
but since it is Friday, it will
be smoked haddock, boiled potatoes and
stewed carrots  

Still a twenty minutes drive,
before getting home,
shadows merge with the evening and
the ice rink is a memory

we had it coming

looking at pictures of an empty Piccadilly Circus
or the Eifel tower in Paris all are empty of life except
for police cars cruising to fine anyone breaking the law.

The emptiness is awesome and frightening to think
How quickly humankind can disappear forever and
When pandemic is over, there might be another one.

Millions of people all over the world rotting in their homes
The disappearance of humans is a near reality.
The only hope is that we lived a tolerable good life.

The future will consist of animals hunting each other.
Cities will crumble, art and culture of no value.
We had it coming, I despair.

We have got him now

All the Politicians of the republican persuasion
who defended Trump by being silent?
And they waited to the last moment just in case he was able
to overturn the election.
When all was lost, and Trump was finished
washed up and had his innards removed, did they turn and said he was a crook.
These cowardly enablers.
We cannot give them a free pass, and they are as guilty as Trump
by holding on to power as long as they could.
And the businessmen/women he had made rich, what will they say
they were in it for the money.
They will say they feared him; they did not, they took him for an idiot
who had gone bankrupt many times?
If we want to get rid of the swamp, we can start with the corrupt people
Who would (had Trump won) continued defending his actions?

The weight
He had written two short books
Wanted to show her, his work,
Not now she said, I’m watching telly.
Around the beam that keeps the heaven’s roof from falling down,
He slung a rope fastened to a scrap iron drum using
Himself as a counterweight.
He hoisted the drum up, but he was too heavy
He carried too much weight of pride.
He cried in the night struggled to get rid of unwanted feelings
The drum becomes lighter, descended until
He was lifted to the top of the beam feeling free
Of false pride and ambition.
Why did you cry so much in the night? He was asked.
He smiled, was at ease with himself, but didn’t answer.

We must haste

They are so happy, the parents, grandmother’s uncle and aunts showing on Facebook the addition
to the family.
Do they not for a minute think what the child´s future will be?
The world is on the brink of total collapse, but no one takes this calamity that is coming our way, will **** them and the children.
The polar ice is melting so much sea, it is drowning smaller islands
who will become refugees seeking shelter somewhere safe?
Nowhere is safe with fire and endless tornados turning houses into driftwood.
Big cities will be unhabitable and sink under the greedy sea.
This is happening before our eyes, we build bigger airports
and larger aeroplanes; yes, and ships too.
Ah, I hear you say, we can be rid of fossil fuel and rely on electricity
to do that fields where cows grazed had to be converted into solar farms.
And we have windmills, but it will not be enough even if we built a million
of them filling the landscape with their ugly appearance.
The rest has to come from converting coal into electricity.
The hardest thing of all is to get rid of cars the clogging up motorways befouling, the air, we breaths.
We have to learn living closer to our place of work is a more compact smaller world we can't all use bicycles unless we're middle class
And use the bike for recreation.
If we do not repair what we have besmirched, there will be no future for the new generations.

We the Humans

How sentimental
How cruel too is humanity
Buster bombs.

A dog asleep
Near its master's casket
We get tearful.
Faithful dog
How sweet.

Children's death
In deep tunnels
Isn't photogenic

We, the travellers

Many people when they get elderly travel the world
to see famous places and other cultures.
When they die, they will have no recollection of the travels.
I have been to every country that has a seaport,
working long hours, it was dark when I got up and dark
when the toil was over.
I might as well not have been there, because the docks
are always the same, bars, ****** and ***** and
they all looked the same, and the women were selling
the same wares whether black or brown, but for a man
alone it was the nearest he came to love.
When the big shadow falls on me, it will be forgotten.

While we wait

  The terrace of our flat is a place for retired kings
  the sun shines humbly not burning my nose and
  the sea is calm as a full glass of water left
undisturbed in the kitchen during the dark hours,
outside in the streets, the pest is raging, closed
shops and full hospitals, death is aggravating,
caused by people refusing to wear masks or go to
parties and illegal revelries, the pest is demanding
payment, nothing is free if you are not prepared
to dance with death not dressed for the occasion.
In the interim, we sit inside and wait for the vaccine.

What a Story did

Sometimes or often enough to become a norm
we are a product of stories told in the environment
we live in as children of north/westerly wind,
residing in a pitiable home with tempest and storm.
I, when our teacher read stories from the bible-soaked
it all up I could see the stable, straws and donkeys
I grew up left home and forgot about childish things
but, hold on, I live in a converted stable
in a landscape of olive trees some as old as the Bible
(Which one) do shut up let me continue, and when
it rains my home have the aroma of mules and dry hay.  
I live frugally, but have two suits and want to give one
to someone needy, the best suit is for my funeral I like
to look like the executive, I never was.

What fame can do

Parked outside the local supermarket I saw a Rolls Royce
I straighten my shoulder and walked in with dignity.
The staff looked tense like an Imam had visited a church sermon.
Then I saw him, a tall elegant man deeply tanned, I can´t say black
anymore, but my wife comes from Kinshasa.
He walked around the shop looking at things unnerving us,
finally, he bought an apple, ate it on his way to the rolls,
Threw the apple core away entered (open-topped)
And drove away.
The staff was relieved, told me he was a famous actor,
It is not every day such an elevated personality visited our shop.

What few see

99% of people do not care about poetry
and why should they?
The sheep who feed among the olive trees,
the furtive fox, is crossing a field.
the forest full of life and rabbits jumping over
A sinking stone walk.
The climbing rose flower surrounding a house.
Where an old lady leaves and her grandson bringing
Her food and the latest news.
The cat sleeping on the old roof
And the eagle high up seeing what is worth hunting.
The beauty of nature we are too busy seeing.
Yet, poets write about it.
It is a hopeless task, but they are doomed to report
Nature´s greatness.

What if…

The Oost, behind cloud  belt, stretches
like a damp horse blanket
not forever, in the infinitive, it does not exist
As there are no limits
For argument's sake let us say there is a border
what would it consist of, surely not?
The shattering of the famous glass ceiling, broken
glass on an expensive coiffeur and the hairdresser cried.
It could be an elastic material that if you cut, it opens
the whole universe will collapse like a balloon  
at a New Year party or a used ******  leisurely thrown
on the floor picked up by the dog that ran outside  
thinking it was a marrow bone.
Curiosity and knowledge are of great value, but there
are moments when ignorance is blissful

What, no moon    

Where is the moon
it was here last night
the heaven looks like a blank canvas
not even a star to break its ennui

there are many heavens, the near one
the outer one and the one
beyond the horizon it is there
but we lack the vision

if you wake up in a dark bedroom
keep your eyes closed
you can see the astrosphere
and be close to the creator.

What poets write

Some poets write about flowers
some poets write about the sea
He, the old poet writes about vast oceans
and his love/ hate relationship he has with
the many oceans crossed.
he has seen when the sea turns into watery mountains
when he was an autumnal leaf clinging to life
the warm night when the sea whispered join me and
your struggle will be over,
how tempted he was.
He could have been transformed into a dolphin
elegantly and life enchanting.
Covering long distances with smooth moves.
But he knew the oceans wroth did not trust it enticing words
it could be made him into jellyfish.
So it was the shore for him where he holds on through
the pandemic and hope to survive.

What's going on

Watching TV flicking from channel to channel is surreal,
one moment a casket is lowered into
a perfectly dug grave, umbrellas go up as fine rain falls
The next moment is about men riding horses
that have no idea what is going, the riders have been
on their mounts for days and must be stinking.
The next is about some old detective who is solving
crimes that are surprisingly easy to unravel.
Back at the graveside after false tears have been shed
all hell breaks loose who is getting his priceless
album of rare stamps and more murders are committed.
In the meantime, the riders are having a bath in a river
fully clothed in leather and armour. The horses are just staying there looking beautiful and dumb.
I switch off the telly and drink a glass of beer.

What’s the time?

The dictator is obsessed with time
he has thousands of wrist-watches and wall clocks
showing the time in different time zones.
At noon, he checks the time zones if it is ten o’clock
Somewhere else, he adjusts his star-studded Rolex
In his mind, he has gained two extra hours.
The time is a must for the dictator, he is getting old
and fear the breath of the dead and the power.
He spends too much time alone, only seeing people
on the screen, political helpers consist of faces
Suspicious by nature, he tries to read if the faces
are treacherous trying to unseat him he needs total
loyalty to feel secure, he knows he is right they are
plotting against by fighting his war timidly yet know
if he falls, they will perish too.

What stones tell

I followed a track in the landscape, rocks dug up
clay clings to the stones unhappy and exposed in the daylight
need a good shower, but it will not rain for a while.
Not that it matters, stones will be churned into grit this year.
They have been in a dreamy limbo for aeons; the dream they
dreamt is a whisper in the wind, walk softly and listen.
TV is full of triviality photogenic politicians who talk loudly
are our leaders of tomorrow.
False promises, forgotten like the grit.
Dream time over, what is left is the stark truth giving light
in the walk of the life destined for us, the human race
as the stones murmur in the wind.

“What was it all about Alfie?”

Yes, there was a time I didn't think
of a woman’s feeling they were an object
only of my desires.
Then love came as did rejections
and sleepless nights.
What were the tears for when the dance
was over she believed in me.
This infatuation so slows at growing up
for a time I visited prostitutes
much easier that way
but not really it left me empty inside
and living in fear of
Sexually transmitted illnesses
not to forget, the self-loathing.
Of course, slow as a man is in those matters
it took a woman to teach me
that love doesn't grow on trees like pears
but is nursed through the heart
transmitted through the eyes when you meet.

Love is the only things that matter
the rest is a waste of life as blood runs down
a wall in a bombed out city in Syria

What will be will be

It was raining all day he sat morosely
on the balcony, today he sits on the terrace
and is still pessimistic despite sunny weather.
He wants to go back to his cottage in Algarve
to soak up the atmosphere of what once was
say hello to the trees, birds and bees and
things that annoyed him like dog crap outside
his front door and the holes in the road
lugging firewood, sleep under three duvet and
on top of two mattresses, he is not a princess
hear dogs barking in the night and feel safe.
Last time he was home had forgotten the keys
had to break a window inside the yard to get in,
despite this, he had slept well to the choir
of howling dogs, with a belly full of wine and bacalao.

What you Like

I’m not dying to die, but like being slimmer,
be free of this overweight body, this harness of humanity.
It was not always I was young once.
In a way simmered down at middle age, suitable they said
balderdash, I wanted a daughter but didn’t find a woman
fitting the bill, they were too stupid, I wanted my child
to be a genius.
I met a female doctor once we had too much to drink
she refused to be a mother of my child.
Suddenly I was old had no future, no higher grade.
From the old people’s home, they came bathed me
changed wet sheets and said it was ok.
They gave me food I didn’t like flushed it down the loo
and drove to my restaurant, there they know what I like
and treat me like a man.

What you wish for

It was Friday we were going out for a meal in the evening
I had visualized a fat pork chop with furrows of fat in the meat
whatever you say fat food taste better than chicken.
Since it was evening my wife thought an omelette would be
right for me and the waitress agreed – she is a friend-
But a few glasses of red wine were ok.
After eating the omelette, drinking the wine, I wondered if
they were patronizing me, so I had whisky with coke.
I tell you I was not drunk, but I felt an irresistible need to
tell a story, standing up and let my voice boom to drown
the audience with my erudition; it was not on,
we come home to catch the nine o'clock news.

When Alfred was witty

Alfred, the pianist who insist he is not my father
Told me he could walk on water,
to prove it we went to where the water is shallow
he sank slowly, legs, torso and his head
I was not unduly worried,
at the bottom, he walked back to shore
and I gave him back his alpaca and French Beret, but I said nothing
he hadn't stepped on water only walked on it.
He borrowed my shoes to get home I; his son had to walk barefoot
and he never returned my shoes

When all is Ocean

I have been looking at the map on the wall
Most of our world consists of salt water
In time to come when the sea level rises
Britain will be a rock that steadfastly refuses
To join EU, and that is ok, since most of
Europe will be under the sea.
The far and near east will consist of islets
And Swiss will have a seaport.
If you think this will bring peace, you are wrong
They will fight over religion and fishing rights
And threaten war.
This reminds me, I have to learn swimming.

When Satan Ruled
The intellectual class writing words on paper
has one truth, the class who are bent over a plough
has one truth too and think the devil with a long tie
has many things to offer like work and a decent standard
of living, the high-brow lot scoffs at this
saying the ploughmen are misled and don't read the facts
but facts depend upon what one reads into it.
Some states ignore this seek an audience with the man
of a thousand deals and are willing to sign a pact with
a bloke too crude for their salons, yet when it comes to money
are willing to give him a blow-job, while secretly plot his
downfall and churches tell of parables of the devil and sin.
The trade unions have embraced him
and not burst into flames,
will bring them paying members, they will be mighty again
as before the liberal class will bend to his will and find
a logical expression for doing so, woolly enough  to say when
the show is over; we never liked his politics.

When death struck

I was rowing in a narrow fjord the sea was calm
Then rocks fell into the water disturbed the peace I rowed on
Until a part of the mountain fell formed gigantic wave
I was lifted riding the wave and saw a village disappear.
The boat splintered, but I was safe.
I looked down into the village people coming out not knowing
They were dead. I saw them dissolve becoming drips of water
Before they ran into the sea and was the sea.
I kept on walking and came to a valley of roses they know nothing
Of the tragedy that befell the people in the fjord.
I built a house in the belief; here, the sea would never reach me.

When I’m eighty-five

Once upon a time, when I was sixty-five
my hair turned grey, bought hair dye.
Blue rinsed looked like a stern teacher
of the type of women doing good work
among the poor.
She said she loved me, remembered
a song “when I’m sixty-five.”
We are old, take our love for granted
she calls me darling I call her sweetheart.
I will sing you a song when I’m eighty-five
full of cakes and ale.
I bet someone will say, who was the Beetles?

When in need

After getting lost in a rotating door
I got into a vast foyer couldn’t find the loo
Peed behind a big plant hoped people would
Think I was a Christmas decoration

The fountain of youth lasts long after
***, a memory that had nothing to do with me.

I was told to leave by the porter and around
The rotating door he ended up outside
I was inside he was confused I had a beer at the bar.
Older men *** when it is needed, and that is that.

When in Rome

In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona  
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped, but modestly kept my underwear, on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
The peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave off
A slight chill after my shower I sat with my eyes half closed
listening to the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was spoken to a ******* she smiled and said good morning
I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly lawman on my side.
I went to bed, a window open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would wake up
at noon by the aroma of Italian food.

When it rains

I look through my window at the star on the night sky
without them, it would have been like being blind
and I would have to look at the petrol station up the road
it is painted green and is not a wonder of architect wonder.
Sometimes rain heavy clouds block the stars,
I like rain it is needed, but not when it falls on me.
I walked in a night forest in the rain, looking for a lake that
has an inner glow from there I could find my way home
as the battery of my flashlight had gone.
I know what the animals snug in their burrows was thinking
what is this thundering fool doing here? A rabbit said he is looking for a lake to cure his heartache. We can understand
that a fox said hadn´t it been raining I would have guided him
with that the other animals fell about laughing.

When the time was a trial

Woke up, the bedroom was cold under the duvet snugness
I burrowed deeper enjoying the freedom of sleeping late.
Life was hard, getting up at five and preparing breakfasts for
grumpy seafarers smoking, the first cigarette of the day.
The breaking of the fast was endlessly tedious, something
with eggs and fatty meat.
Sometimes when there was a gap between feeding times,
say, dinner at twelve, I tried to write; my hands stank of chip fat.
On hundreds of pages, “I’m a life I’m a life”.
I pretended I was a robot, what the body was going through
the motion was not my concern; free to dream.
When peeling potatoes one morning, I was suddenly awake
Between fake brown gravy and spuds; there were no robots
me all along
the bed is warm, nothing can touch me now,
touch me now!!!!

When love is not
A man meets a woman
And thinks she loves him in return
The kissing
the hand holding is the same
but something, something is wrong
after making love, she turns her back
away from him, not speaking.
He fell sadness and emptiness after
the tryst that ends in silence.
Something, something is wrong
He knows that in his heart
He waits for an email or a phone
That she has met someone else and
When the call comes will no shatter
Him, blaming himself for confronting
Her asking what was wrong.

When Mossad came to town

It is many years ago now when Mossad
sent a group of assassins to a small town in Norway
at the only hotel where a “terrorist” worked
as a waiter. When the servant walked home in the snow
they followed and killed him.
The assassins checked out (2 in the morning) walked to
the railway station, the only way out, trying to look inconspicuous,
it didn't work they were arrested.
When the news broke, it was the biggest thing that
had happened in Norway since the war.
They, the killers had the best defence nevertheless they got
Several years in jail.
Mossad is better at it now, and Norway woke up from
her slumber she had become a player in a murderous game.

When old sailors go

A ****** sees death as an ocean of tranquillity
no storm will upset his raft he can safely sleep
Through the ages of time, fish can swim, whales
Blow a rainbow fine, and sharks can **** seals
It does not bother him; the course is set
For the Island of Saragossa where his friends wait
to say: halloo old man, remember us?
And they will help him make his raft into
a beach hut where there is always sunset and
the whisky bottle never gets empty.
He sighs, home from the sea at last.

When Robots ruled And “The Guardian” went into liquidation
It will be a strange quiet world when robots take over
there will be no middle-class the ranting of the eggheads
in the Guardian will cease their utterings will be quaint.
At the time when robots were perfected a pill emerged on
the market  made women and men infertile until they
wanted to start a family, alas, it was irreversible and it only
Takes a generation. The poor was working for the robots
picking up trash such as screws, the streets were empty
and cars were obsolete.
Some robots that had received too much learning wrote
Books to each other – as they did now- and had literary
reviews, but since each book sounded like another down
to the ****** “,” it fell out of vogue, so much academia
and no one to buy their books. At the same time as it was
discovered by the human workers that when a friendly
robot accepted a glass of beer it made a summersault, froze
and became a piece of junk leaking oil.
The fight back began the robots had not been programmed
To tolerate Alcohol, the Achilles heel, and the workers were
Jubilant waved flags
No longer should robots- any robots with mechanical learning
whether university or not- to rule over them.

When sleep kills


The devil sat on my chest trying to strangle me
I fought back to fall on the floor, and the devil let go
I had fallen into a deep sleep I knew was not natural and my struggle
to wake up from this sleep Apnea had been heroic,
there were claw marks on the wall, and my fingernail had broken
in my effort to break free from Morpheus deadly attack.
My wife had fled the thunderous drama and called for an ambulance
it was not needed I had won the struggle and could sleep lightly
until the morning with delicate hands moved the curtain.

There I was in Heaven
Playing a game of Ping Pong
When I got a call from God
“I have a job for you going
Down to earth
And be born again.”
I protested “last time I was
On earth
There was a war on
I was hit
By an arrow in my chest
It was painful.”
“You have to”, he said
“A newly born needs a soul
Before you know it you will
Be back up here again.”
Gave me a hug he did
I'm still waiting, I forgot
For God time is meaningless
As he dwells in the abstract

When the Dance stops

So now the party in Singapore is over
pacts are signed, and the show of lies is over in the meantime,
I have been looking at pretty flowers FB, which inspired me
to go for a walk, the blooms on the terrace are
past their glory, they are pale shadows waiting for a new spring,
only my cacti are flowering it has nevertheless with by my
ignorance and little water thrived and have bell-like red flowers.
The sheep on the field eat the pretty flowers first
before eating grass, I think they are colour blind
or think beauty must be consumed before it pales.
Meanwhile, the two dancers in Singapore smiled better than a crocodile would and we cynics wait for the next step.