The storm on the eastern  coast will descend
into a grey day bringing showers
and thunderstorms
filling your picnic basket as you go about
finding shelter under trees and shrubs
gone on holiday to the south of france.

bring your brollies
raincoats and gumboots just in case
you day darkens into a cyclone
and your lover leaves you
abandoned with the sunrise
emerging in your life

take care as you meander through
the floods as the gates open
and your emotions spill out
in poetic metaphors
all over the page
******* readers into the whirlpool
of hidden symbols and mechanisms
that can choke you out

as you watch the weather swish by
without you noticing.

never be deceived by the weathermans wares
at times he may play god
with your days diary entries
but all he can do really
is work like a fortune-teller
using guesswork as a device.

Author Notes
One giant metaphor for what happens in your life if you believe in the weatherman!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

my soul was black hanging on a graffitti fence
down by the corner street
where crack and needles punctuated the alleyway
with no hope.

brother hid from brother
and sisters wore mini mini mini skirts
to draw the danger from the honking cars
into the pool of light cast by the one surviving
bulb
on a lamp post of desolation

he had slick hair and sharp notches
on his belt, danging chains
that reminded him of time inside
the dungeons where he gained
his qualifications in years behind
the bars of justice.

Out on the street, it was mayhem
a blue car siren-ed off into the distance
careened across the road
and vanished into upper class society
where they ate pink cakes and sipped herbal teas

as morning cleaned the streets of darkness
the sunshine grew the window sill
stacked with marijuana.

It was just another day to be alive.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago

Your heart is pure if you watch
a man collecting trash cans
four birds tweeting in a sycamore tree
people watching you-talking to yourself
and sleeping on a park bench
to empty your heart of its heaviness.

Your heart is pure if you allow anyone
to listen to your heartbeat
through the cellphone
and you are not sure if you want to laugh or cry

Your heart is heavy
if  you cant let go of  sadness
and the road you are walking on
turns sharply  strewn with  tacks
thorny torments and is uneven.

Your heart is filled with happiness
when a familiar voice
whispers softly in your ear
and you want to walk the distance
to snuggle up next to him.

Your heart beats this way
because it shows your endless love!

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11615253-Park-Bench-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.tfMSNge7.dpuf­

The manicured lawn behaves splendidly all summer
never pushing its way through the throngs
of flower beds and razor cut edges.

How pleasant to look at a tempting golf course
in my backyard with no nine holes in it
but a coffee club sunk just out of sight of the lawn-mower blades!

I guess that's  a way away from the lady of the house
who cannot always see how men must tamper
with manicures and pedicures with brazen coffee cup
tricks to catch a bit of practice on handicaps and nine holes!

I like those Sundays, especially, when she goes off to bombard
the saints with a litany of rosary beads and complaints
on why I bring the outdoor golfing into her indoor lawns!
I don't want to talk about how poor my putting is though!

If I had all the money in the world tucked into my bank account
I could go off and buy me an 18 hole ecstasy
but that's not possible. So until my numbers show up
on the one dollar ticket, I'm happy to build my dream
on this one hole, 10 sq yard coffee cup implanted
retirement plan. How about you?

Author Notes
Mini golf course at home.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The smell of dettol permeates way down the street
even as I approach the  clinic in terror
death stalks every step and my pulse races
with the knowledge of impending doom.

Try as I might, to stay calm and in control, bugs don't think-
they eat their fill first
and talk with high temperatures and tantrums
coughs and splutters
chills and tingles and tantrums, probably knowing
that murderous pills on their way.

dettol has a distinct sensation, it matches sterile
spongy clean sop and maternity wards
yet I know if you smelt dettol in the deep woods
you would question every dark spot on a leaf
the bark the tree!  the wind and the root.
That's how it got associated with death.

I could never overcome that smell
at times it felt safe, at other times it felt like
alarm bells were ringing of an approaching enemy
facing a firing squad. How could they fire us
to the next world with a smell?
But that's what it always felt like. But today
I need to get my flu sorted out.
Dettol wont do the killing fields any good.

Its hard to have a love/hate relationship with a smell.
Dettol and Women! They are alike! That's it. Yeah.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11613999-dettol-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.J5CFBwXf.dpuf

Its a Sunday morning when the world works to a different pattern
housework claws in and takes control
of the daily tasks
last weeks work looks at me with doleful eyes
and a feather duster tickles my fancy.

Soon the clutter will unclutter itself
the vacuum cleaner will **** out the symphony
of dust and dirt and unhidden memories
and my desk will be tidied up and paper
towels will do their job.I spend time
re-arranging ******* in a more distinct pattern
" Ah, so there's that telephone number I scribbled last week!"

I return after an hours homework
and settle at my desk.
" Now where did I leave that phone number again?"

I survey the scene on AP
and skim through the comments
"God, he did not like my last poem,
She said :Keep it real
He said: What does this mean?"

and and and
The Green Eyes are forever smiling

Its a worthwhile Sunday

I better take up Chapter 36 of my book
but open Mathematical Universe instead.

Those eyes are haunting!
Its a beautiful Sunday.

the links go viral in the wondrous wasteland
people notice blue lettering
take journeys in rivulets of meaning
down pages pumping information

its crazy this desire for numbers
on twitter, FB. linkedin loops
click click click we go on a virtual
merry go round
dog chasing tail?
the circle widens, ripples

be wise they say
keep it clean, smart
as we manage this momentum

will the bubble burst
in a connected world
where we remain faceless, voiceless
life on a keyboard
ruled by a mouse

scampering through ghost people

its time to go back to living
and handshakes and kisses
phone numbers in wallets
smell skin and taste and touch

its time to sleep now
forever unconnected.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 14 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11677675-Social-media-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.B2PpCyij.dp­uf

The seesaw can swing up or down
we are hinged to life and death
like love and hate
good and bad whatever.

In the middle we have a choice
to swing either way. Stay up?
For how long. You must come down.

Live forever? You cant
Try as you might.
Love forever-possible
but hate follows close behind.

When God made man he was surely
seated on a seesaw!

Author Notes

Its obvious God was upto something
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Blistering between the false hope of liberty
and the dream of a destiny
beyond the stars and the cosmic intricacies
of filtered rituals of nonsense, I stayed stymied
on the crutches of traditional customs
and conventions of writing.

Even the telescopic vision of a faraway
fantasy did not change rapidly
until the burning smell of a laissez-faire life
drove me into  the strange new highways
of poetry.

Before too long I re-directed my attention
to writing, reading and contemplation
all of which came together
in an implosion of thought.

I wrote my first poem at the tender
age of twelve
and never stopped racing down the
roadways of writing
tyres burning
and speedometer ticking

Who can stop a getaway wordsmith
from breaking vocab records
for daring the unimaginable fantasy?

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 hours ago

Straddled by a luscious peach
encased in a robust pelvic girdle embrace
the eye dances a slow sensual waltz
step by step reasoning the gossamer finery of petals
balancing in the beauty unsure
of what it really means.

Therein lies the misstery
and kisstory
of sensual persuasions drawn delicately
from an angular birds eye view
of the black iris beauty
incandescently glowing welcome.

How did the artist get her work
drawn so accurately
but from a mirror reflection
posing herself, lights shining
and aroused at the pearl like petals
opening and closing
at every stroke
of a hard brush and bristle.

Well done my beauty.
You have defied my aesthetic thinking
into visual poetic explaining.

Well done

Author Notes

"Black Iris" - by Georgina O Keefe.


The way this delicate Iris is drawn it immediately takes me into wondering how it got its lights and shadows and rich purple-black heads with such clarity. Were there lights reflecting off walls, candlelight dinners and sparkling wines beside the painting?  As art it is outstanding, but as a perception it draws me into the lighter  side of understanding it.

Most enjoyable trying to gauge its deeper meanings.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The invisible hand that stretches across
Oceans and  barbed wire boundaries
Has more fingers than the streams of light that cascade
from the heavens into the dark recesses
of your magnificence.

There are moments when all seems lost
But the shadow of darkness is dispelled
And replaced by this glimmer of hope
That softly and subtly invades
Your magnificence

Even as we explore the faint avenues
That wound their way into our consciousness
We clearly seem to understand how our journeys
Criss-crossed over exotic landscapes
And stark desolate realties
To merge into a moment of  mystery.

We have finally met.
Now more human than before
The pages  of our past turn slowly
The notes we compare are cryptic and careless
But what we share seems to have been sculpted
By the same pen filled with the same ink of wisdom.

As subtle as it may seem I frighten at the pause inflicted
when standing before a knowing crowd
to speak up and be heard.

My brain rummages in a waste paper basket of words
for meaning but finds nothing that will escape my throat
out into the open where eager eyes wait and watch
for the imminent collapse of discomfort
around me like a skirt dropping without an elastic band.

Yet my head bubbles with exotic words all inside the cranium
but no words escape from even leaking outlets.
I slink in fright at what I may say, some unkempt sentence
something funny or fumbling, never intended.

Yet I write such massive volumes of words unspoken
but tempered in some inner furnace and beaten into poetic shape
asking no one for any help, but writing unaided and unfettered.

I write because all the things I want to say have gone past spoken
experience and now desire to be recognised as written words.
When spoken before a mirror  they come alive with different meanings
and wander into understanding without jabs and jarrs or prodding.

Many like me have said the same thing when discussed
and I wonder why that happens so uncomfortably.
Best to leave us alone and not bother to seek our words of wisdom
but our written words as reflections of an inner mirror!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I am a cube in a dark chocolate bar
seasoned with a milky white
continent of courses
collision of cultures
chili and chill wind season
in overcoats of global ambitions.
Born in the barracks of colonial masters
who took their women from tribal backwaters
of empire. These beauties succeeded
in conquering their Masters
in the art of warfare in bed and beyond.

say what you will
I carry the cost of all completion
and show the combination of colours
on my skin
burnt in the sun of these wars and conquests
all six of us soldiers.

we took his language and her complete
abandonment to beauty grew in the night
of knowing the white ruled the rainbow
and hard liquor while the dark bred the boldness
or so. (Mama said)

we, as children of different cultures
in a  potpourri of pertinence
got licked, kicked, bruised and burped
cooked and laid as chocolates always do.
But we grew in mamas wonder of the world
at large, while Dad knew all the blends of single malt
maidens from the highlands of his birth.

as happy children, aware of hard work and toil
we rose faster than the fumes of spirits
and set about travelling the shores of net profits
and university empires instead.

Mama laughed when we told her
of the worlds and wonders we had conquered
and how the colour of our skin spoke for us.

Dad knew all about peg measures
and pork chops, fork, spoon  and gunpowder conquests
as hollow as his casks of wine
and maturing as slow as his wisdom.
Mama only knew the meaning of knowledge
with no degrees.

God bless them both
as they sit around a table
in that great place in the beyond
and discuss chocolate bars
skin and colourful wrapping
of all six cubes!

I am Anglo-Indian.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The national pride is nullified by the constant buzz of shores
being broken down and beaten with patrol boats
scouring the waves for lame boats carrying
malnourished passengers to a land of plenty.

With searchlights and stern rugged faces
blue uniformed and well fed, border patrol
scout out the weary travellers braving the high seas
and sharks to find a safe heaven in some hidden cove.

Pest control is serious business. Unlucky to be caught
and housed in centres with rationed food and worn clothes
herded into bare camps, often deported back
to home turf, the pest control cycle continues.

Take heed. A nation is built on pests., working hard, saving
every cent, running against the clock, against government agencies, starved and poor, defeated in justice, welfare,
community, papers, education and livelihood, slinking through
alleyways of paper networks, low paid, often beaten and bruised
packed in housing crates, stacked storeys high, nation building
begins at the journeys first step away from regimes too busy amassing wealth and wonder for themselves.

Nation builders are the pests you want. The pests you spend your money  to keep away from your own backyard
for a vote for safety.
Pin up a country that did not grow without these
masses of refuge pests?

Not one.

Author Notes
Migrants are nation builders. Check it out.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The endless sands bulging over and breaking
in undulating form
shifting in the winds language of low wolf whistles
and sensual whispers
stretches as far as the minds elasticity
into a sheltered cove where sits,
a desert prophet dreaming of strange rituals
in the mirage of waters and wastelands.

Come time and temperament he will rise
in the chill night to gaze upon the stars
moving within the spangled galaxies
between The Milky Way and Cassopeia,Andromeda,
with  Sirius suns rising in a another world
where secrets lay buried in the papyrus
of ancient astrologers who understood
how the earth was born and
other peoples left their mark
for a discovery  of millennium  future.

The prophet was here once.
Twelve feet tall and striding
between giant obelisks and pyramids
walking oceans, crossing land bridges
and land masses escorting
his forbears to seed the earth.

"I will return in time
ten thousand years after the Aztecs
Machu Pichu, Indus and Empires
built on carved  gods and seven headed hydra,
to rule again unquestioned, as before. Think.
Till then -leave what I have left behind
for you to caretake. Stay still.  Understand.

Author Notes
Return?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Old T Rex stood on the mountain top
And watched the brontos stroll
Little did he know that further up
Moses was on a roll

The critter knew that one day soon
The tables would be turned
He hunched his back  and gnashed his teeth
The tablets wont be spurned.

Both together made mankind fierce
and splashed the fear of hell
One did better with no rehearse
Casting an eerie spell.

The tablets were used
To keep temperatures down
Ten doses a sop and a lollipop
T Rex the centre of town.

Clinging hard metallic walls
with veins ******* sweetness from little
leftovers trickling down
the gorse stayed dancing between
open spaces of hell and heaven.

Death like tussle with elements
yellow blooms suckled  pollen
from air vents travelling in the streams
passing within reach
shedding its seeds into the waiting
arms of rare  tourist birds
sojourning in the skyways
of distribution and danger. The gorse
started small, spread quickly
and took over the countryside
with no one watching.

The caliphate was born
under the black hood of death
and the guns aimed at all
with scimitars of control
too late to stem
or seep the spreading venom.

Whole armies now sacrificed
on the altar of ideals.
The crusades will begin again.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Rushing and racing to  dead end driveways full of people
the cars and carts jostle for space on a thin highway
above another highway taking people fleeing from
one part of the city to another, unafraid
of speed, policemen and political rallies
that spring up with orchids blooms and svelte
women in jasmine pink and brocade dreams
of stardom on every giant poster that
speaks a commercial language of
love and lust and night queens in dingy cubicles
selling tanned and creamed bodies
to the almighty dollar.

Come night and the city lights sparkle necklaces
of pearls and petulant lips beckoning you
into the paradise clubs where masseurs knead
you wallet and your wads of fat flesh in a satisfying
slumber of sorts.

Watch out for the snake eyed policeman
who has a forked tongue and licks the wisps
of air, for sent of bribe and drugs that could be planted
on your person. He cares a **** if you spend
a lifetime in prison arguing your lost case
forever.

Nothing will change in a day or year
or eternity as long as the city covers all its
people with a corruption of senses.

Author Notes
Its all true.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I'm not brave, never was and never will be
any scars I have are hidden in deep dungeons
somewhere in the vast open spaces of my mind
They are too deep to dig out and analyse. Even try.
There are no medals blistering my breast pocket

No  name shouted from pulpit or podium
No one cheering  academic prowess
scars of poverty or pain or orphan splendour
at tender twelve Christmases
all those scars buried under the skin, and swept out of sight
on the watching life. There were many watchers.

Not brave pushing boundaries
I learnt my  visual language off
graffitied walls and bart simpson.

No I was not brave, when I arrived here
with a shirt on my back and a two dollar back pocket
bus ticket. Come on you got to be joking,
for switching countries, continents and communities
to earn a square meal.

See what I mean? I'm not brave, riding morning evening traffic
with ten thousand automissiles coming at me daily
I'm not brave when I scoff a whole chocolate
cake without counting the calories or checking that waistline
or watching Dr Oz rave on about nuts fruits ***** and berries.
Its on the rare occasion I get brave and take notes!

No Im not brave at all. I'm a coward that hides behind brave people
who have 9-5 jobs, wear white skins to work, white collars
and smile behind white sparkling teeth with red ties
dripping in  ****** racist jibes of inequality.
No I'm not brave being 65 and hiding 65 thousand racist comments
under scars covered by moisturisers
white shirts and dark glasses
in the searing heat of society.

I am brave when it comes to using
words that hide behind lace-like feathery
curtains of verses and rhythms
that sing along to everything I write.

Author Notes

A critical look at society and how it functions between the layers of immigrants. Look under the skin to understand why we write poems, like we do. The harsher the social climate the more rugged are the desert rats it produces. History is full of such examples. This hierarchy will never change.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

nestled in the fist of fury
followers following followers
machine numbers generated
to the size of egos

the devils henchman lurks
saturated by cryptic code
destruction embedded
in his fused brain

waiting

to puncture your alterego
and spill your conscience
into a crucible of sacrifices
on the altar of recognition

indecent pictures
bloated for primetime consumption
on the sidewalks of galley slaves
surfing social media
with oars of phony cosmetic
happiness. where do you stand?

welcome to a world of make-believe.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 27 days ago

The city is slick with neons winking
at unwary pedestrians
inviting wallets into opening up
credit cards and false dreams
of luxury. Few care about seduction.

The rain drops gently
scattering sparkles
that nobody cares about. None.

at 5pm
the only interesting pathway is
home. All.

Day pulls its shutters close
and the nightlights
imitate day.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago

I am a great cook, you said, casually
switching between the phone and knife
cutting conversations into small slivers
dicing lettuce, add patties, mustard
the phone smearing your make-up.
balancing between your neck and necklace
and long spiral ear-rings.

I am a great cook, you continued,
head tilted at a rakish angle
knife still dancing in mid-air.

( It’s a technique you mastered
over the years)
Cutting, calling and stalling.
I watched those big brown eyes
join the talkative salad and burger
now taking shape on the table

I shrivelled in fear
when you laughed and said:
I am a great cook and killer
of lettuce, stray ladies and flirty men-
Ha! Ha!
( oops!)

Do you want a beer to go with your burger?
did you joke?

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 22 days ago

We met on the morning when the sun waded
through the window
mopping up the nights shadows as it invaded
every corner of my working space.

I was ready to react to other poets at work on AP.
She came along with a blistering title
and abundance of words, beguiling
and packed with imagery, dark and dense,
laced with succinct and sinful metaphors
wolves and watchmen, ****** energy swirling
around in thickets and primroses
promises broken and bleeding on the threshold
of their hearts, but gone, each on their own
sun and sin  sprinkled pathways to other partners.

Only she wrote poems
He wrote her off!

Who was this stranger, tearing her heart out
on these pages, soulful and sinful, unheeding,
unashamed at being beaten and bruised
by her lovers tantrum now
migrated  to a new nest of instant *******.
She bled her words out in rhyme and rhythm
Holding on to fragments of a dream
fast fading at the edges.

I wrote her some lines of happiness
instinctively telling her to calm down
and think about what freedom meant
and where it lead  in the rocking horse world
of thin relationships.


She replied with two words
in acid structure: *******!
I never heard from her again.

The sunshine continued to invade the day.

Author Notes

True story. Old story. Love story are born and die this way. There are hundreds of poems on this site that used just those words when either gets dissed. Bad luck goes good luck comes. The sun continues to invade the day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Amandla!

Locked  in  societies cages  where the sunlight streaked in with
black and white uniforms with bars and batons
to hold them in place
shackled to their destines
to die in policies polluted by skin and colour
these people fought against
The oppressors determination to reduce
An entire nation to subservience
Until one man swam against the apartheid  tide
To a prison of meaning.

At last in the wide open spaces
Where freedom grew  with the flowers
With chains of people dancing in the streets
Of  hope in the future

Alas the high  tide turned against
Them and those at the front row who lead
The back row to brutality soon found
The dancing invited the shackles again
And they all locked themselves in the same suffering
As before, one by one.

Except no one  they could  blame somebody else
but his own black brother.

The road was broken in segments of dream huts
clinging to 10 sqm of waterless, worthless plains
beside a million flies teeming for life sustaining energy
from rancid smells and miracles of justice that never come.

Living in the light of palaces, the poor understand pain
and poverty like life's  great gifts of wonder
to philosophise and burn in the tabernacle of
rotund politicians. How easy for them to girth
the national wealth under a huge lie.

Out in the open the crows capture the days sound
with raucous caws of indiscretion. Unrestrained
by manners or moments of ecstasy, each crow
sounds off the days entertainment.

At nightfall the city slimmer's to sleep
and the slums awake to underground life
living and moving relentlessly,  from one
moment to another, unheralded, unsung
fully awake with hunger, even as the darkness
closes in and absorbs the days movements
with its blanket of silence.

Tomorrow is another day for the cycle
to turn one more cog in the direction
of no return. Sad. Sad. Sad.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Dear family and friends
At last, my son is walking the long gangplank
to a happy married life. God bless his final journey to sanity.
I'm sure his beautiful bride has learned how to
cart a whole box of beer bottles out to the kerb very tuesday
**** socks, ignore those **** posters on his walls,
collect all his Penthouse Libraries
and tie ties. It will be a happy life together.
I was lost for words the day he came over to Mom and me
to inform of his final adrenalin rush into matrimony.
( or was it matrimoney?)
I was happy for him to be happy
and even offered to escort him to the gate!
We looked at his budget for the big do
and quietly froze our bank accounts, shut down the
family jewels and booked a holiday to Paris
a day after the wedding.Confronting the bills
was a frightening prospect for his mother and me.
I am sure, honourable guests, you will have enjoyed
the invitations of recycled paper?
He offered to return my tie and brocade shirt the day after.
But he was a good guy after all. So much like his father
chip of the old block. Like father, like son
blah blah blah
He has a lovely wife, and she is smiling too
at the catch she made.  God bless that girls cunning.
As a parting gift,my son, I have left you
a legacy of lust and happiness.
A supply of ******, so that you too, my son
could walk around
with a stiff neck!
God bless the happy married couple!

Author Notes

Ok. Its not serious. So what.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Grey blue asterisks against a wet valley of hills
clutching boulders for *******
crags and crannies filled
with luscious flower bursting in bloom
summertime
solace of scenic breaks
the bus trundles around corners
through to Milford Sound
majestically beautiful in its isolation
and magnificence
the lupins soar like coloured points of ecstasy
into shades of pink purple blue
taking in the breathless landscape
as if it all owned the place
forever.

Riding back through the ice packs and awe
of blue waters and spray mists of inspiration
we sit silent and absorbed
cameras unable to take in beauty of depth
but a small window of memories
that capture our time and place
in this wilderness.

Leave it alone for the lupins.

Author Notes
A journey through Milford Sounds-World Heritage site, New Zealand.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

It was only a line, a flash, a blurb
but it lit a lifeline to
mangrove minds, chandeliers in the street,
peacock feathers,
art ****** sunsets trapped
in bleeding orange and emails
of honesty.

Who was this vibrant artist
waddling colours of purple passion
aubergine temples of trust
murals of majestic visions
nights of bright lights
and poems from the streets of dawn
bohemian Queen
painting ecstasies in double entredres
whispering apologies
collecting little bits of jigsaw life
making sense of sublimation
unafraid to speak the truth

She must be special.
in the selfie of the moment
she opened a window
to let me peer in and
I stayed well past the
unreasonable hour. Fascinated.
Author Notes

The Artist. Have met her many times before.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I knew him well. Ten years attached to his clinic
like a stethoscope dangling with ailments
I knew the carpet threads
The old painting on the wall
The posters on rheumatic fevers
Pains in the chest, nurses call
And the vague smell of antiseptic cream
Liberally applied over every visitors hands

I knew all those dangly instruments and probes
Designed in the middle ages
And given a stainless shine just now
Bright and sparkling.

I knew his receptionist too quite well
Her big *****, had just a button undone
But I had xray vision and a sharp brain to imagine
Tropical island and coconuts

I knew his voice, his signature
His way of asking questions
And his way of checking the big fat book
Of pills and potions that held his practice together

Every time he called my name out
In the reception area
He always said it funny:
The Gass rhymed with a donkey
And never with a glass.
( I corrected him many times)
But as old as he was his memory could not hold
my correct name for more than 3 seconds. He won.

On leaving his clinic, I always wished
The Tropical Islands goodbye-and winked
That 'just cured wink' like I knew
how to collect coconuts!
It never worked in ten years
But hope is not a medical condition. Thank you.

Author Notes
Ha ha.
Please check out ISBN 9781493137848-  my new book published last night. The Trilogy is better than all the poems I ever wrote. Unashamedly, promoting my book, currently on Amazon.Com and soon on all e-books.

Thank you.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

the entire universe entered through this
umbilical chord
strumming in tune
its lifeblood housed
in place now.

cut
when the cry woke you
to life
and now
you cover the connection
afraid
to show you could exist
only through this orifice

the central forces
deposited
in you as you strode
into your leg and life span
from birth to death
unconnected
yet connected with being reminded.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

No need to flick the **** out of this monster
standing on a podium above our heads
looking down in distaste at what we, the poor, can do
or not do! Fodder, we are, trampled into stacks, rolled
into wretched bales and stacked skyhigh
on machines that run through  precision.

Once done, they stand above and lord
over their handiwork as we
the minions, muscled in on our lives
struggle to keep the factories going
feeding the fat bellies and guns
that will silence others across the thin divide
of territorial useless wars

Once in a while the fucktories will open
and spew many newborn into the guts
and glory for the motherland where birth
and bread are numbered and named with
berets and bonhomie, pretend play
at camaraderie. We perish unwept
at the crack of dawn and gunfire in long lines
on a battlefield where ideals are shouted
and gas chambers await dissent.

Driven like oxen to the national abbatoir
hair, teeth and nails collected, bones crushed
for gelatine soup and flesh shredded
for fertilisers to grow more cattle
to be fed more hay
to man the factories and fucktories
to make more children
to polish the forces
to line up and lament our lot

Switch off the power.
Switch off the power
Switch off the power
Switch off the power..........

Author Notes
The revolution takes a step back to WW11.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The heat of summer sizzles
to  seek the embers of the heart
to nurse and nurture those feelings that rise
and burst-star flung into distant galaxies
dense, crisp  memories of the past
where poems fizzle and burn
through the summer solstice
until we arrive star struck
at Valentines Day. Warm and delicate.

Who  now,
waits to hear those succinct words
that untangle all the years waiting
into a warm embrace, naked  in naughtiness?

Roses. Flowers. Chocolates.Kisses
Symbolic of deep red lust in scented secret gardens
where the dark chocolate, lies licked and limp
until the kisses awake the senses.
You are special
and Everything.

Its the day of eternities compressed
and solidified in a moment
which we share together
to  look forward to anothers years waiting!

Begin today.

Author Notes

Valentines Day!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Doctored in genetic cauldrons
for wine seeking solace in perfection
engineered tactfully within testtubes
of formulae
extracted and compressed
its testicles removed
the grape rendered impotent.

how strange
that we surgically implant
and speak to inner workings
to consumerise
everything we need.

chickens battery farmed
cows turf grassed
pigs in poultry cages
men in monkey suits
playing god in the paddocks of doom.

maybe we should
just leave things alone
and nature will be fine.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Dust gathers
insipid dreams
we return to atoms
what is in it after all
death or life
wounded memories
splayed broken

we write because
unburdening happens
wonder what social media
does to the facade we build
cosmetic bridges
imaginary castles
impregnable fortresses

capillaries to the heart
blocked channels
voices of velvet sounds
cascading in the night
of doubt.The dust settles
after the storm

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

nuns floated on serene slabs of silence
like penguins of patience
waiting for the summer of noise and nuisance
to batter the  baptismal vow
of tranquility.

i was alone here
my sins magnified and enormous against
the leadlight windows and bare walls
light streaming rainbows of meaning
through the high altar windows
onto sheets of spotless white souls
singing in harmony-not a stitch out of tune
angels of mercy.

Slinking by the giant font
huddled and hugged by incense absorbed
embroidered seat covers of pews
i was afraid my sinful stains
would corrupt this magnificence.

there is a god i could not see
a spirit resting in the moment
angels flitting about keeping calm
ushering in the penitents
and patting the innocents.

slowly but surely the walls
began to tremble with acceptance
and my voice found a note in the hymnal
and i surrendered to the honeysuckle tone
of the sisters in praise and song.

Author Notes

True.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

Those aged between 10-16, trade in your toy soldiers
for real guns at Barrack No 33 along
mocambo rd. Come alone. Parents not invited.

Be well fed, watered, trained and tempered
in steel resolve to waste the enemy.

Uniforms supplied, washed once a year.
Make your playmates olive green with envy.
Sleep in air conditioned dormitories
roofless, and watch the stars glide in and out
of a universe you do not know.

Learn to ****, ******, loot and march
in pincer formations up and down mountains
and rest near bubbling brooks and silver coloured leaves
in the jungles of dissent. Eat from tin can plates
and smoke delicious kat leaves to rev up your libido.

What are you doing playing with plastic toys?
we can give you real ones, real bombs, guns
serrated daggers,poison pellets, misty eyed maidens,
order your disorder.
(and bald heads for target practice)

Come my children,
learn the art of war
for the good of your country.

Sign up today
the commander will even shake your hand.
Become a real soldier.
Come in today. Come.

Author Notes
The rag tag mercenaries are resourcing real soldiers from the ranks. Sign u today. Learn the art of war. All recruits must be between 10-16 years only.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

emptiness looking for tenants
a library with no books
being read
but full of people talking.

the starfish dancing
in whirlpools of fire
slabs of light underbelly

spineless me
reading landfall
lurking in other poet minds
watching metaphors
like meteors
bounce off innocent images

some ******* will graffiti
the walls and windows
we will need to decipher those squiggles
as art

guessing. guessing

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

six dots
random sequence
one never falls in love'by chance
two make sense
three is for free
four
no more please
five-high?
six
the first of the devils visit
another six-age
another six
delve deep for explanations

dont dice with death they said
holding a six shooter
to my head
the russian roullete worked

i speak from the other world
where eternity has no chance.
I took it.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11670077-Dice-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.OZOFc736.dpuf

Thirty years from now
no one will know the colour
of your eyes the car your drove
and the sound of your voice
or the house you lived in
Even the times you swore
you denied bread
to the outstretched arms
milk to the baby
wine to the wise
and love to the unloved.

Unless

you make a mark of man
in the footsteps to the temple
where lives an invisible being
resplendent in mercy
forgiving
and infallible to all
and accept
that your own universe
was crafted by this creator
with your name
scrawled in calligraphy
on a special page with your name
and number embossed
b?
d?
who am I?
What should I do?
to leave behind the best of Me?

Author Notes
Recognise this reflection?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The colours swing in a pendulum attached to the mind
as if
each shade knows its final resting place
in a landscape packed with the purity of clarity.

All of the brushes have been tenderly placed
in a potholder soaking
up the sensations of previous lifetimes
now slowly turning to ageing grey shades
of temperament

To touch the sunflower grey would be a sin
against the sun it glints off the minds magical array
but green beckons in an eversoft seduction
with silver on the undersides to offshoot
the tantrums of the painters reflection.

The scene emerges from a warm blanket of texture
into a tone so gentle that it seems to whisper its presence
in a vase of rounded personality.

I watch
as she loses herself in every stroke of deftness
stepping out into the limelight
taking a bow before an audience of murmurs
soon retreating into that world
that has captured her for today.

She will return when she is ready.
to live amongst us again.

The hawk nosed general in the grey suit sniffed
out his enemies, labrador like, nose to the noise,
chest beating, bleating, blaring in the thunderous
applause, that made his ego bloom amongst the corpses
of the shrunken heads and hands reaching out for bread,
in the shut down quarter of the empire
where the eagles flew in/ out dropping mustard,
caught between a  deadly sandwich of
closed escape routes.

"Burn them all" he said, and turning to his sidekick,
he smiled a thin smile, devoid of the god he worshiped
in the minarets on the mosques that stabbed the  blue sky
with their sharp bulbous  needles of  attention.

At twelve the muezzin called the faithful to prayer and
moaned for mercy on the unbelievers.The call echoed
and reverberated down the streets.
The mustard closed the eyes of  the city where the
gas cannisters jangled on thin nerves and let the
people  sleep forever.

The grey suit, now eau de cologne  scented handker-
chief  
hawk nose sniffed
wiped his forehead and walked
spritely to his armoured vehicle, to call his wife
and enquire if the kids were enjoying their summer swim.

"Yes, darling!" she tingled with excitement.
"How's that part of the city
where these rats live?"
"Good love! Just need to smoke 'em
out some more!
By tonight I'll be home for dinner. Bye for now!"

The line went dead
with twenty others, fried in the concrete
pan of a bunk buster bomb dropped from a drone
with butterfly wings and a sharp upside down minaret
nozzle of spray now stabbing the earth.
Earth to sky, sky to earth?

The barbed wired brains circled the city.
Children soon crunched cockroaches,
mice and rats and grass salads, autumn leaves on wild spinach
thousands  died eating succulent poisonous roots.

Even the carrion claws refused to descend into the darkness
of carcasses that lay down in the streets to pray forever.

The water turned green with envy as lichen,
clogged with blood and ***** and bones rotting
under bridges, ****** up the blue river
and sent the beavers into burrows of omerta
The world watched and waited.

?

Around the dinner table the grey suited general
tucked his napkin under his red,wellfed face and smiled
at his lovely wife in a designer outfit.
" Pass me the mustard please, darling!"

The landscape blurs often
as poets go about their business
crafting metaphors of unexpected delight
in forests of jangled words and visuals
unable to contain their excitement
at having conquered that crystallised
moment of love, hate and everything else
in a frozen sliver of time
inescapable from their minds excursion
into unknown unshaped lands.

Not all succeed in this endeavour
most try, few unable
to melt the metal in a crucible of colour
sound, taste or touch, to smell
emphasis and cocktail curiosity
bringing the best to the fore.

The newcomers tremble at the awe
of maestros watching their work
and dissolve in disasters.
There is the odd one that unknowingly
write splendid poetry
and when noticed and heaped with praise
often springboard into showcasing talent.

Reading the works of the masters
is always good. If they think it
is good then it must be good.
So many footsteps to follow and learn.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Often I struggle to keep the ideas from bursting
out of the page and consuming me
like a jellybean, sweet and delicious with a nice tangy taste
and vanilla smell and sweetness
like a girlfriends kiss!

Ive read here that poets
0f the old tradition have rhyme and rhythm
and severe straitjackets that confine them
to prison walls of Victorian purpose.

I don’t belong to that staid
upper -lip class, casting a sly eye
on those of us who walk barefoot in the sand
swim naked in the rivers of emotion
or jump into pools of filth.

Free verse is better for me, because it is free.
Straitjackets with pins and needles and pin cushions
are only for those who wish to live in the past.
I m a sucker for sensible writing and for fun.

I am obsessed of a desire to write strange
synergetic words in a formation that sings
its own song in the auditoriums of my soul.

Author Notes
A brief reflection of why I write in addiction. Rehab awaits!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The slow stream meanders through the densest undergrowth
finding its way through folly and brush and barriers
until at last it reaches a sea of understanding
where the waves crash and burn
tumble and roll in ecstatic freedom.

So do our lives, liberated from tense *******
of social chains placed upon us
by tradition. We were born free
others wanted us locked in rituals
and rants prescribed
that  satisfied their swollen egos
and their own insecurities in the chain
of progress.

Breaking out is not easy
but one must bulldoze through the miasma
to reach the thin light beckoning you
to leave your baggage behind
on an overcrowded platform
where the trains have just whistled past.

A long time ago, my mind was ablaze
in the jungle of dissent and I roamed the world
seeking the liked and unliked ideologies
to a better way to leave a mark of this fabric
of patterned prose and poetry.

Am I yet free? I don't know.
Tempt me with the taste of freedom.

Author Notes

Freedom has many shades.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Defying the anger of the stormy winds
swearing at her erectness
she stood her ground on the rockface
stony woman, unafraid of raging seas, frosts
ships crashing at her feet.

With one eye winking/flashing,circling
she warned them of men with mustaches and machetes
marauding naked shores far below the banks
where caves in seawalls collided with the rumble
and dash of waves of protest. Nothing moved her.

She stood , solid as the ten commandments
unminding of the raging storms
doing her duty, flaunting her skirts
and dank steps up her heart which
stayed unflinching.

She was all my  new woman wanted to be.
st, peters basilica on this rock
holding the keys to my souls entry
into her private heavens
a house with many mansions.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Miss Shaped
With that hourglass  figure
shifting sand from one orb to the other
She knew her time
was ripe.
Walking into the alleyways of wilderness swamps
where lurked men of all contortions of mind and body
She met her match
in mister muscle.

Not a nerve twitched in her entire
body when he flexed his biceps
and wooed her with no words.

The years of steroids had tied his tongue
into strips of knots
and crosses unable to stop
pumping iron.

Miss Shaped loved this muscular
feast of a man.

The years rolled by
for misshaped

mr muscle had no iron in his heart
only triceps biceps
he left when too many wildebeest
chased his moll.
Author Notes

Just a crafty play on words with several different meanings. The poem will dull you into deception. Say what you will to break it apart.

It took time to assemble

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

of course the sun peeled another layer of my onion skin
barbecued and burnt to a crisp finish
like lettuce in a deep dish of saucy
spices and herbs, coriander and cumin parsley and pain
thyme and rhyme, sage and age
beer and blue bottle flies
all in the name of  nature.

soon the dialogues became dialects and grandpa
guzzled too much ale so he went off to nourish
a rose bush discreetly behind the party pack
of people, swirling about in champagne glasses
and tight skirts tempting us slowly getting drunk voyeurs
with glimpses of heaven and tight buns
packed with ham and cheese and spikes of hot
chilli *******
all in the name of the great outdoors.

as the son set in the evening sky old dad
was eyeing up a guest on her third bubbly
her thinking swerved quickly to burnt sausages.
I was still enjoying the barbecued chick
with the two toned honeysuckle skin
and 34DD sized mushroom concockion
and that, my friends, was purely my nature.

when night came around in a flimsy dress
which showed figures of mountains and sparkles
the ideas in my head bruised by too much *****
buns, bottles and bronze conquests
had to answer the call of nature.

I returned to a field of many victories
grandpa was tending roses head down in the dirt
dad had disappeared with his 34DD mushroom delicacy
Mom was busy discussing politics with a horn-rimmed
gentleman, who this minute would take off
his spectacles and put on his testicles
and I went to bed with hot buns waiting.
all in natural instinct!

Author Notes

An evening party on a  nice barmy day with guests gathered to enjoy nature and all its offerings. Nature is to blame if things went a little astray. Nature does that!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Each morning as the clock winds us up
we leave with little entrails of bruised feeling
blood and guts, words of cosmetic endearment
that leaves so little to hang on to.

Yet we follow what society has sculpted us into
machines with robot brains and numb feelings
that is a desert of emotionless sand dunes
the rippling and carving winds shifting grain by grain

from one non- event to another, just working.
When was the last time we explored a magical night
unaware of the chains of cumbersome domestic duties
and found ourselves alone in ecstasy?

If we count the years we grew from a flourishing
herb garden of delicate scents into a barren backyard
of weeds and thorn and thistle shrubbery we will
understand all that we should have done-but didn't.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11610868-Barren-Backyard-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.gjmSMfRM­.dpuf

On the highways of utopia
stretching pleasure to people
insane with passions pages
I rolled along on tyres
trundling down mountains and valleys
salt swamps, honey mustard nights
pumping iron clad nozzles
energetic bursts of *******
countless stopovers
unburst wheels
mechanical breakdowns of the minds
metaphors of meaning

I settled then on a roadway
in Alaska
destroyed broken beaten
used and dirtied
by grease monkeys and maniacs
unkempt gearshifts of dollars and dimes

life was touch and go
when I parked in a nirvana slot
for good.
Out on the dusty ****
emblazoned with fingerprints
a wisecrack wrote:
I wish my wife was this *****!

Author Notes

A ***** Truck.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

It was all silk and sawdust
Mamas skirts rustled a sunday mass
and dad wore his bowler hat tilted at an angle
(dirk bogarde -like look)

But he was a farmer.
soon after the service was over
he'd hang his hat by the cowsheds
and wallow in green slushy poo
irrespective of how much it stank
and how natural  he looked
throwing sawdust over the caked green pancakes
and shovelling all that crap into a corner,
with sundays best clothes on!

Mama insisted he change first
but no. "The cows need attention
as much as god does, Mama"

We did not argue with his farmyard philosophy
but that's where we cut our teeth
and tasted a mans love for his animals
both human and beast and that's where
we understood that sunhats, bowlers
and polished walking sticks
were just statements that didn't come
from a book- but society. Somehow
he mixed the two learnings
to get along with everything.

I missed him when he milked his last cow
and lay down forever in that quiet evening
as the sun set in an orange sky. The brightest star
that night climbed over the eastern ridges
to grace the night. Dad?



© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.