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Nov 2018 · 250
OBLIVION
I don’t remember sleeping
The act of unconsciousness
An awakening of conscience
A letting-go of stress

Becoming something organic
Folded into dotted wood
And fabrics made of ghost
Torpid fibres snake my blood

The calendar flicked through days
The clock ticked through time
Smacked out my mind adventures
Back when I was in my prime

Thinking way outside the box
Deep slumberer in rictus tomb
At one with earth and universe
As safe as mother’s womb

Cruelly wrenched back to life
Birthed hard from safe oblivion
Dreams jet-washed like pebble-dash
Still waiting for event horizon


© pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – All right’s reserved
The oblivion of sleep.....
Nov 2018 · 176
AMEN
Ah! Men

              Aargh! Men

Armed men
  Harmed men
   Jarred men
     Marred men
      Scarred men

Scared men

****** men

Their men
Your men
Our men
                                                        
                                                           AMEN

©pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – all right’s reserved
In remembrance of ALL who died in conflict
Nov 2018 · 190
WHEN WE FORGET TO REMEMBER
The screaming echoes of hell
The echoes of screaming shells
The shattering of wailing echoes
The smattering of human shells.

For decency?
For peace?
For honour?
For humanity?

If? When we fail yet again; once more
Go us into the sea; leave flesh ridden shores
Let briny drink try wash tired hands clean
If there be sea enough to flush man’s grimy pores.

No more!
No more!
No more!
No more!

Or - send us back to the sea; amen
Let the war-weary Earth start over again
Give blood rusty soil time to drink afresh
Forget the blind cruelty; the indifference of men.

©pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – all right’s reserved
Man's blind indifference to his fellow man!
Oct 2018 · 245
DEMONS
At once you feel it, stop, perform an about turn
Something behind you, into your back its eyes burn
You shiver and shake, rub the hairs on your arms
No-one there, but the goose bumps, the sweat on your palms

Carry on walking, swift, humming out loud
Desperate now to find yourself deep in a crowd
You are sure you can hear it, a breath, a refrain
Who is, who follows you home once again

It has happened before, in fact quite a few nights
A shadow appears in the glow of streetlights
It is gone by the time you shuffle up, when you dare
Where’d it go, did I see it, was it even really there

Put it down to exhaustion, a trick of your mind
The tiredness, the *****, the crap daily grind
The work, family, stress it is driving you mad
Makes you see things not there, you’re so ****** sad

We all have our demons, horrors, creatures run wild
Dreamed up monsters we’ve nurtured since we were a child
But monsters don’t exist here, bold, out in real life
They are fantasies, just stories, imaginations run rife

Silly idiot, you’re stupid, get a sodding grip
And you laugh at your crazy as you feel yourself trip
Something was there, it got you, hear a grunt or a bark
It drags you kicking and screaming deep into the dark
A little bit of pseudo-scary fluff for Halloween
Oct 2018 · 250
MAN-FLU: THE EPIC
A Trojan horse. As Cleopatra in a carpet
Enters hidden on a breath
Incubus; droplet alien drawn in,
sets about its work; brooding job to do.

Awaken a little stiff, sweat and grog
A scratchy throat; a swollen lymph
Shower power, rinse and coffee makes well.
No. Twas not to be this false alarm, I’d grabbed.

Working fast now, growing, flooding
like snow melt hitting parched desert.
Seeping into cracks; changing blood-scapes.
Reprographic virus; dissociative – to thrive.

A false pardon was granted this morning
Cruel deception, such as played on Nick Bottom
teased mind into belief; a surge of relief,
Just early morning rust; blow away sleep dust.

I am sick of it now, the sickness; the bug.
My alien visitors; my too close encounter
making things smell wrong – like vinegar
and my nose pop as each side turns to unblock.

As big screen drama – epic plays out in my mind.
The white cells; the soldiers wiping out alien-kind
Dualling MacDuff and MacBeth in Dunsinane cell
Waging battle within me; my man-flu living hell.

©pofacedpoetry Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) all right’s reserved
Suffering, as only a man can! An epic battle against alien invaders - the flu'
Sep 2018 · 476
THE DOMINO EFFECT
Like a domino in a rally
Am I part of the team?
Am I next in line?
Am I to stand or do I fall?

Like a domino in a deck
Will I be played?
Will I be laid?
Will I be noticed at all?

Like a domino on the table
Do I fit in?
Do I join up?
Do I answer the call?

Like a domino shuffled around
Can I adapt?
Can I settle back in?
Can I hold back the gall?

Like a domino in the box
Should I feel safe?
Should I like the dark?
Should I welcome the pall?

©pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – all right’s reserved
The game of life......
Sep 2018 · 334
AND
AND
And he stands there.
Waits.
Left
bereft.
Disbelieving his dream
his
nightmare; blinks
blinks…thinks.
Thinks!
No tears; dry. Too dry    to try    to
cry.
Scratchy; hoarse
as his heart; beats.
Beats!
Bleats.
Empty             space.

Blank       bed.
Gone; no more – no
sight to see - no
words…
to speak.
Quiet.
Tranquil.
LOUD.
DEAFENING!

Head-splitting.

And he stands there.

©pofacedpoetry (2018) Billy Reynard-Bowness – all rights reserved
On loss and death!
Aug 2018 · 321
VEGAS
Sandra works the slots all day
Smoking cigarettes; taking free drinks
Feeding the bandits instead of her soul…
Knowing it's daylight, somewhere!
Ken throws craps; blackens the Jack
Winks sickly at the cocktail waitress
Imagines doing things way past his prime…
Knowing it's nighttime, somewhere!
Passing hours like their years
Bathed in sticky syrup distraction
Dismount stool, lurch; pin-***** pupils
They meet at the buffet; tepid, bland
As their vacation; their marriage
Mid-life shape shifting sand!

© pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – All rights reserved
Mid-life crisis? Dead marriage? Boredom? Life!
Aug 2018 · 408
THE CHAIR
Fog-grey paint on wood…
Sentry!
Imprisons willing hostage…
Safe!
It jars - jams handle door to floor
Uterine prison seals hermetic hermit

The fawn as naked innocent born.
Cow mother forages for food…
To earn!
Boy buck lay prone; ears twitch.
Waiting to exhale.
Wolf pants foul -  
turn handle -
entry permit?

On eves gone by wolf violates fawn.
Cow mother oblivious in her providing!
Crept in!
Kneeled!
As fawn feigned sleep…
Lupus leered, licked - abused like prey

This night young deer escapes the hunt
Lays quiet, tremulous.
Wets itself!
Chair holds!
Patriarchal coward creeps back to fetid lair
Brief reprieve?
Grow strong - pray another day!

©pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – All rights reserved
When the fairytale becomes the nightmare!
Aug 2018 · 244
TWO SCORE YEARS
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
                                      First when there’s nothing…
                                      But a slow glowing dream…

Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
                                      All alone I have cried…
                                      Silent tears full of pride…

Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
                                      What a feeling...
                                      Bein’s believing…

Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
                                      Take your passion…
                                      And make it happen…

The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
                                      Pictures come alive…
                                      You can dance right through your life…



As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
                                       Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
                                       I am unrecognizable to myself…

Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
                                      At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
                                      It was black and whispering as the rain…

With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
                                      I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
                                      I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…

Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
                                      Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
                                      I can feel myself fading away…

Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
                                     There was a time when men were kind…
                                     There was a time when love was blind…

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)

Acknowledgements:

1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
The difference 40 years can make in a gay dancers life....from dream to nightmare in the ***/AIDS crisis, inspired by the music and news of the 80's and 90's
Aug 2018 · 241
HEAD
My drum has perforations; now flawed
Mylar parchment once taut on bone
Leaks prose; but each metaphor pored
Percussive skull reverbs teeming tome

Waning instrument yet waxing lyrical
Tympanic threepenny opera still plays
Snare split - verbose ****** spiracles
Whip quick flick of offal; tongue flays

Well weathered but - oh still sensual
Drum bongo crammed with lyrics learned
Skin leathered; worn – still beautiful
Spills tales – well told – well earned  

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
The head is the drum of our band! Our instrument, through which we see, speak, hear, smell and feel! We use our "head-drum" as a musician uses their drum....to tell tales...and, the older the drum, the more stretched the parchment...the better the story!
Aug 2018 · 794
WAITING
Move as though on castors
Swept in to subdued void
Pierrot lacking puppet master
Shrunken waxwork melting
            I rivet in two eyes black blue
            For a scrap of validation
            Mirrored tunnel dark chute
            Deep abysmal contemplation
Blether. Prattle. Jabber on
Deaf ears nescient; inattentive
Blithely callous their indifference
Never yet shall be emotive
             A flashlight glare. A glint?
             Volt? Amp; electric neuron
             No never see; pulse, or breathe
             Frigid flesh left life extinct.


©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
On entering "that" room! the "chapel of rest", mortuary, morgue.....and looking for something...anything....a sign, some life, some electricity.....nothing left! Waiting...for...nothing!
Aug 2018 · 760
GONE...
You existed; lived simply to love me
At least that’s the way I thought
Until the ghost of you no longer see
Made bereft and left me overwrought

I thought I was all that mattered
Was your centre; your whole life
Your own hopes and dreams shattered
When you became my wife

You did your job. You kept me happy
Catered and bowed to all my needs
But me like a greedy puppy. Yappy
Selfishly caused your soul to bleed

The more you seemed to do and give
The more I grappled to take
The fact you had lost the will to live
My selfish brain no dent did make

I thought you were just bluffing
You couldn’t be so depressed
So lazily I carried on; did nothing
Broke you down in final test

They said they found your little car
Your licence cards, and keys
Angry engine humming. Doors ajar
At the docks down by the quays

Of you they said they found no trace
The currents there were stronger
You would wash up in some other place
They would find you. Just takes longer

Months have gone by but still no you
Has washed up. The police have said
The protocol. What they now must do
Is officially declare you dead!

She couldn’t handle it any more
Suicide; she took her own life
Her husband killed her to the core
Destroyed this doormat wife

So now I wallow in my guilt
Too little too late; now realising
The man she nurtured. Fed, and built
She killed herself despising

She has gone…….

In a cottage garden in Bordeaux
A lady sits smiling; quietly contented
Tragic suicide. Drowning. NO! All faux
Make escape her living hell tormented

She’s glad she saved that money
Stayed strong when life hit the buffers
Gorge on new life sweet as honey
While her hoggish husband suffers

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Be careful how you treat her............ "Gone Girl"
Aug 2018 · 511
TO LAMPOON THE BUFFOONS
Boris likes to stroke his Mogg
Merkel loves a hot Macron
David Davis hates to Barnier
Keir Starmer gels with Garnier

May adores her slimy Gove
While Corbyn woos the Abbott
Liz Truss? Such angry sourpuss
Herself to champion loudly fuss

And Greening's not for leaning
Against the Brexit so opposed
Sajid wants a blimp of Trump
Which has given Donald the ****

Whilst in the gilt historic chair
We’ve a bent partisanal ******
Cash grabbing John the squeaker
Bercow! How in hell are you still Speaker?

Now when speaking of selfish greed
Travel. Duck houses. Second homes, and such
Let’s remember; as not to would be unfair
That glib arrogant war-monger; Blair

I’ve had enough of all of them
The Blunts. The Hunts. The useless…
Pieces of flotsam and jetsom
Don’t even start me on Leadsom!


©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
On the subject of politics and Westminster in 2018 - Brexit etc, and the inadequacy of our politicians on all sides of the divide.
Aug 2018 · 238
DEMONS
At once you feel it! Stop! Perform an about turn
Something behind you! Into your back its eyes burn
You shiver and shake; rub the hairs on your arms
No-one there but the goose bumps; the sweat on your palms

Carry on walking. Swift; humming out loud
Desperate now to find yourself deep in a crowd
You are sure you can hear it. A breath. A refrain
Who is it? Who follows you home once again

It has happened before. In fact quite a few nights
A shadow appears in the glow of streetlights
It is gone by the time you shuffle up; when you dare
Where’d it go? Did I see it? Was it ever even there?

Put it down to exhaustion. A trick of your mind
The tiredness. The *****. The crap daily grind
The work. Family; stress. It is driving you mad
Makes you see things not there. You’re so ****** sad

We all have our demons. Horrors; creatures run wild
Dreamed up monsters we’ve nurtured since we were a child
But monsters don’t exist here. Bold; out in real life
They are fantasies! Just stories. Imaginations run rife

Silly idiot. You’re stupid; get a sodding grip
And you laugh at your crazy as you feel yourself trip
Something was there! It got you! Hear a grunt or a bark
It drags you kicking and screaming deep into the dark

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
We've all got them....but are they real or imagined?
Aug 2018 · 240
NHS @ 70
Bring to me your broken down
Your rattling and cracked
Send me all your fractured hearts
The pains; the sprains and smarts

Deliver to me your wounded
Your tortured mentally alone
Pass to me your elderly infirm
The babies born before their term

Rush to me your weak of will
Your dependant; addicted and lost
Blow to me those down on their knees
The drunk. Morose. Self-inflicted injuries

Laugh with me at human things
Your odd accidents and stories
Triage with me as I tend the wound
Make you better than the you I found

Present to me your desperate
Your shattered and your morbid
Breathe with me as surgery makes well
Exhale! On my skill your fate befell

Lay on me your one in three
Your canker’d and your wretched
Move to me those at end of time
When curtain falls on final pantomime

Please bear with me when times get hard
When I slip up and make odd mistake
Pray for me at seventy. No dotage; still I strive
So proud to play my part in keeping you alive

Raise thanks with me for visionary
My creator; father Aneurin Bevan
Have patience with me when I seem slow
Many patients to see in daily ebb and flow.

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
In honour of our National Health Service (NHS) in it's 70th year.
Aug 2018 · 233
NIGHT TERROR
A shiver creeps right through the house
Searching hard for a spine so to tingle
It scuttles and darts around like a mouse
Hunting just for the right soul to single…

Out for its attention. Upon which to blow
That cold icy breath; to make shudder and shake
The one that it settled on never will know
Why they felt such a fear when not even awake

For it found them and used them
Wrapped and smothered their skin
Pricked and tickled their body during deep REM
A dream frigid and sharp and as bitter as gin

Oh the terror it gets you however you try
Shoots hard up your back as the strongest of shingle
The worst thing about it is you never know why
With your deep darkest fears it’s determined to mingle

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
What happens in the deepest darkness of the night, during black hard sleep, when "something" touches you...from somewhere
Aug 2018 · 2.3k
OZARK
In the Boondocks of the Ozarks
Salty caramel smelt of August
Swathes stench of rotten trailer parks
Imprisons barren mid-west dust

Feral fevered kids a hunting
For to cool; shoot up, or drink
Arthritic railroad; tie and shunting
Ferrous old town wretched on the brink

Since the cease of mine and logging
Depletion of iron lead and zinc
Nag horse too dead for flogging
Folks futures draining down the sink

Some respite in the summer heat
RV’s; tourists and campers for trails
Like blackfly plague pick off the meat
Fly fast; escape as another harvest fails

Dark currents pepper darker mood
Intolerance grinds in the daily way
Resentment bread as only food
At someone’s door the blame shall lay

In the graveyard of the Ozarks
Rednecks dance on industry tombs
Burn brown smoke spice. Moonshine sparks
Oblivion; no life. Back to mothers' womb

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
The sultry heat of an American Mid-West summer in a dying old mining community full of drugs, devoid of hope!
Aug 2018 · 286
Water-Cooler Marriage
"The daily grind is so hard"
He whined
"Work and raising kids isn’t easy"
She opined
"Deirdre got your promotion"
He snitched
"I heard Dave got yours?"
She *******
"I hate this **** job"
He sighed
"So look for another"
She cried
"Maybe tomorrow"
He lied
"You'll do it one day"
She lied
“Stop tapping your foot”
He snapped
“Stop looking at her”
She flapped
"What's for tea?"
He assumed
"Why ask me?"
She fumed
"Can't believe it's only Monday"
He moaned
"If I hear that again..."
She intoned
"Shall we get a takeaway?"
He enlightened
"Oh, I love you"
She brightened
“Love you too”
He cooed
“Kisses to you”
She blew
"See you tonight, love"
He winked
"You will, my lover"
She pinked

Midday watercooler meeting
Frosty silence skin broken
Domestic warfare so fleeting
Morning car row forgotten
Like work-a-day sheep
At end of day meet, then
Takeaway, home, sleep
Up tomorrow, do it again

The couple who work, rest and play together...

©pofacedpoetry (2018) Billy Reynard-Bowness - All rights reserved
Office politics....with a twist!
Aug 2018 · 181
AWAKE
Life is a dream.


In dreams’ we exist...


For in dreams...


We sense
      We see
We hear
      We feel
We taste
      We smell
We fear
      We love
We lust
      We loathe
We triumph
      We fail
We fall
      We climb
We fight
      We laugh
We cry
      We try
We run
      We stop
We hit
      We hug
We bite
      We kiss
We sleep
      We rest
We sing
      We scream
We are hopeful
      We lose hope
We gasp
      We breathe
We hold it
      We cherish it
We hold tight
      We let go
We remember
      We forget
We live
      We die


And it is life...


It really is…


It is reality...


We exist...


In dreams...


Awake!


©pofacedpoetry (2018) – Billy Reynard-Bowness – All rights reserved
On the subject of existentialism
Aug 2018 · 421
MINESTRONE SUMMER (2018)
MINESTRONE NIGHTS (on the summer of 2018)  
              
Deep in the incubus of fantasy
As torrid painter makes its art
Rips a flash of an epiphany
A plaintive whisper of the heart
Hobgoblin summer full of slobber
Beget febrile reveries unkind
As dance character’s macabre
A three-ring circus in my mind
Each minestrone moldy night
When body craves boreal slumbers
Akin cat on hot tin roof I fight
Dank sog my sleep encumbers
Comes morn aft time eternal
Half charged at start of day
Abscond sodden dreams infernal
Tormenting orb is up to play
I was hot before I even knew
Never really did cool down
Too warm again, for morning dew
Vague slumber’d avec frown
Haven't slept for an age or eon
Cadaver tacky to the tepid touch
Arise, trepid to perspire, like peon
Labour in this broil is just too much

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
On the difficulty sleeping and torrid fantasy dreams which encumber during the heatwave summer of 2018.

— The End —