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Tommy Randell Dec 2017
I'm a burnt-out wrote-out Lover
I'm a used-up messed-up wooer
Any hopes of again being a Suitor
Equate to me as a long time loser

I'm as past it as a lapsed out Catholic
I'm as lapsed as a drunk alcoholic
No mystery now to what then was magic
My glory days are a zero mathematic

I'm a light year older than the Manopause
A nano second out of the basket clause
No longer useful unless holding the doors
I am the example of what was possible once

I'm the old fashioned impassioned Poet
Who knew an iambic when he wrote it
Yet is prone to drone on into prolix
To end poems with rhymes like sclerotic ...

Any self portrait is a medium
For the poet the tragedian or the comedian
To pass through a time filled with tedium
And maybe make one's own epicedium
To save you having to look it up : An epicedium is/was a funeral ode.
Forget about the face,
My ears are question marks
And oddly placed.
Everything that can be said, they say -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The eyebrows too I think,
One of them's a caterpillar
And clearly out of sync.
Some say asymmetry is beautiful in its way -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

At 66 my lips are thinning,
Squinting sideways when I smile
In effect more akin to grinning,
My English teeth a little grey -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The right positioning and number of limbs
Does little to improve
The overall slackness of bones & skin.
Indeed, I don't walk so much as sway -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

So there it is, my mirrored Self,
Companion in my ageing days,
Heir to generations of rich genetic wealth.
Self Portrait, posed to flatter, as displayed -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.
Tommy Randell Jan 12
In the drawing of a self portrait
There are choices to be made,
Surprises that lie in wait -
Which Me will show his face today?

The Cynic, the Lover, the Clown,
The textures of Shadow and Pain,
The Father, the Loser, the Frown,
The calligraphy of Peace regained?

Should i try and aim for a likeness,
Improvise something dramatic,
Make a statement, Bold and Revealing,
Or go all out for the Laconic?

But who is the Writer and what is Written?
Who is the Painter and what is his mission?
On the canvas or on the page
Do I want a mirror and not a portrait?

Who knows? In poetry or in a sketch
The aim must be for something essential -
But never The Truth, no no no, for that
We'd all need a much sharper pencil !
Tommy Randell May 13
I'm an anthology of one
I'm a dead mother's son
I'm a poet who has no raison d'être

I can wake up with poems
That've been hatching and growing
Like a hive of rhyming etceteras

Pity me, pity me, I have been cursed
I squirt it all out like a toothpaste of verse
I've smeared it across pages and screens

It's a compulsive disorder
My brain's a pestle and mortar
Grinding out word spice like a machine

It comes out of my brain as pure audio
It's everything that's in me on overflow
Every thought in my head made physical

Words are my carbs and my proteins
I'm an infinite ******* of phonemes
Every moment of Life is a syllable

I'm an unbroken chain of events
About trying to make it make sense
About trying to ride out the wave

Opening my arms when the wind blows
Attempting  to peer into the shadows
It's me striving to walk out of the cave

No its not whether you're listening
You think it's a good vibe or just piffling
Its not what it is but what it wants to be

It's a tickertape of meaning
Pouring anagrams of streaming
It's an anthology of one and that's me.

— The End —