I didn’t think it was possible to ****
a cactus, but I have.
Cactus corpse lies on the
drooping shelf
the spikes, once full of stabs and stings,
now limp and lifeless
(but scars on my fingers
prove it did cut me)
even the lamp misses the cactus’ prickly
presence, refusing to raise its head
rusty radiator moans loudly,
mourning the loss
I don’t think I’ll ever keep a plant again.
disappointment of the death
has left a longer-lasting mark than
scars on my fingers and
I can't bring myself to move
its corpse from the lonely old shelf

There once was a gal named Alvina,
A registered nurse at a gyne-
     cological practice
     Who brought in a cactus
That jumped on a naked ******.

Ready my therapist, ready the tissues
Suicidal jargon and self harm, tenth issue
My tears, the alien plants to my fragile
sanctuary, ******* all the water and smiles,
Are changing to healthy oak trees,
Odd, in Blue Season, trees shrink to weeds,
The rain queen has become a frivolous giver,
And I remember how the cactus use to quiver
because Blue Season meant the Sun’s burning rays,
Well, the cactus isn’t **** anymore! Back to wearing his spiky clothes always.
Industrial air to countryside,
My fauna and flora haven’t died,
Actually they have multiplied,
The poachers, the self harm, hasn’t ambushed,
No, no! They have been seen about
But they’re less and success is a doubt.

Momentary depression, the lethal poison to
my sanctuary, wreckage seems to be subdued.

A rose and a cactus fell in love.
They understood each other's thorns.

Cactus blooming red,
matches the blood in my veins,
hauntingly precious.

The thing that's annoyingly tragic is,
This cactus has plenty of adjectives,
So why can't I rhyme,
Like I do all the time,
And find myself right where the magic is?

I can't figure out a limerick,
About a cactus and its ******,
God-**** it, it's stumped me,
I've been trying for centuries-
Or has it just been a few minutes?

The flash flood of euphoria,
is swallowed by the thirsty ground,
eternally unquenched.
I will smile,
and fix my eyes on the desert sun.
I will grow roots and bloom,
an endogenous cactus,
while envious drifters lick the sand,
desperate for a drop of rain.

Delivered to us by an optimistic gentleman in a black Stetson cap
who spent his days waving village traffic down with an open hand,
it's been four years since you were sat on the bookshelf in Kath's house.

You stood proud, surveying the fine china made across the border
wrapped up in donated newspaper articles and pristine hand-me-downs,
while my inky fingers welcomed regulars who only ever looked around.

Each weekend we were greeted by bright smiles set in permanent shadow.
Sometimes I declined banknotes on the street for carrying dismantled tables.
I'm still searching for namesakes when perched on local stones above sea level.

Friends like Elvis were divisive figures due to their signature tobacco smells.
Under a green bus shelter, I laughed at his frown about a Midlands town.
Thinking about the rows of vacant church seats still leaves me cold

even now. As I watch needles drop onto rocks and a solitary shell,
your frame shrivels daily and bends you crooked like a question mark.
Oh, Eric - will I ever meet your father again to discuss your burial?