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Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Duck walk quacking at the county fair
Nobody even knew that it was there
‘Til Chuck was Chuckin’it at our soul
That’s where we all got our rock’n’roll
Six strings screaming on a fender strat
Dancin’ to the rhythm of a strangled cat
That’s what they said, but that was that
Nativity can be some very strange things
Especially if the infant plays six strings
Rattlin’ your rolls an’ banging your tins
From such things great greatness begins
The original best of all our begotten sins
Drinking is drunk and drunkness is great
But never a way to help you play straight
That’s the precious secret in the alchemy
Transforming chaos into musical harmony
God maybe great but moonshine is beautiful
Nobody ever heard of a sober rock’n’roller
It’s the very thing that liberates the souler
It helps with walk and the duck walk quack
Once you’ve got that, you don’t look back
You’re condemned to a life as a rock’n’roller
Don’t you feel lucky, when a day is made
The bad moon up, and a good band down
That’s the time to really paint that town
An’ start the rocking riot all over the city
Then thank the good lord for that nativity.
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
Harsh as frozen iron
General Winter
Could not break
Nor glare to chilling silence
The vision sweet
Of beauty on a flower
Smiling at a moment.
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
The golden rule never gives change.
And gamblers only drink champagne
Losers can’t afford it
Don’t play poker with medicine men
Doc Holliday's a sore loser
It goes with his obsession
He's a dentist by learning
A gambler by profession
An' a renaissance assassin
A Medici Faustian bargain
Playing the green baize table
Where ten’s the changing sign
The alchemist’s calling card
The card of transformation
A card of changing of beds
And a change of friends
They could even be enemies
Fortune changes for the worse
An’ losing is a winning gamble
When hands like feet change direction
Losing yourself is the smart play
Sooner’s so much better than later
In time the world loves a loser
But gamblers hate a debtor
I.O U’s don’t spell for less than A an’ E
They’re just vowels without provenance
Gambling cashes in on culture
Money is the 'lingua franca'
Of a very deadly silent economy
No really one talks about it
An’ you can’t keep your eyes off it
But sure as hell everyone
Listens to the silence
Ten’s the calling card of consequence
A very suitable number
In Fire Earth Air and Water
They can be quite soulfully pedestrian
You never know what’s in the elements
A good card to keep up your sleeve
But lose your shirt you lose everything
An’ it goes without saying a lot
Not a good card to be found naked with
Be careful with a nine in any colour
It’s the most deserving in the highest
Nines, sleeves and gambling
Are a triple tray of troubles
Heads have been known to be served
On a tray of trays
Nines can be very Trinitarian
And quite John the Baptist
A good card to lose in haste
But eternal if a friend,
There’s none better
Eights go on forever
The Via Dolorosa of numbers
They are a sacred journey
Only the compassionately beautiful
Gamble with an eight in their hands
Eight is a sacred mystery
In any suit it is never cut
And always woven
From a seamless gambled-for cloth
Eight never gambles in suits
Only in garments
Never gamble with an eight
Unless you’re gambling with redemption
Hand life and soul have been
Eternally lost or found on an eight
Truly a gamblers card
And sometimes a calling card
As every gambler knows
A card of consequence and karma
When it calls keep your eyes on the dealer
Sure as hell a deal's been done
An’ all the blue eyes are on you
Sevens like fives are a journey
Good cards for travellers
Wanderers and shape shifters
Seven seas and five continents
Suits those wandering souls among us
Two solitary prime numbers
Indivisible onto themselves
They can be quite pedestrian
Fives can be over confident over land
But they shouldn't try to be seven
Walking on water's a mistake
Unless you’re an avatar
Treading wine is better and safer
Fives and sevens are a journey
Good cards to keep in your shoes
Sixes are sixes by themselves
An’ they don’t go with sevens
They're the card of reflection
A scriptural card if ever there was one
A card dressed in a triple mirror
Vanity and vexation in the curves
A card to turn and turn
And turn your eyes again
The number of this card
Another Trinitarian consequence
Is reflected in the mirror
An image of ourselves
The card has an identity problem
Don’t knock it, you might need it
It’s your friend in need of friend
An’ with friends like that
It's just as well that any three
From any four sixes
Is the sign of a winning hand
In a loser’s smile
And the best part of a full house
A card of Jezebels, angels
And mirrors, on reflection
Don’t you just love sixes
Five is five and let’s not talk about it
It’s an assassin’s calling card
It goes with its own territory
A card that doesn’t take prisoners
Fours are strangers at the door
Every one with a Matthew birth mark
In the image of John
Like four seasons they arrive
Like pilgrims then are gone
To change themselves to be
The same again, another season
Another fall of leaving calls
A card for all weathers
And shelter in a storm
You are kind of pleased to see it
But you don’t know why
Also cards of mystery and obviousness
And only fools an’ fours
Can tell the difference
It’s the ‘maybe’ card
You never really know with fours
The proverbial knocking at your doors
But sure as hell
They’ll never ring a bell
A tidy card to send to acrobats
And other kinds of well-balanced people
That’s what fours are for
Commitments tailored to your needs
And the occasional highly wired friend
Don’t go out without them
You never know if you might need them
Threes are trinities and divinities
Fathers Sons an’ Holy Ghosts
And more usually the cause
Of a quick divorce
The world moves in threes
Sattwas Rajas and Tamas
The triune dance of the universe
Light, Action and Inertia
It even grows on trees
Every one’s a traveller
Some are even gypsies
A good card to keep in your shoes
They can be an invitation
Or a visitor from a distant place
They're the taxi cards of the pack
Call them when you wanna go
Somewhere, they'll arrive
They're the calling cards of falling friends
You'll never be lonely on journey
Of five and sevens with a three
They’re the crucifixion card
Unless it suits you otherwise
To be so amused
Deuces are twos, the mirror card
Duality’s their basic business
They really are a wolf card
Always travelling in packs
Not sufficient to be dangerous
An’ just enough to not be lonely
They really appreciate your company
It suits their reflective existence
To travel in togetherness
The faces are places searching for aces
Jacks in a pack never look back
If they can possibly look sideways
Concealing their knavish tendencies
They’re quite the well-tailored card
Fine raiment maketh a fool attractive
In very unfashionable circumstances
Treachery an’ deceit on each turning face
Sure as Clementine’s your long lost darling
An Ophelia never got her hand in time
A gambling Hamlet is a sight to see
Jealousy rage and a ferocious anger
Writ upon a countenance looking back
Beyond the cardboard eyes of the beholder
Dumb broads are never dumb
And seldom abroad
Sometimes they can be
A very home loving card
Two jokers live in every pack
One out front the other looks back
They’re the magpies in the deck
Less in sorrow than in joy
They cover every missing face
The hooded birds deserve their place
Their reputation precedes them
In black and white they are the night
In colours they’re magnificent sevens
And they’ve really got your number
In spades it suits their harlequin fashion
To be a veritable grave digging charmer
In jewels they ***** the precious deck
Two diamonds and they’re everybody’s
The vagrant royalty rules the roaming pack
Their world is another creature’s finery
Gamblers are such snazzy jazzy dressers
If you have to lose a shirt do it in style
Second hand clothes and second hand hands
Aren’t so much a misfortune more an affliction
Desperately seeking a lost occasion
Well-heeled fools engrave it on their heart
Better be dead in your gracious threads
Than kicking in rags of common comfort  
They’re the card that always looks back
The face in every hand smiling at you
Looking at them with cardboard eyes
Then there’s the precisely tailored box
The transient funeral parlour
In a good-looking box like that
You can die an’ dine anywhere
In reasonable style
If you’re tailed a toss head first
Into a losing situation
Cards never call they beckon
And if they speak it’s a good idea to listen.
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
Disappearing from the garden
Unheard amongst the trees
Humble bees are vanishing
Their sound is now declining
Patterns are slowly fading
A very serious diminishing
Is going completely unnoticed
With consequential devastation
For the well-being of the planet

The creature doesn't feature
On the Richter scale of cuteness
So humble in its appearance
Its existence taken for granted
Not majestic like the whale
Or clever like a leaping dolphin
Nor angry like the wrathful tiger
But its survival is threatened
A species on the edge of extinction

Tread softly on the ground
Walk gently amidst the flowers
Listen carefully for the sound
Our humble friend is not around
That tailored coat is missing
From the symphony of existence
We are all left naked by silence
And the business of buzzing
Can no longer be taken for granted

That taste sweeter than wine
Is now in serious decline
Sight sound and taste is vanishing
Without a serious murmur
From the industry of conservation
Or the planet savers of the nation
Amidst the ecological devastation
Small creatures give us comfort
While big issues merely threaten.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
Avant garde upon wondrous language
Drifting clouds of searing imagery
Wandered in reams of magical vision
Writ abstract on the naked imagination
Voyaging  through landscapes of rhyme
Beating rhythms of sounding beauty
In those hours before dawning chorus
Eclipsed the past of the dolorous song
Shackling poetry by its ancient thrall
The golden flower unchained the dream
Of brilliance writ in luminous cadence
Reaping in weaves of solitary thought
Traversed horizons of an imagination
Gazing through times elliptical prism
Upon curves of solid liquid geometry
Flowing in streams of rippling poetry
Unfolding nature’s riotous harmonies
In the lonely beauty of a single flower
Surrendering unto landscape’s mirage  
Pouring dreams worth heaven’s words.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
A door is never open
It's always ajar

A song is never sung
(except by fools
who insist on interrupting
the sacred business of drinking)
It is only heard
In the distance.

A glass is never empty
It's just lonely.

Friends are never a friend;
They're only the next act
Of treachery and tragedy
(Doesn't that sound poetic)

Poverty is the person
Who stole your prosperity.
Prosperity was a similar
But infinitely less honest
Kind of thief
Charity is the one true thief
I'll drink to that
(Truth be told, I'll drink to anything)

Oh dear God stop me
From ever becoming religious
You owe me at least that much
IOU a Jack, a Jim an' a Johnnie
(That’s Daniel’s, Bean an' Walker
to the unbelievers among your flock
of sad unsinners)
Being unholy is kind of cool
Holiness is in the concept
Religion’s got nothing
To be holy about
It’s an empty glass.
Drinking's got spirit
Dear God of mine
Make mine a double
I'll believe in you twice.

(Thank you, Janis. Why don’t we jack that Mercedes Benz you keep singing about? You can drive an' I'll be your loveable but inadequate companion, just like Gabby Hayes. I can’t do Tonto. The Noble Savage is beyond my range an’ anyway, you won’t wear a mask. The world is full of lonely rangers, but how many wear a mask? Maybe we could go to Mexico an’ I'll apply for the Cisco Kid's job. He wears great hats. I'd look cool in a hat like that. Is he any relation of Billy...?)
  
Loneliness in a glass
It's an urban myth
An’ a rural hype.
Drinking's only a curse
Morality is a disease
Curses are like glasses
You can lift them
Ever tried to lift a disease?
Aphorisms; don’t we just love 'em
Especially when we hide behind 'em.
(Is The Lonely Ranger
An aphorism in the making?)
They're a sign of conversational fear.
An’ fear is just a sign of itself
When it's got nothing else
To be fearful about
I think I'll have another drink
Before I start talking about Fitzgerald
And Malcolm the Vulcanologist.
Good word, vulcanologist
Impressive in the right company
Must remember to use it again
On the next innocent abroad.

Nobody loves you when you're just a poor drunk. A few people love you if you’re a clever drunk. But everybody loves you if you're a rich drunk. You've got a friend in every pocket, and that's what friends are for. Your relatives live in your wallet ‘an we're not talking photographs here. You can only trust your enemies. They at least will be true to themselves and as treacherous as only an enemy can be. Truth be told, there's truth in wine, but a sadder truth is: we all tell lies. The wine just makes them more delicious. We can all drink to that. The rich are never drunk, just unsober. Only the poor can be driven mad by drink. (It's the only experience of being chauffeur driven they'll ever have.) The rich are merely inebriate and eccentric. Class and euphemism are always so reliable. It’s a very rich language we have here; in every sense.

Especially when we talk in clichés
Even with perfect strangers
(Why are strangers perfect?
Are they some kind of deity?)
Clichés are a wonderful thing
When you have four fingers
Of blessed rye in your hand.
‘Only the good die young.’
That’s a great ole cliché.
‘Been down this road so long
It looks like upper street again’
That’s an even better one, I think
Bob Zimmerman’s brother in law
Didn’t get ‘round to being related
According to the romantic plan
“That’s not a cliché, that’s an
urban myth”, said the stranger
When Dante met Janis it was
Downhill all the way for them
Thank you, John Milton
Where would hell be without you?
In ever decreasing circles
You might say, an’ then again
You might not bother to say anything.
Intellectuals are sometimes lonely.
Perhaps you don’t speak to strangers
Even perfect ones in dark glasses
Who are unafraid to look in mirrors.
Let me buy you a drink in a darker glass
Did I tell you, me an’ Janis are
Heading down Mexico’s dusty way?
Elvis and Marilyn are living there
They were secretly married even
To each other's each other self.
They were all set to become
The King and Queen of America
But the constitution wouldn’t allow it.
Norman the Mailman’s going to write
(That’ll be the day dream all believers
Try to avoid believing in too much)
A bestselling an’ hard hitting novelty item
About it all, with the built-in revelation
That their kids were kidnapped
By all those dead Kennedys and ……
Is the floor getting closer or am I collapsing?
An’ what did you say
Your name was, Mephistopheles?
That’s a cute name. But why are you
Smiling at me in such a strange fashion?
Make mine a double; what’s your poison?
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
A door is never open
It's always ajar

A song is never sung
(except by fools
who insist on interrupting
the sacred business of drinking)
It is only heard
In the distance.

A glass is never empty
It's just lonely.

Friends are never a friend;
They're only the next act
Of treachery and tragedy
(Doesn't that sound poetic)

Poverty is the person
Who stole your prosperity.
Prosperity was a similar
But infinitely less honest
Kind of thief
Charity is the one true thief
I'll drink to that
(Truth be told, I'll drink to anything)

Oh dear God stop me
From ever becoming religious
You owe me at least that much
IOU a Jack, a Jim an' a Johnnie
(That’s Daniel’s, Bean an' Walker
to the unbelievers among your flock
of sad unsinners)
Being unholy is kind of cool
Holiness is in the concept
Religion’s got nothing
To be holy about
It’s an empty glass.
Drinking's got spirit
Dear God of mine
Make mine a double
I'll believe in you twice.

(Thank you, Janis. Why don’t we jack that Mercedes Benz you keep singing about? You can drive an' I'll be your loveable but inadequate companion, just like Gabby Hayes. I can’t do Tonto. The Noble Savage is beyond my range an’ anyway, you won’t wear a mask. The world is full of lonely rangers, but how many wear a mask? Maybe we could go to Mexico an’ I'll apply for the Cisco Kid's job. He wears great hats. I'd look cool in a hat like that. Is he any relation of Billy...?)
  
Loneliness in a glass
It's an urban myth
An’ a rural hype.
Drinking's only a curse
Morality is a disease
Curses are like glasses
You can lift them
Ever tried to lift a disease?
Aphorisms; don’t we just love 'em
Especially when we hide behind 'em.
(Is The Lonely Ranger
An aphorism in the making?)
They're a sign of conversational fear.
An’ fear is just a sign of itself
When it's got nothing else
To be fearful about
I think I'll have another drink
Before I start talking about Fitzgerald
And Malcolm the Vulcanologist.
Good word, vulcanologist
Impressive in the right company
Must remember to use it again
On the next innocent abroad.

Nobody loves you when you're just a poor drunk. A few people love you if you’re a clever drunk. But everybody loves you if you're a rich drunk. You've got a friend in every pocket, and that's what friends are for. Your relatives live in your wallet ‘an we're not talking photographs here. You can only trust your enemies. They at least will be true to themselves and as treacherous as only an enemy can be. Truth be told, there's truth in wine, but a sadder truth is: we all tell lies. The wine just makes them more delicious. We can all drink to that. The rich are never drunk, just unsober. Only the poor can be driven mad by drink. (It's the only experience of being chauffeur driven they'll ever have.) The rich are merely inebriate and eccentric. Class and euphemism are always so reliable. It’s a very rich language we have here; in every sense.

Especially when we talk in clichés
Even with perfect strangers
(Why are strangers perfect?
Are they some kind of deity?)
Clichés are a wonderful thing
When you have four fingers
Of blessed rye in your hand.
‘Only the good die young.’
That’s a great ole cliché.
‘Been down this road so long
It looks like upper street again’
That’s an even better one, I think
Bob Zimmerman’s brother in law
Didn’t get ‘round to being related
According to the romantic plan
“That’s not a cliché, that’s an
urban myth”, said the stranger
When Dante met Janis it was
Downhill all the way for them
Thank you, John Milton
Where would hell be without you?
In ever decreasing circles
You might say, an’ then again
You might not bother to say anything.
Intellectuals are sometimes lonely.
Perhaps you don’t speak to strangers
Even perfect ones in dark glasses
Who are unafraid to look in mirrors.
Let me buy you a drink in a darker glass
Did I tell you, me an’ Janis are
Heading down Mexico’s dusty way?
Elvis and Marilyn are living there
They were secretly married even
To each other's each other self.
They were all set to become
The King and Queen of America
But the constitution wouldn’t allow it.
Norman the Mailman’s going to write
(That’ll be the day dream all believers
Try to avoid believing in too much)
A bestselling an’ hard hitting novelty item
About it all, with the built-in revelation
That their kids were kidnapped
By all those dead Kennedys and ……
Is the floor getting closer or am I collapsing?
An’ what did you say
Your name was, Mephistopheles?
That’s a cute name. But why are you
Smiling at me in such a strange fashion?
Make mine a double; what’s your poison?”
Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Shake your hands to your elbows
And your bones down to your feet
Where empty sockets in our pockets
Remind us where eyes used to see
When our shoes really hit the street

Walking on water is something else
Treading grapes a sweeter experience
While each doth not presage the other
Sour wine tastes so much sweeter
Than a dust filled glass of dry water

Loaves and fishes in their dishes
Feed the hungry eyes of multitudes
Eating miraculously each mirage
Believing it to be the fools’ banquet
Transforming hunger with a new image

Breaking bones is not what it used to be
When the economy of flesh is hunger
And salvation is a calcium paradise
Costing each of our arms at least a leg
When life is damage imitating limitation.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
Written in flames upon flowing wine
There layeth a name writ in travesty
In a drama of such telling significance
Consumed by life’s sweet consequence
And Times eternally chiming paradox
Of perishing so young and so beautifully
Leaving nothing beyond each memory
Shrouded in the dust of fading history
Before emerging into present memory
Caparisoned in the flowing vestments
That truth preserves for future posterity
As each season passes with the leaves
Rock and stone mythology turn to dust
Conscience reveals that the one remains
Playing in the band which never fades
While others fade away into obscurity
It re-emerges to confront the future
Satisfaction doesn’t flourish on trees
And dying is the short fall to get free
From the repertoire of life’s destruction
Deals are struck stone down dead
Bread is money and time is history
Each flows and ebbs so differently
Six strings recording every mystery
Reincarnation’s a repetitive business
Transcribing every soul’s ascension
Through the darkness to eternal Deity
Where death becomes an act of beauty
Like scripture writing its own tragedy
Performed in the theatre of obscurity
Though some are born to die forever
Fame’s the endgame for all eternity
For all those sacrificed so beautifully
Bringing the gift of fire to humanity
As did the poets from another century
And other souls of a shared nativity
Born to struggle for the breath of liberty
Dragged from the cradle of obscurity
And propelled screaming into notoriety
By chance or effortless contrivance
Worlds gasped as they made an entrance
Caparisoned like hells electric princes
Promising everything except salvation
True nobility always honours promises
And this royal court was no exception
Street dancing was the new revolution
The architecture of all future premises
Constructed by the stones of rejection
Adorning the skyline of creation
Now dominates the line of convention
As worlds changed beyond imagination
In the caravanserai of destructiveness
Ringing around the three ring circus
Some souls surrender to the quietus
Falling down in the rising golden dust
As the troupe moves on so inevitably
Grateful to have known the presence
Of the prince of beautiful musicality
That raised an age into a renaissance
Changing time so sweetly magically
Some just wanted to play the blues.
Duncan Brown Mar 2018
Clockertime is mechanical chronology
Clickering clackering on the timeline
Straighteningly narrow to a thin finality
Riveting each moment to the banality
Spot welded on the robotic personality
Marching along an avenue to a factory
Constructed in the mind by a psychology
Determined to destroy our human sanity
By the scientific perfection of a sociology
Crushing each soul by the party ideology
That labour is liberty and noble sacrifice
In the service of the party bosses economy
And the opposite attraction of capitalism
Are mirror images of that cruel iniquity
Chaining the human soul to servile pity.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
The written music of a mystical innocence
Unveiled the songs of revered experience
Engraved upon a world of indifference
Untouched by rejection’s critical audience
And ignoring the clamour of no consequence
A Poet revelled in his visions of significance.
Duncan Brown May 2018
A mysterious ***** and a man in black
Travelling to the crossroads with Jack
Wouldn’t look up and never looked back
Sideways wasn’t an option in the pack
For the trinity with destiny on the attack

At the road that crossed itself in doubt
Hung a sign saying strangers keep out
Nothing was there even less was about
Just the sign that then began to shout
Your within is also your own without

Strangers have no friends around here
Spoke the sign with a trace of fear
Everything’s not really nothing here
Something stranger's shadowing near
Get out! haven’t I made that clear?
Duncan Brown Jun 2018
Enclosed in stone each transient soul is lost
Untouched of creation or by human thought
Until that moment of descending liberation
Ignites the flame of our fervent imagination
Breaking chains of imprisoning solid inertia
Shattering slabs of gravity buried in marble
Releasing mortal dreams of liberty and beauty
Carved from matters shackling solid prism
Thus we are the stone that slays the stone
The similar to the similar liberates freedom
Crushing tyrants into broken endless dust
The very matter from whence we came to be
And to which all souls shall return eternally
To rise again in renascent beautiful symmetry
Reincarnated in the image of the solid flesh
Gazing at a philistine crumpled on the dirt.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
Declaring a balloon
At the airport
Jetting the setting’s
A fast slow business

Tito on the phone
He’s not Robert
Albert cross hot Burns
The dealings done

Alan Price, keyboard player
Opened beer bottle
On the piano
What an Animal

Bobby tuned harmonica
Guy wearing suit
Looking quite baffled
Wearing clever spectacles

Journalist at table
Gotta lotta nerve
Asked dumb question
Couldn’t recognise Hamlet


Donovan in a room
Crowd of other people
High on Newcastle
Wind catcher blown

Banana in the car
Nico on the right
Blonde on bland
Saint Joan unzipped left

Harmonica wailing
Guitar screaming
Words cascading
The music never failing

Penny on the breaker
A dollar from the maker
Renaissance artist
A hand held palette

Cinema on the Verité
Silhouette howling
Luminous in the dark
Shattering a shadow

A backward clocking
In a frozen mirroring
Chimed a reflection
As Time changed hands.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Not long after the beginning, and a bit before the end, the Almighty said to Noah: “Is that your real name?” “Yeah”, said Noah: “you gave it to me, your ever generousness. I was hoping for something a bit more romantic, maybe even an extra syllable or two, or become all psychedelic and have a hyphen and a double barrel, but Noah is functional. I’m not complaining, a lot. After all what’s in a name? Wouldn’t a cactus be just as uninteresting if it was called something else? Why am I and my not very exciting name so humbly in your almighty and quite tedious presence?” asked Noah. “I’ve had a great idea”, said God: “and I want you with the very boring name to be the first to hear it.” “Can’t wait to hear it your Denseness, even if it is only half as brilliant as the square wheeled chariot and deep-fried ice cube you nearly invented for us last week; and as for the three-armed jacket, well what can I say? Jacob wears his every day and I won’t tell you what he does with it at night, as it involves folk music. And didn’t the Paisley patterned boulder illuminate the landscape?” said Noah “Oh good”, said God: “I do so enjoy it when the minions are attentive to my every word and trembling syllable, What’s the point of being an Almighty if you can’t Almighty it over the lower orders from time to time?” “I couldn’t agree more, your Bampotness. Even if you do appear to be a few slices short of a full loaf on occasions. So, what’s this big idea you’ve had?” said Noah. “I want you to build a boat, the biggest and bestest boat there’s ever been” said God. “Why”, said Noah, “we live in a desert, we don’t do boats; never have done, don’t get a lot of call for them in these parts, your Obliqueness. Ordinarily you’re every utterance is a symphony of sound and beauty to the sticky out bits on the abstract countenance you have so generously created for me, O Guano features. Couldn’t you do another plague of frogs and locusts? We loved those. Your subjects haven’t eaten so well since. Very tasty they were indeed, and so much more nourishing than the daily fare of cactus bark and centipede you dish up to us as we go about our increasingly diminishing mortal trespass. I hope you weren’t baffled by the paradoxical construction of that sentence. One Almighty’s punishment is another lowly minion’s business opportunity. I was running a fast food joint while it lasted. Made a change from the normal feast, where you have to catch your dinner before it catches you. Eat before your eaten that’s the Law ‘round here. It makes you feel more like a recipe than a person on occasions, your Compostness.” “Be that as it may, said God: “I’ve got some drawings which Eve helped me to make” “Eve?”  said Noah: “did you say Eve?” “Yes” said God: “Eve”, that’s what I said, she likes me more than all the rest of you put together and that’s why she’s my favourite” “This will be good” said Noah: “let’s be having it. Let’s see the cosmic blueprint of a less than useless boat that Eve devised” “I helped to devise it as well”, said God: “In fact I done all the pencil sharpening, and here it is.” Noah sniggered and said: “That’s not a boat it’s a camel!” “Brilliant, isn’t it?”, said God: “you’ve got to hand it to Eve; she’s a genius at this kind of stuff, and she says it will make me look jolly clever as well. And that will stop all you ungrateful and wretched minions from smirking and sniggering every time I have a wonderful idea.” “This is even better than the ten commandments, three dos six don’ts and a maybe” said Noah. “My Ten commandments were wonderful” said God: “even Moses said so.” “The only reason you have ten commandments”, said Noah: “is because you have ten fingers. If you had seventeen fingers we would have seventeen commandments; one for each digit. People who use their toes to count their fingers should avoid life’s mathematical complexities. And as for Moses ‘The Born Leader’ he’s a party hack. He’ll agree with anything you say as long as he gets his name on the tablet. He’s publicity mad. When he grows up he wants to chisel the definitive text on cactus attraction, for the benefit of future desert wanderers. Eve says he a bit of a Freudian fruitcake on the quiet, whatever that is. She also says, his mother told him he was adopted, and he’s never quite got over it.” “Why would Moses want to get over a cactus, seems jolly silly to me” said God: “He’s a complete basket case, according to the local grapevine. Never mind all that, let’s see the blueprint.” said Noah: “A wooden camel, only a cosmic idiot could imagine it. If it was a wooden horse it could have been sold to the Trojans, or a wooden cat to the Pharoahs, and I’m told the antipodeans go a bundle on timber budgies, but camels; nobody wants one, not even other camels. How did someone as colossally dense and as infinitely thick as your self acquire the surreallness of thought to imagine it in the first place?” said Noah. “You’re a bright little chappie for a minion”, said God: “Eve told me about the Greeks and their wooden gee-gee and I suggested a boat, then Eve pointed out that this was a desert, and consequently we need a desert boat. ‘One that floats on sand’, I said. ‘Not quite El Plonkero’ she said. Then Eve said we have to adopt and then apply some lateral thinking to the problem. She pointed out that we live in a desert and that we need a boat that sails in the desert. And then I had the mostest cleverest thought I’ve had in ages. We need a ‘desert boat’ I exclaimed. And Eve said I was a true plankton eater. She says the nicest things to me. A ‘ship of the desert,’ she says, ‘and what’s a ship of the desert?’  Quick as a flasher in the rush hour, I said ‘a camel’, and Eve replied that I was quite bright for a log, and that camel plus ship equalled wooden camel to sail away from here to some other paradise she called Hollywood, ‘Land of heavenly bodies and the drop dead gorgeous Brad Pitt.’” “And you believed her?” said Noah. “Of course I believed her”, said God: “she’s Eve and if you can’t believe in Eve what else is there to believe in?” “There’s an answer to that”, said Noah: “but you’d toast me like a heretic on the happy juice if I repeated it, your Doorknobness.”
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Fame is a mask that eats up your face
Choking on the anonymity of celebrity
With all your eyes in a different place
Obscuring the last vestige of humility

Priorities rearranged in synchronicity
Shifting headlines matching duplicity
Life’s a duet with your own positivity
Decaying in lightbulbs of anonymity

That countenance divine is truly thine
For a whole fifteen minutes of nothing
But sound and a furiously hyped byline
On an empty face devoid of everything
There’s the shame and there’s the pity
There is no such thing as bad publicity.
Duncan Brown Mar 2018
That abstract form in patterned space
Such a glossy shape of fatal ambience
Seamless as a renaissance masterpiece
A perfect camouflage of purring violence

Such is the guise of its killing insouciance
Everything within its finite seeing grace
Is infinitely absorbed by its arrogance
Fashioned fatal in vestments of innocence

This nine-lifed four-limbed feline deity
With the double brace of hearing vision
Multiplying itself in languorous proximity
Fading into landscape of distant singularity
The symmetry of the poet’s infatuation
A creature writ in another hands heaven.
Duncan Brown May 2018
9.11.
(After Bob Dylan’s Talking New York Blues)

Buildings going down to the ground
People going up to the sky.




Pilgrim’s Progress Report

From Chaucer to Kerouac
In dust and on tarmac
The road always writes back.




Haiku Mirror

Earth above sky below
the flowing illusion
water mirrors heaven.




Non Haiku

Haiku shmaiku
Gimme a sonnet
With flowers on it.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Liberty to itself exposes
Limitation’s weakness
Upon the face of liberty
Staring back in beauty
At the ugliness of chains

Freedom is what happens
To untrammelled thought
Left to its own delight
It is the natural consequence
Of  beautiful significance

Liberty dwells delightfully
Where repression fails
To threaten human frailty
Laying down poetic law
Writing up our freedom

Freedom is soul expression
Engraved in beautiful thought
So natural to a poet
Remoter still to politics
Yet closer to our heart

Liberty is what liberty does
Increasing the joy of love
Sharing our soul’s humanity
Extending our compassion
To others bereft of beauty.
Duncan Brown Jun 2018
Mary Shelley cherished a love of infinity
Indwelling in the very heart of humanity
Exposing soul to light’s precious scrutiny
Dancing on the cusp of sublime anarchy

A song that sang itself unto that eternity
Beyond the fragile touch of mere mortality
Unfolding unheard sounds of her divinity
Unconcealed in the music of her beauty

The future flaunts its precocious vanity
The past remains ensconced in misery
The latter chains itself to broken history
The Prometheus dreams of future liberty
Her one remains our blessed sanctuary
Of hope filled dreams of loving charity.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Sally the ever so cunning clown
Said to Ratzo the equally cunning Pontiff
Hi Benny, how’s your holy business?
You cannot Benny me without an edict
It goes with the religious territory
Said his haughtily high hatted holiness
An’ there’s no business like gods business
Even to sinners and heretics like you
Ok said Sal you’ve got your edict
What does that make you, Pope?
Is that Ben the edict or Benny the dict
I’m cool with either nomenclature
The latter has more comic possibilities
But the former is beautifully ridiculous
An’ that’s always appealing to a clown
In a purely professional capacity
No, That’s Benedict, one word
And a brace of good looking syllables.
Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Why you got those boots on your feet
Are you the wandering jingle jangler
That heeled high feeling easy dreamer
Lending ears to become the audience
Marking antonyms like Julius Caesar
Trying to rise before the failures fall
Sublimely for the mad beauty of it all
In desperate dreams of the final curtain
Draping the fading drama in the folds
The weatherman never read the script
And left his quill on the top of the hill
When Romeo betrayed Juliet to the fool
Stealing his chance of everlasting fame
Casting shadows before his own naming
Everything in the lies of playing games.
At least that’s why he sold himself again
For *** and drudgery’s rotting role play
Once for the money and twice to show
That charity begins when gambling ends
Throwing dice at the shaming of the true
Believers in the obviously innocent song
That sang itself to deaths other oblivion
Dwelling inside the flickering footlights
Burning soles who tread the dollar less way
To stage their very own beautiful demise
Before a paying and praying audience
There’s no business like the dying business
That’s the dumb an’ smart career move  
As death consumes all; here and ever after
The three ring circus hits the super highway
To heavenly pay days in the after math
That stole the souls of the leading actors
Wasn’t that just the smart career move
To die happily on the wings of disaster
Farewell sweet prince an’ princesses
May flights of angels love your music.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Why you got those boots on your feet
Are you the wandering jingle jangler
That heeled high feeling easy dreamer
Lending ears to become the audience
Marking antonyms like Julius Caesar
Trying to rise before the failures fall
Sublimely for the mad beauty of it all
In desperate dreams of the final curtain
Draping the fading drama in the folds
The weatherman never read the script
And left his quill on the top of the hill
When Romeo betrayed Juliet to the fool
Stealing his chance of everlasting fame
Casting shadows before his own naming
Everything in the lies of playing games
At least that’s why he sold himself again
For *** and drudgery’s rotting role play
Once for the money and twice to show
That charity begins when gambling ends
Throwing dice at the shaming of the true
Believers in the obviously innocent song
That sang itself to deaths other oblivion
Dwelling inside the flickering footlights
Burning soles who tread the dollar-less way
To stage their very own beautiful demise
Before a paying and praying audience
There’s no business like the dying business
As death consumes all; here and ever after
The three-ring circus hits the super highway
To heavenly pay days in the after math
That stole the souls of the leading actors
Wasn’t that just the smart career move
To die happily on the wings of disaster
Farewell sweet prince an’ princesses
May flights of angels love your music.
Duncan Brown Oct 2018
A world can be so wonderfully inarticulate
Expressing as it does each prejudice
In a blizzard of minimalist vernacular
Pursuing the obvious common denominator
Thus elevating the average meanness
To the heights of banality and expedience
Quantified by the measure of indifference
Required to fill the volume of ignorance
Necessary to potentialise each prejudice
As a true barometer of society’s preference
Calculated to protect the existing social order.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
A world can be so wonderfully inarticulate
Expressing as it does each prejudice
In a blizzard of minimalist vernacular
Pursuing the obvious common denominator
Thus elevating the average meanness
To the heights of banality and expedience
Quantified by the measure of indifference
Required to fill the volume of ignorance
Necessary to potentialise each prejudice
As a true barometer of society’s preference
Calculated to protect the existing social order.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
The lady and her sorrowed blues
She’ll be dead in time Christmas
It’s written in her sacred shoes

Morrisons’s never gonna make it
Not even sure if he wants to
Young and beautiful, he’s had it

Jimi was crucified dead mortality
Waiting on a day for it to beckon
His life the stuff of immortal Deity

John Lennon knew it would happen
The appointed time the only mystery
A name writ on solid sidewalk stone

Brian had it stolen from him and us
Epstein’s almost unremarked upon
The consequence of quiet dignitas

Bolan won’t be rolling enviously
The electric elf was nailed on the shelf
By jealously wrapped posthumously

Kurt Cobain we hardly knew him
Nirvana’s loss is earth’s pain
Only the beautiful are self slain

Syd and Nancy in macabre dance
Punk’s Montagua and Capulet
Never had their loving chance

Nothing rises so strangely at all
As perishing young so beautifully
There’s the descent’s ascending fall

Even kings can be holy sacrificed
Upon the altar of a brokers pawn
By majestic majesty’s indifference  

Sacrifice is what makes us sacred
That’s what Death will never tell us
The Collector only does posthumous

So it says an’ maybe even so it goes
Who can tell of that heavenly hell
This side of knocking on those doors.
Duncan Brown May 2018
The wild sound of creation and destruction
Drove that Mercedes all the way from Texas
Wrapping it round the lamppost of America
Creating light and darkness in a single image
Wrecking tranquillity was her daytime occupation
Creating havoc her favourite night time passion
A constellation of starlit bourbon harmony
In the comfort zone of her southern hospitality
The Divine Creatrix of her own stellar universe
And the born destroyer of everything before her
Time and space an empty canvas for her image
Each single moment a vast horizon of homage
Nothing moves the stillness beyond her presence
Worlds collapse to nothingness by her caprice
And heaven itself a single jewel on her costume
Hell a mere facet of her beautiful endless terror
Saviours saints devils and sweet singing angels
Baubles on a necklace she wears for pleasure
Mere vanity in her divine imagination of mirrors
The sound of her voice rocks the vastness of time
Rendering infinity past before it happens
No one ever messes or dares drive a Porsche
In the presence of a blue jeaned Kali from Texas.
Duncan Brown Jun 2018
The wild sound of creation and destruction
Drove that Mercedes all the way from Texas
Wrapping it round the lamppost of America
Creating light and darkness in a single image
Wrecking tranquillity was her daytime occupation
Creating havoc her favourite night time passion
A constellation of starlit bourbon harmony
In the comfort zone of her southern hospitality
The Divine Creatrix of her own stellar universe
And the born destroyer of everything before her
Time and space an empty canvas for her image
Each single moment a vast horizon of homage
Nothing moves the stillness beyond her presence
Worlds collapse to nothingness by her caprice
And heaven itself a single jewel on her costume
Hell a mere facet of her beautiful endless terror
Saviours saints devils and sweet singing angels
Baubles on a necklace she wears for pleasure
Mere vanity in her divine imagination of mirrors
The sound of her voice rocks the vastness of time
Rendering infinity past before it happens
No one ever messes or dares drive a Porsche
In the presence of a blue jeaned Kali from Texas.
Duncan Brown Mar 2018
The mighty lord of all creation
Danced through time and infinite space
Across the barren unlit heavens
Until he reached the chosen place
Where nothing moved and inertia reigned
A universe shackled to silent pain
Without a past and bereft of future
A world of sound unheard and sight unseen
His long locks shimmering with pure light
A threat to endless fathomless night
With a guitar slung by his left side
The silence stared and emptiness glared
And threatened death if he even dared
Disturb the nothingness with that sound
Or illuminate heaven with that hair
The player looked at the glare and said
“Suit yourself and see if I care
I’ll play this thing like you’re not there
That’s why I’m here an’ that’s why I’ll dare
And that’s why I’ve got this long locked hair”
Then struck that chord and made that sound
And shook his long locked luminous crown
Scattering stars across the empty universe
While guitar music filled the empty void
And luminous harmonies blasted ignorance
Like it wasn’t even there or anywhere
A veil was lifted and a leaden cloak fell
Light was everywhere and sound as well
And that’s a story that all can tell
Eden’s Eden but Rock ‘n’ Roll’s creation
An’ the electric guitar damns damnation
The Mighty Lord is a long locked player.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
Doomed to live and born to die
Perishing young and so beautiful
Gone before our eyes could realise
Such visions seldom materialise
In solid soul within our universe

Doors that open and doors that close
Behind our life and before our death
Gathering pilgrims from the storm
Trapping travellers between worlds
Neither here nor anywhere beyond

Song is sound that haunts a voice
The singer seldom has the choice
Compelled by force of nature born
Driven by fortune and worldly chance
Soul releases beauty to endless scorn

Angelic upstarts threaten ignorance
By the sheer ferocity of their presence
The consequence of pure existence
Suffers beautifully for deliverance
From the fate of too much substance

Life is shadow upon the ground
In a moving image of light above
Nothing moves beyond its sphere
Heard in truth and written in love
Heaven descends in words of fire

A single sound can change the world
For each in one and each in many
We listen in hope to find life’s measure
Unseen it can echo here forever
Unheard it waits to release its treasure

Sometimes we’re blessed by presence
Raising our world and our essence
To our highest dreams of aspiration
For our soul and every heart beating
On the other side of our imagination

The future drew him to another self
His past remains our present thought
Now art was never to be the same
In quietude or any clamouring storm
Invisible he was Rock’s chameleon

Dwelling now as he does in Père Lachaise
A renaissance prince in a sacred place
Consumed by earth and death’s own grace
And surrounded by a celestial choir
He’s still trying to set the joint on fire.
Duncan Brown May 2018
In your face like empty space
Attitude all over the place
Tough as nails, an’ soft as grace

One of four an’ four of one
A killer voice, second to none
That’s how to get your slaying done

Imagine what it feels to be
Something that can set you free
Unblind your eyes an’ let you see

Right out front with that voice
Enslaved our soul in hellish choice
Of rebellion and some sweet rejoice

We left him dying in the street
Buried by fame for all to greet
Crucified in stone at our feet

He is gone, but his song remains
Forever heard in the soul’s refrains
Freedom sings in breaking chains.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Alone she rests ‘neath castling towers
outfacing glazy terraces
by just gazing south to west

Alone yoke of bags she appears to shed
like a mother at a crossing
just waiting for the lights

Alone on a rise arc of green
glass to stones engraced
just by her lovely patina’s glow

Alone upon art’s breasted seeing
infants whisper blessings
to a brown madonna just watching
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
When Kafka got up to danska
the band played desafinado
for a deliciously exciting polka
and a dreary two step of Vienna
but he only danskaed the tango
to appease his latent fandango
Kafka got lost in the danska
discovering his passionate waltza
embracing his favourite *****
he hastily finished his unfinished
and secretly went to his America
much desafinado about nothing
he mused of dansking in Alaska
by buying a fur hat in Canada
but it only danskaed the polka
back home in Czechoslovakia
the hat was really not bothered
as long as the danska was polka
and Kafka was quite very travodkad
and occasionally marlony brandyed
dancing a lost tango in anchorage
so ominously close to old Russia
and Doctor Zhivago’s new locum
with much more of that desafinado
and even less dansking his tango
he quietly learned to play banjo
but he found it all a bit of a trial.
Duncan Brown May 2018
The ultimate warrior
A clown in armour
Shining in the footlight
Fighting a colder war
By cracking a hot one
Each and every night
Prurience was the enemy
And its ally hypocrisy
Lenny fought them all
And died to tell the tale
Living like he does forever
In every fool’s fall
Of rising laughter.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
Let me tell you something pilgrim
Straight and to your copied paste
That thing masquerading as a face
On the elongated ***** of your Janus
For you that’s just the perfect place

The world needs a dramatic critic
Like the desert needs more sand
And secondary literature more bland
Always needs another helping hand
To slap it on the key shaped shifter

In all things pertaining to writing
Bribery’s cool but flattery’s not
The way to fuel the imagination
Filthy lucre can be an inspiration
Filthy loookers a mere distraction

A journey to a place poetic of literature
Is for so few the metered pilgrimage
Undertaken by many a scurrilous rascal
Disguised in critical converse writing
So uncritically stereotyping themselves

The mother of all of typing errors
Dispatched by the gods to scare us
Into thinking they must be the genius
Scribbling down their magnum opus
By lining it up their own proboscis

Stained glass shades at the ready
Holy writ is on their sacred menu
In the cathedrals of the mediocrity
Their vicious verb is very acapella
Only the lonely write in melodrama

To be a critic is not to be in Hamlet
Or anything else that really matters
It’s a life disguised as a T.S Eliot
Hurling anagrams at the geniuses
Writing truth in all things beautiful.
Duncan Brown Jun 2018
I went singing to your outer heaven
but nothing moved within.
Then my voice turned to ice
frozen by the gaze
of your cold and luminous no.

I went dancing to your inner hell
but the flames fired without.
Then my feet turned to ashes
smouldering on the precipice
of your burning cruel denial.

I went smiling to your welcoming eyes
but nothing flickered there.
Then my lips turned to dust
lashed beyond the void
of your lids’ stunning eclipse.

I went loving to your secret self
but emptiness was there.
Then my heart turned to shards
stranded in the ruins
of your other sense of being.

I went soaring to your angel eyrie
but shadows lingered there.
Then my flight turned to eagles
blasted by the revelation
of your vast golden dwelling.
Duncan Brown Mar 2018
Moneyz da origami uv da wurld
Da foldin stuffz da lingo franka
Lubrikatz everyfink datz around uz
An smooves our movez to konshinz
Lukzuriating wiv our kintenmemt
Az da fillfy looker runz dis world
Yiz kin kall it anyfink uze likely
Datz wot reely matterz in da endly
Aint nun uv uz gon do wivout it
We’d be ’pensive at twice da cheapniz
Our kinsernz don’ stretch to poverty
In anyfink lik a personal kapazity
Datz uz da fortune of hypokrizy
Sez it again, nevva mind da ******
Show me da moneyz da rock anthem.
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
The false glimmer of charisma
Waxing lyrically on the shimmer
Conceals the shadows in the light
Fantastic hollowness of thought
Counting out the take on the insight
Of the taken at the back of the hall
Silhouetted by the moving shadows
Writhing prophecies on the wall
Vexing vanity before the fallen
Cloaks a heavy bright fantastic
Image outside its hollowed light
Deceiving to believe in its self
As the saviour of that living truth
Which it alone is possessed of
Deceiving innocence by stealth
As substance dies an instant death
When style triumphs over beauty
High hype from the lowest heaven  
As the media thieved the language
Murdering truth with killing syntax
In gorgeously manufactured styles
Torturing all us immaculate vowels
The medium strangled the message
As the messengers styled their hair
When presentation hit the airwaves
Surfing highways to lower heavens
That perished our innocent thoughts
And substance died an instant death
As ephemeral flourished by abuse
Subjected upon the corpse of truth.
But writers wrote an’ singers sang
That ancient an’ well favoured song
The future’s here and it won’t belong
To anything but its own sweet self
Unfolding dreams a serene vision
Wraps itself in hollow shadows
Glowering truth upon its surface
Concealing shallowness by depth
It’s the common currency of deceit
Practiced so naturally by politicians.
Duncan Brown Jun 2018
In a world where all half truths
Are more dangerous than none
Taking sides does of necessity
Place yourself outside the truth
Of things that are truly eternal
An’ lets transience rule the soul
Revealing all that’s writ above
As deceit writhing down below
Boot heels in the worried earth
Churning up that fearful storm
Tearing stones to bleeding dust
Blinding audiences to madness
Dressed in vestments of sadness
To be born poor and beautiful
Is to really never stand a chance
In that rich an’ very ugly world
That taught us all how to dance
To the sound of magic in the air
Coloured flowers in our tresses
Stardust on our boot heeled feet
Dancing visions along the street
Before the nightmare kicked in
And the coloured lights fled out
Leaving us all in black and white
Lost for days at the lack of light
In our stylised monochrome hell
Taking a chance on another dance
With the dark side of that moon
Spinning alone in a broken room
Fixing thoughts on a turning table
Flowing from the eye of a needle
Stitched some souls to living hell
Burning music to the pits as well
To rise again in sounding beauty
Today tomorrow an’ all eternity.
Duncan Brown Mar 2018
His angelic soul to heaven was drawn
From waters deep as his golden song
Returning hence to where it was born
Remained in fire as his burning flesh
Perished in flames at the water’s edge
When his sacred heart refused to burn
The mourners wept with pouring wine
Upon the fire-sweetened soul of verse
A poet perished in fire wine and water
A transubstantiation from death to life
Much reminiscent of that ancient light
From darkened fears to heavenly flight
Redeemed our souls from endless night
With dreams of love and beauty bright
Outside the domain of sorrowful strife
In death he sang of liberty love and life.
Duncan Brown May 2018
Our sweetest gifts are seldom on time
Interrupted by the tambourine of song
Thus it is that they arrive with rhyme

Out of dreams which are so unseen
Wander images of sweet loveliness
Delighting thought’s uttermost Eden

A vision held for one solitary moment
Transporting soul to rapturous heaven
Delivering us to our sweetest torment

A miraculous image of purest delight
Untouched of tears or shadow’s sorrow
Falls in veils of truth revealing insight

A smile writ upon the eternity above  
Descended in flows of written words
Inscribed itself upon soul’s earthly love

As unfolds the lotus on flowing water
Upon fire flamed in passion’s stillness
Unmoving it reveals itself everywhere

Hearts are filled with laughter’s comedy
As loving truth greets itself so tenderly
Sorrow’s banished to tears empty eternity

Eyes may sing like lips can tender smile
And sense abandon thought in reverie
Loving song thus sings sweet so versatile

To repose in slumbers outstretched cathedral
Labyrinth trespassing waking tiredness invites
Wandering in dreams unconscious ceremony

Vision is the key to the architectural mystery
Our sweetest dreams occur in sleep serene
Mystery invades somnambulant imagination

Waking we seldom see what we have seen
Thus thought denies revealing interpretation
Waking doth shake our dreaming sonnet

The sweetened wine of human ceremony
Invokes each moment so unforgotten
Forever held sacred in fondest memory

Tomorrow unfolds as the future drama
Today enfolds the past in present beauty
Love reveals to us our Commedia Divina

Each hearts journey to the soul of love
Travelling through the labyrinth of loss
Is drawn there by some unnamed above.
Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Paradox Lost

May God forgive me
For all the sins that I committed
And could Satan forget me
For all the ones I didn't
When I had the opportunity.




Paradox Regained

Heaven shades to earth
Whene'er my eyes are closing.
Then falls away to hell
As soon as they are open.
Wi' heaven shut an' hell still open
Faith is blind but sin's still hoping.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Pere-lachaise is just the place
to be a writer for
Morrison and Oscar have taken up
a permanent residence
Hugo is beautifully miserable there
and Balzac just loves the dead
life can be very funny; he says
among the tombs and catacombs
in the necropolis of the city of light
a place to die for.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Who'd be writer in Pere-Lachaise
The world is dying to live there
Eternity must be just such a place
Grains of sand all over your face
Vandals on the handles of your tomb
Grafitti scrawled all over the place
Isn't that just like poetry heaven
And one helluva place for the living.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Living dangerously
Perishing beautifully
Isn't that just so
Very very unjust
Art and writing
Is something living
In eternity dying
For a grain of sand
Drowning in an ocean
Of fame and adulation.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
Whats in the name game
Axl blew it with a nose job
Tried to blow his brains
With his name
The Rose was firing blanks
Isn't that just as sweet
Vanity is the better part
Of insanity
Morrison looks on in wonderment
Duncan Brown May 2018
.
deconstructed concrete,
post modern shelley/shakespeare haiku.
….  ….  ….  ….  ,,,,,,,,
….  ….  ….  …. …. ….  ,,,,,,,,
wert, for art thou romeo.


…. …. …. …. ,,,,,,
They Also Serve.

Two exciting full stops,
A sensible comma.
Oblique separation
Of Shakespeare from Shelley.
And some small dots.
Thus we are enlightened.
So. Please asshoer your shoes
That. I can inshoer your shoes,
And..That that is not an isshoe.

Serious john maccccenroe haiku

You can’t be tennis
…….
…………..a racket.
Duncan Brown May 2018
the Rotten vision of it all
a renaissance culture Clash
of hell rising from The Fall.
Duncan Brown Apr 2018
Quietly as that opening flower
Still and aesthetically unfolding
How are we to know of existence
Enveloped in nature's bower
Hidden from visions understanding
Or minds grasping searchings
Lest nature herself reveal
Secrets beyond our comprehension
Concealed in realms of vast dimension
In that most finite of spaces
The sacred chamber of colour
Shaped by mystic knowledge
Of some vast unknowable
The mystery of creation eludes us
Perhaps as nature intended
Until we find true ourselves
Less selfishly complicated.
Duncan Brown Sep 2018
The leaden cloak of his sorrowful pain
Is measured in tears like driving rain
Beating on the heart of experience
Searching for the self’s deliverance
From the consequence of his ignorance
Anchoring his soul to actions past
The present crucified upon his heart
Conscience writ upon a mirror image
A reservoir of guilt haunting his step
Casting shadows on his shallow soul
Traduced by chance and circumstance
Invading his dreams with silent terror
Water drowning heartache in his song
Wandering upon waves of contrition
Crashing on the shoreline of neglect
Brimming with remorse ridden regret
The wine of benediction in his thought
Seeking his redemption from the crime
His immortal grace is the Ancient Rime.
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