I wanna have lunch with Poe,
at Burger King,

because I'm sure he would appreciate how ghoulish that King in their commercial is

I don't want him to recite verse
while we fill our medium cups with corn syrup nectar--a giant leap
down from laudanum

I do want to ask about the Cask of Amontillado and being walled in slowly, for eternity

for to me that is creepier than all the crimson cream in the Masque of the Red Death

I want to know if he likes the fries--will he dare to dip them in scarlet paste we call catsup

mostly I want to know if he remembers the alley where he was found,

not yet a legend, consumed by consumption and delirium in equal measure

and if there were rodents privileged to hear his last whispered words--or even a gasp

I am buying, Ed, so grab that Whopper with both bony paws and tell me terrible tales, evermore

Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare

to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years  

yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls

she kneads the big *****, pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another

then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see

she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter

the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them

now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang

Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name

nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun

Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven

it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve

holy, holy, holy...

A sheltered microcosm saved in greys
Abandoned tennis courts behind the shed
Discarded sports cap melty-crinkle sighs
Dark bitumen to amplify the heat
And any sorry hurt that worry-bled

A stomachful of fluffy food forgot
Lone lunchbox waiting courtside for its turn
Now wasting as the cracking plastic tells
Of ground more breakfast than of tennis fit
To fry the egg, then desiccate and burn

Sardonic jesters loudly quiet call
How far away is cool, and further still
Acerbic head on mordant shoulders rests
As pair of caustic, bitter lips impart
The ugliest corrosive acid swill

Sark-wolves emboldened shrinking of their prey
How close is sheepish shame, and closer yet
Apologetic hair, repentant shoes
New fascinating laces, aglets lost
Shy socks serve not to aid, but to abet

Dear deprecants, embrace your rueful flush
Let bashful gloves be padded by this truth
The catch-calls curse less caustic on your soles
Electron-pairs now balanced in their roles
Basic strong since graduating youth

I walked along, hand in hand
Strolling towards the trees.
I was happy, had no care,
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

I ran my hands, through the green,
Humming - carefree as can be.
I was content, and had no fear,
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

I closed my eyes, to feel the breeze,
Smiling so blissfully,
I sighed, then, I remember -
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

I opened my eyes, and the trees were bare
Barren ground surrounded me -
I screamed, wordless, held on even tighter
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

The sky then bled, my mother screamed
As to why I couldn’t see
My dog barked, and I held on to
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

My mother looked at me, her mouth was open
Still screaming silently
The dog whimpered, why was it only
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

She then faded, I ran after
Holding my dog helplessly
I knew then that image was over, of
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

When I stopped, she was gone, and so was the dog
They were only memories.
Nightmares or dreams - the only way it can be
Just the dog, my mother, and me.

SONG OF THE SCYTHE

my uncle
sits cross-legged
the shiny sickle

of the scythe
held in
his hands

as if he had pulled down a moon
wrestled it to the ground
tamed it

he looks like a friendly
Death
having a tea break

nothing dies
in these seconds
the world holds its breath

the scythe winces
with light
so sharp it can cut thought

it cuts through
what I am
thinking now

the whetstone sings
to the curve
of the metal

it cuts through Time
sharper sharper each time
my mind bleeds

it cuts through each successive
second so that each second is
separate from the rest

the song the whetstone
sings to the scythe
scares me

my Uncle
takes a horsehair
from Dolly’s tail so

softly she thinks it’s still there
the scythe eagerly
divides it into two

Dolly whinnies
nuzzles him
affectionately

he runs his thumb
along the blade
blood sings in the open air

he ***** it
“Perfect! ”
he smiles

“Perfect! ”
the world
catches its breath

*

Waiting for my turn to go on at Brighton...my poems placed carefully upon the table didn't realise how near a nite light was and up go the poems in flames. A barman had to come down and put me out with a tea towel. Just then I'm called upon to read and there is just enough of the poem left alive for me to read!