"clive" poems
Some days we are but noise
beneath a silent sky,
Waiting and wanting to be heard,
The creek of an old machine still proving it's worth,
The light of a dying star illuminating the faces of people we love,
Framed, perpetually, by the world.
(Inspired by the Photography of Clive Roughley)
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
the carbon tax is gone
the carbon tax is gone
hey aint that good news
the carbon tax is gone
the power companies
can pass the savings on
now that the carbon tax is gone
electricity bills of late
have been too high
peaking at 18 percent
which has left little in the purse
to pay our rent
Clive and his senate colleagues
have done a jolly good thing
getting rid of that carbon tax thing
which has engendered
in the public
much irking
the carbon tax is gone
the carbon tax is gone
hey aint that good news
the carbon tax is gone
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
The cop asked me for my license to which
I replied what the hell is that.
Officer Tillman I belive i met your wife in a restroom
down at the laundrymat.
She didnt do ya justice.
Cause you arent all that ugly
but you are kinda fat.
No my last name isnt Knoxville but I
sure had some fun in Tennessee.
Met darlin that left a burnin feelin behind just for me.
My life is like a tweenty four hour cartoon.
A wreckless wonder.
If ya wanna ride along theres always room.
Gotta babydoll I often reffer to as Tinker.
She's my favorite semi insane funsize drinker.
Got a amigo or two.
Some fake ID's cause some people just happen to be looking
for me.
I thought you already knew.
Some people like to hate.
Clive. Forrest. Ian.
Dont be jelouse your still living togather in the same basement
no hope ever having none inflatable
date.
Iv'e taken some pretty hard licks.
Put my mind in a blender .
Now all im left with is becon bits.
Im the Jackass of poetry alone I hold the crown.
Some might call me a village idoit.
But I would say im most fun fella in town.
And if ya read this work and still cant see.
You can go to hell.
And thats one thing apon me my imaginary friends
and my little badass tinker agree.
Oct 18, 2009
Oct 18, 2009 at 11:55 AM UTC
The two nurses
strip me off
for a blanket bath,
said Grace,
I lay here on the bed,
my blind eyes
staring at blackness.
They lift each leg stump
and wash them gently
and with care;
they wash me where
only mother ever touched
when I was a child;
they wash me
with the warm water all over,
talking between themselves;
they talk of the bombing
the night before,
of the people brought in
from the raid;
of the many dead
who lay
in the mortuary now.
One talks of her night out
with her boyfriend
home on leave,
the other asks questions;
I fail to listen to.
I think of Clive
and the last time
we made love
in my bed
before he went off to fight
and was killed at Dunkirk,
and the night my house
was bombed and my maid
was killed and I lost my legs and sight
and thrown into this dark night.
They dry me gently
and dress my stumps again
and the put on my nightie.
They have gone
and I lay here
musing on Clive
and the man Philip
who came with Guy
and who talked to me
and promised
to take me out.
Why would he want
to go out with a legless,
blind woman?
And where
would we go?
He never said
and I may never know.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....
why give a dog's bollock's care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?
i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...
in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...
something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!
Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...
now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!
breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!
i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!
i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...
you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!
i need it, whatever "it", is...
i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!
it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...
i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...
Mary contra Jane...
horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!
you don't do that!
you can't do that!
but you did, do that!
there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...
not here... not now...
as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
of down syndrome'
what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?
p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
the calorie intake!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
Met this man today.
Called Clive.
Who must be the gayest man alive.
We worked together all day.
I watch his gestures here.
His gestures there.
Seam to wave his hands, all the time in the air.
But one thing, I can say about Clive.
It was a colourful day.
So this poem is for Clive.
The gayest man alive.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
Cyrus was a butcher,
the ladies thought him sweet,
and when they spoke,
the gals would joke
about old Cyrus' meat.
But soon the missus told 'em,
her one and only beef-
forget the size
or how he'd rise,
Old Cyrus was too brief.
His brother, Clive, the baker,
a young and heavy lad,
was paid no mind
by womankind
cause of the weight he had.
But soon the missus told 'em,
with a twinkle in her eye,
Forget the size,
or how he'd rise,
that boy could eat a pie!
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
Robert Clive.
He was an agent of the Brutish British,
And he brought misery to my Bhaarat.
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC
This is a poem about a very good friend
How a bond came to a sad bitter end
People get scars grow and go their way
But you didn't, you stayed and wanted to make the world pay
It isn't that I can’t sympathize
Through our conversations I saw the world through your eyes
Tales of all the times your soul had been wrung
By the countless songs cruel children had sung
Through this trust, a bond was formed
It was true, tested and through the years; timeworn
How many times have you said you were jealous of my life, one, two?
For a person like me a thought like that just wouldn't do
I tried to teach you: you should love you for you!
***** what other people say or do!
I tried and tried but you couldn't see
It felt like teaching a hamster basic geometry
Then came the fateful day, you felt under the weather
And you decided to attack me, your imagined better
You didn't come at me with a knife or a fist
You just knew me well enough to hurt me without a hit
Oh I see… Clive doesn't like dependents and dependency?
I’ll call him god, yes! that’ll make him see!
A friend I thought broken
Due to the actions and words I've spoken
My god; what monster have I become?
Is this the price of my happiness; for minds to succumb?
To whatever venomous bile my mouth spills
The thought of doing this again gave me chills
But you were never broken; you just wanted some sick thrill
I was in the process of killing my own spirit
Months passed, I realized it was deliberate
The damage was done
My social skills were all but gone
Once you go awkward
It’s very hard to go backward
So I didn't, I ventured on
To look for places, for victories to be won
And I did, through poetry, comedy and song
This didn't happen over-night the journey was long
Don’t you realize that this is what you could have done?
Instead of being this caricature that you embrace full on
Put down the ****
Don’t limit yourself to a second rate Cheek and Chong
To get rid of pain, don't inflict it on others
Just love yourself, your sisters and brothers
You don’t need to be a punch line
I hope you pull out of this decline
This is not a joke at your expense
I still appreciate the good times spent
This poem is dedicated to you
Hoping you realize that there are other paths too
I'm just trying to make you see
There are several ways of setting yourself free
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
You blasted into this world running free to be yourself.
You needed no sanctuary to hide away from this strange world.
Please, remember tomorrow for we will all be sad,
because you're no longer with us. You've traveled to another life.
You were like a prodigal son, but not one of the drifters.
Not another *children of the ****** invaders to this realm.
Yet life wasn't easy, it trapped you in an iron maiden,
thus you became the prisoner by the number of the beast.
Now you're gone, but it wasn't the killers who took you.
No murders in the rue Morgue put you in your own purgatory.
Don't think of this as an innocent exile or a total eclipse.
22 Acacia avenue awaits for his favorite client.
No need to run to the hills.
There is no twilight zone.
You lived by your true self
so hallowed be thy name.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
The nurses
must think I’m asleep
because my eyes are closed
but my blind eyes
can see nothing
whether open or closed
I lie thinking
about how I danced
with Clive back in 1939
what will happen
to Grace now?
one nurse says
talking nearby
her leg stumps
are healing now
but whether she'll walk again
depends how she copes
another nurse says
no sight either
how does she
make out that?
the first nurse says
she's still pretty though
no scars or ****** damage
and that gentleman
who visited her
wants to take her
out to dinner when
she is more able
I lie still
pretend I am sleeping
wanting to hear more
my leg stumps throb
and my none
existent feet itch
and I want
to scratched them
but lie still
trying to act
a sleeping beauty
waiting for my prince
to come
her house was bombed
but she was pulled
out alive but her maid
was killed
the nurse says
breaking into my act
the feet itching
the stumps throbbing
my eyes wanting
to see again
the nurses move away
outside
hitting windows
a harsh fall of rain.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
I am lying flat on the bed,
a nurse is rubbing my leg stumps,
her hands are smooth,
fingers skillful.
Another nurse
is beside me;
I can hear
their conversation
between each other.
She died in the night,
the nurse nearby says,
terrible wounds,
didn't think she
would survive.
I think of Jean
and how she had
just gone off after
our row yesterday.
Her children were dead
at the scene;
the house took a direct hit
in last night's blitz,
the nurse nearby says.
It is tragic children
being killed like that,
the nurse rubbing
my leg stumps says.
I stare at the area
of their voices as if
I could see,
but I see nothing,
darkness where voices
come from.
My hands lie dormant
by my sides.
It is oddly sensual
this rubbing,
painful but sensual,
as if the mixture
of pain and rubbing
combined to make it
seem sensual.
I remember Clive
touching me the last time,
his hands moving
between my legs
and kissing my feet
and even now
I sense his kisses.
The last time
we made love.
There between me
he lay.
Then, he was gone
and died at Dunkirk.
The reality shocks me
and I move,
Steady , Grace,
steady, am I hurting you?
the nurse says,
holding my leg stumps.
No,
I say,
no just a memory.
She rubs again,
the sensuality fighting
with the pain.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
Leaving class during an internal lockdown
Shooting elastic bands at the target we mounted on the wall
Shooting elastic bands at our teacher's hat
Hiding from our teacher with the hat
Naming the robot we programed in class: Clive
Bananagrams
Ditching gym class
Talking/lying our way out of trouble a lot lol
Making elaborate plans to do very odd things (and playing pink panther
music as well as mission impossible music when we did it)
Putting mistletoe everywhere in the school at Christmas
Texting quotes of the night
Writing fictional stories and sending them over text to each other in
parts at 2AM
Writing poetry
Learning the Greek Alphabet so we could play Greek Hangman
Creating numerous extremely complicated codes where punctuation,
capitalization, "accidental" smudges near words and how you
pronounce certain words is significant.
Always buying the same drink at Starbucks
Eating a ridiculous amount of free samples at the Fro Yo place
Skipping down the hall happily in our gothic spiked clothing. Just to
confuse people. Watching the looks we got.
Writing limericks in math class
Playing Go Fish with our bus passes and when the teacher came over all he said was: Oh! Who's winning?
Playing full tackle basketball...when we were supposed to be playing badminton
Filling a friend's locker with stuffed animals while they were away and texting them to warn them we put a lion and bear in their locker
Inside jokes: Whiteout, Whip-cream, We-are-the-crazy-people, **** that's a fiiiine shoulder! Pass the coke!
Playing Quarto during Science class
Playing boggle during religion
I miss that grade. I wish things could go back to the way they were, but they really can't ever. I miss being so young and innocen- hahahahaha okay, not innocent but young and crazy. I miss when there were not scars on my arms and my soul.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
I really hope that you understand how much I love you, because I love you SO much
You are currently chewing ends of my glasses, and I'm letting you
You are my literal sunshine, you always make me smile no matter how horribly depressed I am
You are 7 years and 3 months old; I know you're getting older
You're technically a "senior" cat now, and I am so grateful that you're here with me right now
Every day I beg god, the universe, any higher power, I beg that you're happy and healthy and that you'll stay that way into your 20s
I can't imagine my life without you
I know you can't read or fully comprehend human words, but I really really hope you feel how much I love you, in every pet, in all the scratchies, brushies, in every cuddle and kiss
I know I upset you when I trim your claws and paw fur, and when I take you to the vet, but I do it because I love you
It makes me endlessly sad and anxious that you're a big boy now; I know your joints will get tired, your fur will turn white at your snoot, you'll sleep more
I know that you growing older isn't something either of us can control, but I don't know what I would do without you
You have been there for me through the worst parts of my life up to now
I want you to be there with me during the best parts too
I want you to meet my spouse and my kids when I grow up (if I ever get married)
I pray that you'll be with me for at least 13 more years
I know one day your breath will get heavy and troubled, your joints will ache all the time, I know one day I'll have to do what's best for you in your old age; I know I'll have to hold you close, with tears running down my cheeks, and I'll tell you how much I love you, until your beautiful little heart stops beating and your little lungs give out
And I will sob hysterically, scream and curse god for taking my baby boy
But until then, hopefully far far far from now; I will make sure you're happy and healthy
You will always know that you're my baby; that you're my home
I love you, my fat little man
Sep 23, 2022
Sep 23, 2022 at 6:10 PM UTC
Life changing
the Blitz bomb
took my sight
and my legs.
Clive gone too
at Dunkirk.
I recall
our last kiss
as the train
left London.
I sit in
this darkness.
Hospital
smells around
and voice sounds.
Morning Grace
a voice says.
My blind eyes
turn around
to the sound.
Who is it?
I enquire.
Doctor Clay
I have come
to see you
and see how
your stumps are
the voice says.
They're painful
I tell him.
Nurse we need
Grace to be
lying down.
Between them
they lift me
on the bed.
Fingers lift
my nightdress
and unwrap
bandages.
Fresh air hits
the leg stumps.
His fingers
examine
what is left
of my legs.
They're healing
very well
he tells me.
Soon we will
have someone
sort you out
for new legs
he informs.
I thank him.
He goes off
and the nurse
(small fingered)
now attends
to some fresh
bandages.
As her fingers
touch my thighs
I recall
Clive touching
me there too
that last time
before he left
for the War.
I stare out
into dark
cold spaces
and a far
away shore.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
He used to deliver
Groceries to Mrs
Ushmore as a kid and
She’d say, bring it into
The kitchen, Henry, and
Put it down on the side,
Why, you must be thirsty
After carrying that
Heavy load to my door,
And he’d go in with the
Groceries and lay them
Down where she had shown him
And looked around the place
Trying hard to avoid
Looking at young Mrs
Ushmore who was dressed in
The skimpiest of things
And pretended to be
Looking around at the
Shelves and gas cooker and
Out the large window.
What are you having, she
Asked, Coke? Yeah, that’ll be
Fine, he replied, looking
Over her shoulder at
The wallpaper of bright
Yellow flowers. Have you
Seen my ***** She asked.
Miss Glissy, I call her.
Henry shook his head and
Looked briefly at her. No,
He replied, getting a
Quick glimpse of her big *******
Fighting to escape from
The black bra. Here, she said,
Have a Coke and don’t go
Rushing it now, don’t want
You to get the hiccups
And have your mother come
Over here telling me
Off. No, I won’t, he said,
Sipping the Coke, tasting
Each mouthful, letting it
Rest on his tongue. I love
My ***** she said, but
My husband, Clive, he has
Little to do with her,
Says she’s nothing to be
Too fussed about. Henry
Swallowed the small mouthful.
His eyes settled like small
Butterflies on her thighs,
Focussing where her black
Suspenders met the brown
Stockings and the skin stretched
Out there like nothing he’d
Seen before, not even
Amy Shortdove, showed him
That much for her two dimes.
Would you like to stroke Miss
Glissy? She asked, giving
Henry a wide-eyed stare.
No, I better be off,
Henry said gulping down
The last remaining Coke.
Mr Ashton don’t like
Me hanging around and
I’ve loads more to do and
Maybe another time,
Mrs Ushmore, I can
Stroke your ***** Sure, she
Said smiling, I’m sure she’d
Like that. Henry rode his
Bike away not looking
Back, not letting her see
He was interested,
Not letting her think he’d
Ever stroke Miss Glissy
In a thousand years let
Alone days or weeks,
And he never did see
Or stroke Mrs Ushmore’s
***** but he often
Dreamed he did and enjoyed
The dream, with him and Miss
Glissy purring and both
Of them licking the cream.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 4:30 AM UTC
This page is white as a white can be
Til I lift my pen and trace
A scrawl of black from an inky sac,
A tale of the human race.
I pick and choose, who wins, who lose
Their brief duet with fate,
Who twist and turn as they live and learn
To dance at my garden gate.
I paint in the cliffs and the sky above,
The shingle, down on the shore,
A tiny cottage that’s full of love
With a garden of herbs, and more,
A man who walks on the winding path,
He’s a difficult man to gauge,
Will he be happy, or sad, or what
When I get to the end of the page?
I’ll call him Clive, for he’s so alive
When he gets to the cottage gate,
His eyes are bright in the fading light
As he looks for his darling, Kate.
She hears the creak of the hinges greet
The one who captured her heart,
And races out through the cottage door,
Who am I, to keep them apart?
But the world is cruel and there’s always gruel
To add to a perfect tale,
I should be telling this up at the pub,
Over a pint of ale.
But I’d have to muddy my story up
To make my listeners tense,
And what does it take but a big brown snake
To add to the tale’s suspense.
The snake came slithering out of the herbs
And reared it’s head up high,
I could be mean with the following scene
As the snake bites Kate in the thigh.
But I’m only here to fill the page
Not to lay a ****** trail,
So Clive, alive to the danger leaps
To seize the snake by the tail.
Our hero takes the snake by the tail
And cracks it like a whip,
Shatters its spinal cord and so,
That was the end of it.
There’s a smiling face and a swift embrace
And a tale untold, for sure,
When Clive and Kate shut the creaky gate
And enter the cottage door.
I only wanted to tell a tale
To banish this page of white,
The page that mocks like a sly old fox
When I stare at it each night.
So take the story of Clive and Kate
Who live on top of the cliff,
And dream sweet dreams if your own life seems
Too bland, and think, ‘What if?’
David Lewis Paget
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
The ward is busy
I hear voices,
and calls,
and a bell rings nearby.
My blind eyes see nothing,
but I turn my head
at each sound pretending
I can see.
A hand touches my arm.
Morning Grace, how are you?
It's Nurse Kavel isn't it?
I say.
Yes it is, she says,
how are you?
My legs hurt,
my toes itch me,
I tell her.
The stumps of your legs
will hurt,
but the itching toes
is in the the brain's memory,
she says.
Are my leg stumps healing?
They are improving,
she says,
once they have healed
sufficiently the doctors
will talk about getting
you artificial limbs,
and you will receive help
on how to walk again.
Will I walk again?
Yes you will, Grace,
the nurse says,
in time, but for now
we must do what we can
to make you comfortable,
and keep the stumps
clean and able to heal.
She pulls back the blankets,
and lifts up my nightgown,
and begins to unwrap
the bandage on my right stump,
and I look into the darkness,
and see nothing,
but in my mind,
I think of Anthony,
and us dancing
(Clive had died
a month earlier)
and he was trying
to cheer me up,
and get me back
into War-time society again,
and he had taken me home,
and kissed me goodnight
on my doorstep.
I lick my lips
as if the kiss is now,
and want it to be a kiss
from someone
not this darkness,
and feeling undone.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Molluscs in Felpham
on a humid June night;
these are your friends
and this is your village
and I'm sweating more,
since you lent me this lotion,
Clive Anderson's Brut Romance
Knock, knock, on my porch window
And I will invite you, "swallow-down
gentle my "frere j'accord dans l'hotelier".
I can move any mountain.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
Joe still can't get
the senate chamber to agree
that he has a well thought out
budget strategy
parts of his budget bill wont get passed
this calendar year
which will cause
the Libs and Nats to all jeer
expenditure
must be well reined in
the stack of treasury notes
are rather thin
none of the belt tightening
measures getting in
the impasse means the government
wont have savings in the tin
the country needs to have
the books in the black
if they don't pass the bills
we'll always looking back
Clive Palmer, The Greens and Labor
wont give ground
so the budget papers
will just keep hanging around
parliament will soon
be on a summer break
with our current fiscal balance
being at stake
we're all hoping
that common sense will prevail
as our nation's economy
shall continue to ail
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
We had our Jesse Helm.
We had our George Wallace.
We even have a Clive Bundy.
Who reminds you of Bull Connor?
They speak.
And a few supporters support them.
And their off center views.
But they always fail to comprehend truth.
Who profited the most off of slavery?
Who gained the most off of segregation?
Who reflect back to the days of their youth?
When they wasn't treated harshly or cruel.
But during the days of segregation came across as fools.
Now that time is changing.
And many can't adapt.
They hold on too their racist ways.
Even support from kiss up politicians of today.
Who agree one minute?
Then back off the next.
When heat comes upon them from the news.
Yes, who profited the most?
Oh, they cry about Affirmative action.
Which wouldn't have been created.
If they only been fair.
Many minorities remember the hurtful scares that still there.
Many youth today support their elders hating upon them.
For the turning on of the fire hydrants.
And bombing churches.
Yes, churches of all place.
And the courts afraid to punish them.
Yes, who profited the most from segregation?
Who ran to far region of the city?
And fighting to change things back to those golden days.
Many minorities remember the black maid.
A role many Latinos are assigned today.
Many remember the black mothers raising the white child.
Oh, its true.
That the more things change.
The more things stays the same way.
That's one of the main reasons we still fighting bigotry today.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Wearing Sekt
Bleeding mutiny
Screaming demons
On box shadows
Conspiracy of the night
Ripping rubber tight
Laughing odyssey
Hopping commoditys
Playing cool
Metal shins
Smile and grin
Illegal eagles
Give me wings
To a better day
A better way
Back alley junkies
Making the monkeys
Howler sharpened teeth
Steal laced blades
Marking walls
Black as strike
Notches in dirt
Pumping till it hurts
Like Monday
Never beats
Sunday
Cuz I'm
Bumpski's
Hopping stars
Lighting the dark highway
To hell
Like NIB
Every single day
Every single way
Like a red eye Nash
Lighting hash
From
Bringing it back
To stand in place where you are
And riding the frequency
Yeah Blaze Yeah Clive
Yeah Kevin
Smoking
M1987
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
CLIVE PALMER IS NOW ILL
AND CANT REMEMBER ANYMORE
TWO BUSINESS MEN FROM THE PAST
BOTH TRIED THE SAME SCORE
THEY ALL HAVE RUN THEIR
COMPANY INTO THE GROUND
WHERE DID ALL THE MONEY GO
NEVER MORE TO BE FOUND
ITS NOW THE CREDITORS AND WORKERS
THAT NOW ALL HAVE TO MISS OUT
BECAUSE CLIVE PALMER HAS LOST HIS MEMORY
AND DOSEN'T KNOW WHAT ITS ALL ABOUT
WHEN WILL THESE HIGH FLYERS LEARN
TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR WHAT THEY HAVE DONE
INSTEAD OF LOOSING THEIR MEMORY
AND ONLY THINKING OF NUMBER ONE
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
There are cries
and the sound of rushing
and voices high.
I stare into the blackness
with my blind eyes
and turn my head
following the noise.
I sit up
balancing myself
on my leg stumps
hands each side
of my hips.
What's going on?
I call
what's happened?
Someone comes
beside my bed.
Girls got bombed
in the jam factory
the voice said
many killed
others covered
in hot sugar.
The voice went off
I wanted to get up
but I could go
now where
without legs.
I lay down again
peering into the darkness
wishing Clive was there
not dead some place
or where is Philip?
I lay my head
on the pillow
wanting him there
beside me on the bed
making love to me
inside my head.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 3:48 AM UTC
these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...
how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......
*take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.
the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.
you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.
and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!
there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.
and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.
she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.
and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....
no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ****** sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...
don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.
and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.
what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...
will ya, just sod off,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...*
this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC