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Bus Poet Stop Sep 2017
the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
Francis Duggan Apr 2010
It's Friday evening from life's cares we'll have a brief leave taking
And lets go to the Basy Pub for hour of merry making
In confines of the Settlers Bar the voice of mirth is ringing
And Pete Atkinson from Dublin Town an Irish song is singing.

The Mckelvey men father and son are talking of horse racing
They know the horses inside out from form and race card tracing
Has Vo rogue gone over the hill, can Horlicks race to glory
Can Almaarad come bouncing back and go down in history?

Phil Cronin go back down the years he flick back through life pages
To friends he knew in Millstreet Town he has not seen for ages
Big Jerry Shea and Mister O, James Manley hale and hearty
And Johnny Sing from Millview Lane the life of every party.

Brave Harry the brave English man the one as tough as leather
You'll only see that man in shorts no matter what the weather
A man of elephantine strength yet gentle and kind hearted
And he has taken life's hardest blow since his son this world departed.

Big **** Kissane the Kerry man he doesn't like Maggie Thatcher
And he feels that for Union bashing that few in history could match her
Still he won't go back to Kenmare to weather wet and hazy
He'd much prefer Mt Evelyn it's nearer to the Baysy.

**** Kelleher and Phil Schofield well into greyhound breeding
They talk of how greyhounds should be schooled and for them proper feeding
Two greyhound trainers and of late their reputations growing
And Millstreet Town keep racing on when others dogs are slowing.

Vin Schofield a Manchester Man he does love Man United
And every time United win he feel proud and delighted
But United not doing well of late of late they're not impressing
And this too much for him to take he find it all depressing.

Galway's Matt Duggan and Westmeath's Sean Fay the hurling game debating
On the first sunday of September who will be celebrating
Can Westmeath make the big break through or will Galway flags be waving
Or will Tipperary still be champs their reputation saving?

And Marty Kerins from Mayo a good and happy fellow
I've never met him in bad mood I've always found him mellow
He love the Bayswater Hotel he say there is none better
And to be kept from Settlers Bar he'd have to be in fetter.

And **** O Shea from Dublin his friends are in the many
And he doesn't have one enemy and he doesn't deserve any
He's given homes to Homeless souls and he's easily moved to pity
And good a man as ever came to live in this great City.

The amazing J D Ellis his name and fame keep spreading
And he has bounced back from the floor and for the top he's heading
Still he is easily stirred up and Garry Carter does the stirring
And el tigre he begins to growl the cat's no longer purring.

It's friday evening from life's cares we'll have a brief leave taking
And where better than the Basy Pub for hour of merry making
In Confines of the Settlers Bar the voice of mirth is ringing
And Pete Atkinson from Dublin Town an Irish song is singing.
WHEN that Aprilis, with his showers swoot,                       *sweet
The drought of March hath pierced to the root,
And bathed every vein in such licour,
Of which virtue engender'd is the flower;
When Zephyrus eke with his swoote breath
Inspired hath in every holt
and heath                    grove, forest
The tender croppes
and the younge sun                    twigs, boughs
Hath in the Ram  his halfe course y-run,
And smalle fowles make melody,
That sleepen all the night with open eye,
(So pricketh them nature in their corages
);       hearts, inclinations
Then longe folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers  for to seeke strange strands,
To *ferne hallows couth
  in sundry lands;     distant saints known
And specially, from every shire's end
Of Engleland, to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blissful Martyr for to seek,
That them hath holpen, when that they were sick.                helped

Befell that, in that season on a day,
In Southwark at the Tabard  as I lay,
Ready to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury with devout corage,
At night was come into that hostelry
Well nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry folk, by aventure y-fall            who had by chance fallen
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,           into company.
That toward Canterbury woulde ride.
The chamber, and the stables were wide,
And well we weren eased at the best.            we were well provided
And shortly, when the sunne was to rest,                  with the best

So had I spoken with them every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
And made forword* early for to rise,                            promise
To take our way there as I you devise
.                describe, relate

But natheless, while I have time and space,
Ere that I farther in this tale pace,
Me thinketh it accordant to reason,
To tell you alle the condition
Of each of them, so as it seemed me,
And which they weren, and of what degree;
And eke in what array that they were in:
And at a Knight then will I first begin.

A KNIGHT there was, and that a worthy man,
That from the time that he first began
To riden out, he loved chivalry,
Truth and honour, freedom and courtesy.
Full worthy was he in his Lorde's war,
And thereto had he ridden, no man farre
,                       farther
As well in Christendom as in Heatheness,
And ever honour'd for his worthiness
At Alisandre  he was when it was won.
Full often time he had the board begun
Above alle nations in Prusse.
In Lettowe had he reysed,
and in Russe,                      journeyed
No Christian man so oft of his degree.
In Grenade at the siege eke had he be
Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie.
At Leyes was he, and at Satalie,
When they were won; and in the Greate Sea
At many a noble army had he be.
At mortal battles had he been fifteen,
And foughten for our faith at Tramissene.
In listes thries, and aye slain his foe.
This ilke
worthy knight had been also                         same
Some time with the lord of Palatie,
Against another heathen in Turkie:
And evermore *he had a sovereign price
.            He was held in very
And though that he was worthy he was wise,                 high esteem.

And of his port as meek as is a maid.
He never yet no villainy ne said
In all his life, unto no manner wight.
He was a very perfect gentle knight.
But for to telle you of his array,
His horse was good, but yet he was not gay.
Of fustian he weared a gipon,                            short doublet
Alle besmotter'd with his habergeon,     soiled by his coat of mail.
For he was late y-come from his voyage,
And wente for to do his pilgrimage.

With him there was his son, a younge SQUIRE,
A lover, and a ***** bacheler,
With lockes crulle* as they were laid in press.                  curled
Of twenty year of age he was I guess.
Of his stature he was of even length,
And *wonderly deliver
, and great of strength.      wonderfully nimble
And he had been some time in chevachie,                  cavalry raids
In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardie,
And borne him well, as of so little space,      in such a short time
In hope to standen in his lady's grace.
Embroider'd was he, as it were a mead
All full of freshe flowers, white and red.
Singing he was, or fluting all the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide.
Well could he sit on horse, and faire ride.
He coulde songes make, and well indite,
Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write.
So hot he loved, that by nightertale                        night-time
He slept no more than doth the nightingale.
Courteous he was, lowly, and serviceable,
And carv'd before his father at the table.

A YEOMAN had he, and servants no mo'
At that time, for him list ride so         it pleased him so to ride
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen
Under his belt he bare full thriftily.
Well could he dress his tackle yeomanly:
His arrows drooped not with feathers low;
And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.
A nut-head  had he, with a brown visiage:
Of wood-craft coud* he well all the usage:                         knew
Upon his arm he bare a gay bracer
,                        small shield
And by his side a sword and a buckler,
And on that other side a gay daggere,
Harnessed well, and sharp as point of spear:
A Christopher on his breast of silver sheen.
An horn he bare, the baldric was of green:
A forester was he soothly
as I guess.                        certainly

There was also a Nun, a PRIORESS,
That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
Her greatest oathe was but by Saint Loy;
And she was cleped
  Madame Eglentine.                           called
Full well she sang the service divine,
Entuned in her nose full seemly;
And French she spake full fair and fetisly
                    properly
After the school of Stratford atte Bow,
For French of Paris was to her unknow.
At meate was she well y-taught withal;
She let no morsel from her lippes fall,
Nor wet her fingers in her sauce deep.
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,
That no droppe ne fell upon her breast.
In courtesy was set full much her lest
.                       pleasure
Her over-lippe wiped she so clean,
That in her cup there was no farthing
seen                       speck
Of grease, when she drunken had her draught;
Full seemely after her meat she raught
:           reached out her hand
And *sickerly she was of great disport
,     surely she was of a lively
And full pleasant, and amiable of port,                     disposition

And pained her to counterfeite cheer              took pains to assume
Of court,* and be estately of mannere,            a courtly disposition
And to be holden digne
of reverence.                            worthy
But for to speaken of her conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous,
                      full of pity
She woulde weep if that she saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.
Of smalle houndes had she, that she fed
With roasted flesh, and milk, and *wastel bread.
   finest white bread
But sore she wept if one of them were dead,
Or if men smote it with a yarde* smart:                           staff
And all was conscience and tender heart.
Full seemly her wimple y-pinched was;
Her nose tretis;
her eyen gray as glass;               well-formed
Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red;
But sickerly she had a fair forehead.
It was almost a spanne broad I trow;
For *hardily she was not undergrow
.       certainly she was not small
Full fetis* was her cloak, as I was ware.                          neat
Of small coral about her arm she bare
A pair of beades, gauded all with green;
And thereon hung a brooch of gold full sheen,
On which was first y-written a crown'd A,
And after, *Amor vincit omnia.
                      love conquers all
Another Nun also with her had she,
[That was her chapelleine, and PRIESTES three.]

A MONK there was, a fair for the mast'ry,       above all others
An out-rider, that loved venery;                               *hunting
A manly man, to be an abbot able.
Full many a dainty horse had he in stable:
And when he rode, men might his bridle hear
Jingeling  in a whistling wind as clear,
And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell,
There as this lord was keeper of the cell.
The rule of Saint Maur and of Saint Benet,
Because that it was old and somedeal strait
This ilke
monk let olde thinges pace,                             same
And held after the newe world the trace.
He *gave not of the text a pulled hen,
                he cared nothing
That saith, that hunters be not holy men:                  for the text

Ne that a monk, when he is cloisterless;
Is like to a fish that is waterless;
This is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
This ilke text held he not worth an oyster;
And I say his opinion was good.
Why should he study, and make himselfe wood                   *mad
Upon a book in cloister always pore,
Or swinken
with his handes, and labour,                           toil
As Austin bid? how shall the world be served?
Let Austin have his swink to him reserved.
Therefore he was a prickasour
aright:                       hard rider
Greyhounds he had as swift as fowl of flight;
Of pricking
and of hunting for the hare                         riding
Was all his lust,
for no cost would he spare.                 pleasure
I saw his sleeves *purfil'd at the hand       *worked at the end with a
With gris,
and that the finest of the land.          fur called "gris"
And for to fasten his hood under his chin,
He had of gold y-wrought a curious pin;
A love-knot in the greater end there was.
His head was bald, and shone as any glass,
And eke his face, as it had been anoint;
He was a lord full fat and in good point;
His eyen steep,
and rolling in his head,                      deep-set
That steamed as a furnace of a lead.
His bootes supple, his horse in great estate,
Now certainly he was a fair prelate;
He was not pale as a forpined
ghost;                            wasted
A fat swan lov'd he best of any roast.
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

A FRIAR there was, a wanton and a merry,
A limitour , a full solemne man.
In all the orders four is none that can
                          knows
So much of dalliance and fair language.
He had y-made full many a marriage
Of younge women, at his owen cost.
Unto his order he was a noble post;
Full well belov'd, and familiar was he
With franklins *over all
in his country,                   everywhere
And eke with worthy women of the town:
For he had power of confession,
As said himselfe, more than a curate,
For of his order he was licentiate.
Full sweetely heard he confession,
And pleasant was his absolution.
He was an easy man to give penance,
There as he wist to have a good pittance:      *where he know
ilkka sipilä Apr 2013
It’s those monochrome voices that break the joyous bubble,
bursting the rainbow shadows.
Those bleak voices that dissolve the party
and fill my heart with dissatisfaction.
It’s the same colour as my soul,
but there’s no need to spread the misery.
My heart used to be just fine – you
invited the greyhounds of horror
to my doorstep, to my soul.
And the colourblinds now stare
with their mouths open
with their mouths foaming
but they just stare
as if they can see through my hollow soul
and they just stare.
And they just stare.
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2016
Take this safety pin of pleasure,
And ***** it under the skin,
Feel ugly bliss trickle down your spine,
And the breath of your conjoined twin.

Then chase it once more, twice more,
Like greyhounds legging after a rabbit,
Forever to be outside of an arms reach,
Downright devoid of all energy and wit.

- Jamie F Nugent
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
earth tone embrace,
gently going down...
simple pleasures of twisted senses,
an equivocation of use,
i know not what, but
if death is the famished dog
then surely we are the fluffy white
rabbits on sticks,
until it is humorous to turn off,
and vise-grip jaws rip, tear and devour;
an **** of natural selection,
meant as god's jest
that breathing is quick,
mainly because we have to
scurry so quick.
Lady, weeping at the crossroads
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhounds,
And the hawk on his glove?

Bribe the birds then on the branches
Bribe them to be dumb,
Stare the hot sun out of heaven
That the night may come.

Starless are the night of travel,
Bleak the winter wind;
Run with terror all before you
And regret behind.

Run until you hear the ocean's
Everlasting cry;
Deep though it may be and bitter
You must drink it dry.

Wear out patience in the lowest
Dungeons of the sea,
Searching through the stranded shipwrecks
For the golden key.

Push on to the world's end, pay the
Dread guard with a kiss;
Cross the rotten bridge that totters
Over the abyss.

There stands the deserted castle
Ready to explore;
Enter, climb the marble staircase
Open the locked door.

Cross the silent ballroom,
Doubt and danger past;
Blow the cobwebs from the mirror
See yourself at last.

Put your hand behind the wainscot,
You have done your part;
Find the penknife there and plunge it
Into your false heart.
Vidya Sep 2012
perfect girl
in reverse she moves like the minute-hand of the watch wound
up down through

pilot all in leather crash into the steel
ocean and eat the seaweed until
emerge looking like hubcap trash

fifty tons of water weight you move home
covered in barnacles and
flotsam out of the driftwood
you built your house

where the dogs come to eat dirt &
grasshoppers
beneath the foundations lie the
carcasses of chewedupspitout cockroaches
you killed when you were young enough to think that
racing greyhounds meant
chasing them across state borders

you and the peeling paint reading the tea leaves they say time to rip the
oil pastel wrappers off so you can't tell which color is
which and then draw draw everywhere until
you cover the world in color that can't be washed out up
off things are no longer crayola clear

in the sun you turn on natural lights to **** the
wolftooth glare of photophobia
sun sneezing out into the porch do you dare
doubleyou dee forty these hinges someday man, do you really
want this house to have the last word?

so that when you cover the fire pit (no stone unturned)
and roll over to the
cold side of the bed you realize
that the pipes are only leaking in your head
that the dresser did not collapse
that the broken glass & the ants on the floor are not the cause of the
blood on your heels
cracked like brazil nut shells all along the
corridor

(perfect girl runs
skirt flies up in the back hair whips neck turns
hips like a rose in the honeyed dew
melancholy untuned viola strings improve the flavor like
hints of saffron in her eyes--
she is taller than you remember)

the bats
(moths between teeth)
watch you curiously
as though you were standing
right-side up

cacophony caused by
one too few chairs at the
dining table.
Mike Hopkins Nov 2011
_
                                 On

                             Goolwa     Beach

                                the  waves are

                                    dogged    

                                        bounding  

           ­                           puppies  bouncing  

            ­                  excitedly  around  your  feet  

                           Greyhounds sprinting  in to nip your  

                     ankles   Labradors  wet nosed gambolling

                 slobbering      Rottweilers  snarling    slavering

            knocking  you off balance          in packs        hard  

       on the heels of the leader           *** crazed  

    sniffing   the   one   in   front         mounting it

   mad     things      collapsing         foaming  retreating

whimpering   spent  on  the  sand     cowering  like **whipped curs
©Mike Hopkins 2011
Blog: mistakenforarealpoet.wordpress.com

Hard to format a poem on this site, but in the original, it is laid out to resemble a dog.  Goolwa Beach is in South Australia. Its part of a spectacular stretch of beautiful, white sand beach stretching down to the Murray mouth and the Coorong.  The waves are relentless.
JM Oct 2013
Waking, pale sun burning away the smoky remnants of my dreams of you.
These memories of delightful daydreams.
I create a universe where your spine is steel and our love is a featherbed in a castle.
Our heat fills the cold stones
as greyhounds and bulldogs share the halls with young boys laughter and the smells of tea and toast.
I know you devour me while I sleep
the same way I consume you while you bathe,
soaking up every fold and freckle,
memorizing every precious contour.
Waking, your pale skin burning away
shadows of the past,
my strong hands rest on
your waiting hips.
The boys and dogs come tumbling into our morning oasis with bony little elbows and bad breath and laughter like heavens manna.
This is my now.
You are my forever.
We are eternal.
Vidya Nov 2011
so you die.
in medias res (every story starts
in the middle) when
you awake from unsettling
dreams to find yourself transformed in your bed into
this city—
subway tunnels bursting with the hello(hello((hello(((hello))) of small children
and ***** words spraypainted by *****
minds onto *****
boxcars sitting like greyhounds
retired from racing and
awaiting the
slaughter—it will all
be beautiful later.

and when blinding light races
toward you
(every story ends
in the middle)
Matt Miller Apr 2010
I never noticed
the shapes of headlights
that race across the room
like greyhounds
as cars pass.

The shapes sit
only for a moment
then roam anxiously
along the brick
and disappear in the corner.

A contrasting scene
of stagnation
and restlessness
painted across the walls
as cars pass.

Maybe I should leave
the blinds open more
often as I attempt
and most likely fail
to dream.
Harrison May 2014
I have known you
Sitting beautifully
With your legs crossed
Beside the shelves
Reading Catcher
Your hair bright as the book cover

I have known you
Stepping out in day light
With blackness
The white flowers in the air
Fail to resist your skirt

I have known you
Before standing shirtless
In my door way
Whispering drugs when we sleep

I have known you
Far away in the distance
Hair fading orange explosion
Catches me
I surrender like a moth

I have known you
Past the bus stops
And greyhounds
Driving in your Sedan
Singing December

I have known you
Skin as white and bright
As thunder clouds
Pink, as I press my fingers
Against your stomach

I have known you
Swimming in the nighttime
Walking on boats
Heading for the coast
With a hand full of smooth pebbles

I have known you
Deep by the riverside
Painstakingly trying
To drown your fourteen

I have known you
Naked in the night
Laying on the floor
Beside the shelves
Waiting for a fix

I have known you
Seen you catch rainfall
With your tongue
You are use
To tasting tears

I have known you
Running across
The dim valley
Eyes towards the cactus
Toes in the soil
Feeling California  

I have known you
Caught you staring
At the foreboding sunrise
Wishing for it to slow down

I have known you
The color of scarlet
Apples in the summer
Fresh blood of war
On your hair
That fire grows
With each breeze

I have known you
Beneath the avalanches
Near Everest
Above the clouds
Near the Eiffel

I have known you
But I cannot find you
betterdays Apr 2016
with apologies to WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)

Once more to the table, dear friends, once more;

Or close up our hungry mouths with supermarket staples.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of hunger blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Cut fine the sinews, simmer up the blood,

Disguise cheaper meats with hard-favour'd sage;

Then lend the stirring spoon a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the foccacia bread

Like the brass cannon; let the garlic o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled onion

O'erhang and jutty his confounded  tomato base,

Swill'd with a wild and wasteful Cabernet Savignon.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose ragu is fet from Nonna's fail proof recipe!

Nonna's that, like so many  Stephanie Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even, baked

And brewed their sauces  and stews, for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest...

That those whom you call'd mothers did feed you well

Be copy now to men of larger appetites

And teach them how to eat.

And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your belt; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so hungry,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Found poetry review prompt Napwrimo#2 using magazines, advertizing material etc and a known peice if writng create a piece of poetry......this my attempt
below the original piece
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
if greyhounds could talk,
tales buried in beats, braids and snapbacks
would be told;

lines blurred by the plight
of indifference
would unfold,
connecting souls waiting to die
on straits unforgiving,
to souls willing to try...

and the book of humanity
wouldn't be so
blue...

~ P
(#soblue)
8/1/2015
Mike Essig Mar 2016
The way the world ends...*

All birth a seed of mortality. The reason we come and we go is the same.
Parrots lose speech. Scarecrows attract birds. Zucchinis forget their meaning.
Clay pots yearn for earth. Everything inverts. Love> indifference> dislike.
Melting paragraphs. Pedestrians looking downward. Undelivered mail.
Fruit shrivels into donuts. The fix is in. Short everything. No tomorrow.
Empty Greyhounds ply apathetic Interstates. Nowhere to go. Not magic.
Frames without pictures. *** but motion. Carelessness abounds. No worries.
Cracks in the concrete. Death by delay. Rusted arteries. Repairs unmade.
     London Bridge is falling down, falling down
     and into the torrent we plummet and drown.

  ~mce
Edward Coles Jan 2015
You gave your love to the government.
Your liver to the greyhounds
and the squalor you live in.

The Asian district disappoints you
with its inaccessible women
to whom you are flaccid and unlovable.

The pub is full of students,
air humid with *** and youth-
all those impossible frames of reference.

You, proud emblem, are confused by it all.
The drawl of the six o'clock news:
“there is a war at your own front door.”

The Golden Age was taken for granted,
a party spoiled by strangers,
strange music, strange clothes;

the symbols you cannot understand.
Tradition fades to dementia, greyscale,
redundant colour, and jaded patriotism;

you raise the mourning flag alone.
A country died in your lifetime,
your romanticised vision of home.
C
Foie gras
Exploitation of geese
Posh food

Cows with udder
Too big for their bodies
Industrialized

Greyhounds
Get legs broken
If too slow

Bleeding bull
Disorientated in the sand
Slowly dying

Taser rowdy whites
On uncontrollable blacks
A gun is handy

Water
Rocks splinter rollers
The breakers hones the rocks
Into shark fins
Stephen Moore Jul 2019
Greyhounds bolt,
Elastic dogs,
Trapped till the rabbit runs.

A gun fires and punters wave papers,
Smudged smutted hankies,
To wish poor puppies on.

Rabid run,
Rabbit run,
Dogs ‘fun’ done,
Punters wins to spend on ***.

Dogs retire to a night behind wire,
Howling,
Cold,
Whining.

Punters swagger to a night of vice,
Yelling
Warm,
Wining.
Loraine Fromm Aug 2011
HAGITA

His name for his fame was Hagita
He leapt from the box like the wind
As he set sail with a flash of his tail
He's headed for home on the rail

Now comes the test, to see who's the best
They're bred from the best sires around
Their owners and trainers are holding their breath
And the greyhounds are stretched to the ground

With sleek head all down, they're pounding around
The last bend and heading for home
Bumping and pushing for room on the rail
Their long noses all flecked with foam

Here's his black muzzle, he's free from the hustle
His heart is pounding his chest
He's stretched to the full, and he'll pull and he'll pull
For winning is what he knows best

The crowd cheer him on in one hollering throng
It's a fever they just cannot quit
And he'll come again, for he knows he's found fame
And he just loves the fun of the game

Hagita Hagita Hagita, he was the best dog around
His race is run but we will never forget
The heart of this racing greyhound.
For my father who retired from the sport at eighty one years of age and passed away just a few weeks ago aged ninety three.
preservationman May 2019
THERE ARE TWO BREEDS, WHIPPET AND THE ITALIAN GREYHOUNDS
THE ITALIAN AND GRAY GREYHOUNDS ARE RACING DOGS
WHAT MAKES THEM DIFFERENT FROM ANY OTHER DOG IS THEIR SLIM SLEEK BODY AND LONG LEGS
SO THE GREYHOUND DOG IS BUILT TO RUN
IN FACT, THEY ARE CAPABLE IN RUNNING 60 MILES PER HOUR
WE AS HUMANS HAVING ONLY TWO LEGS ARE LUCKY WE CAN MOVE ONE MILE
BUT BACK TO THE GREYHOUND DOG
IT’S ABOUT A RACE
DUST FLYING ALL OVER WITH THE MANUEVERING TRACE
JUST LIKE A HORSE RACE, PEOPLE WAGER THEIR BETS
ALSO LIKE RACE HORSES, THERE ARE MANY GREYHOUND DOGS TO CHOSE ALL WITH IDENTIFICATION NAMES
WHAT HAPPENS DURING THE RACE AND AFTER NOW THAT REMAINS
THE GREYHOUND DOG LEGS MOVE SWIFTLY IN PRECISION
THEY CLASSIFIED BY DIVISION
RULES THAT GOVERN ARE PREVISIONS
BUT THE GREYHOUND DOGS HAVE KEEN VISION
SOME PEOPLE ADOPT AS PETS
BUT ANY GREYHOUND DOG IS A WINNER REGARDLESS OF LOSING RACE REGRETS
I HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO ACTUALLY WITNESS A GREYHOUND DOG RACE AT THE GREYHOUND PARK IN DAYTONA BEACH, FLORIDA
AS I WAS WATCHING, MY GREYHOUND DOG WON, BUT I DIDN’T PLACE A BET
NOW THAT WAS MY ONLY REGRET
THE GREHOUND DOG IS ABOUT SPEED
THEIR OFF, THE SHOOTING GUN IN THE AIR AND ELECTRONIC RABBIT TO PROCEED
READY, SET AND GO
THIS NARRATOR EDUCATED YOU IN BEING IN THE KNOW.
Modern Haiku
Foie gras
Exploitation of geese
Posh food

Cows with udder
Too big for their bodies
Industrialized

Greyhounds
Get legs broken
If too slow

Bleeding bull
Disorientated in the sand
Slowly dying

Taser rowdy whites
On incontrollable blacks
A gun is handy

Water
Rocks splinter rollers
The breakers hones the rocks
Into shark fins
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
only last night, having reach my fill of ms. amber bathing in a ginger ale jacuzzi - chasing a choir boy castrato cat waking me four times i had to utter in frustration (which i later noted): mortality is such an insufficient measure of things... i would be ****** if i didn't make a quick ode to Ovid's ****** poems... to truly appreciate performing oral *** on a woman? i suggest you first appreciate eating oysters... not oysters: no, having performed oral ***, looking at the moon in the quicksilver sheen to see your face all slobbered... an appreciation of eating oysters, is most certainly, a precursor to performing oral *** on a woman... beside:

wenn alles weisheit wurden zu kommen auf Indien -
if all wisdom were to come from India,

needless to say - these ancients still treat
greece as some sort of ongoing "experiment" -
that nothing, absolutely nothing:
is viable -
they might as well call it the still to progess
into a foundation state of affairs -
the west is seen as fickle -
a thought it not so much entrenched
and passed on, as it is made vogue one
generation - disappearing for some time:
before reappearing...

no proverbs ever came from the west:
nothing akin to:
besser ein spatz im ihr hand -
als ein taube auf ihr dach -
i just like how it sounds in german...
the original reads:
lepiej wróbel w ręce - niż gołąb na dachu
(better a sparrow in your hand,
than a dove upon your roof)...

legit. proverb: hold the simpler joys
in your hand, closest to you,
that look up and think that a dove
upon your roof will bring peace to
your household...

as long as everyone under the roof
has simple and "immediate" joys in hand
close to the heart...
peace is not tempted by spotting
a dove on your roof...

here's another one... and i was looking and
i was looking and i was looking
and i thought i couldn't find some,
some sort of alternative...
if only Ted Bundy went down this route...
then again... if he did...
he would have started jerking off
to fine art... the detail of the tongues,
the ***** and the ability to filter
out what is happening outside the erotica...
what?
i will drill this example in...
every, single, time:
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...

perhaps i am that old,
before free internet *******...
some of us had the ***** and the rose cheeks
to walk into a newsagent and pick
up a pornomag...

well... "*****" - more like...
sculptor's digest... or...
**** subject pages for that lesson
you'd love to take at school
where you could paint a ****...
oh hell: paint all the flowers in the world...
flower: covert: female genitals...
all the flowers in the world...
but not the torso and the mystery
of the bellybutton
nor the cow-sacks of Surabhi...
after all... they started multiplying in number
and you couldn't, after a while,
tell apart what it was about them...
peach on the front,
peach on the back...
and what would a hindu know of
the tetragrammaton?
when H... is a surd in their language?

i tried almost everything...
but upon my final discovery...
hell... it just started making sense...
glory-hole... the dreaded lesbian genre...
once in a brothel i was asked if
i wanted 2 hours with her,
or an hour with her and her friend,
i replied: i still don't know what i'm
going to do with you...
i don't live by the motto:
the world is divided into men
who have slept with two women
and a the men who haven't...

give me two legs of chicken...
i'll know what to do...
a woman can multitask...
after all... if a muslim gets 72 virgins...
a woman is guaranteed her
3 greyhounds... one for each 'ole!
'ere comes the charging bull...

der wesheit auf Indien:
nothing reflexive about it -
just enough to ease you into a mirror
of non-reflection:
i.e. something to destroy the self
with and incorporate -
a billionth part of yourself...
wisdom worthy of meditation -
but not exactly stretching
into a labyrinth of thought -
call it all you like:
clumsy thinking,
spaghetti alleys and cul de sacs,
the labyrinth -
why complicate life, which is already
complicated, by complicating thought?
after all: what is thought?
the first question of the θ-moral?
the th'ought i?

oh don't get me wrong...
that an elephant shouldn't exactly pair
up to a rabbit in the kama sutra:
spot on...

even i became tired of the meat-market...
after a while i just felt like a butcher
looking at cuts of meat...
cam-girls: i don't remember paying...
the genres... god... i probably looked
at 5 in total...
hello exotica... ebony...
glory-hole... ****...
the horrid affair of the extremes -
lars von trier nymphomaniac
confessions type of genres...
hell... i even tried ******...
but still: the meat-market...

well no point looking for alternatives
in the islamic world...
unless you are really ***** for
eyes in the kneeling position
while looking to and from the heavens
of a catholic confessional booth...

some variant of softcore ****:
latex whole body suits...
girls in gimp suits with a zipper
for a genital opening...

but still the meat market...
****? only to laugh at the farts...
but still... the meat-market...
and still the all pervading sense of voyeurism!
that's not enough, it wasn't enough to begin with,
then i'd come across articles
in legit. newspapers (the times)
about how women tend to watch
more violent *******...

for a while i entertained the no-man's land
affair with girls ******* videos...
**** became a little bit weird
when i turned that upside down
and focused on: pregnant women
*******...
and... i just borrowed something from
a 1976 novel by Michael Crichton:
eaters of the dead -
better known as the Wendol in the film
the 13th warrior -
where the diety was a pregnant woman...
i played into that fantasy...
which coincided with the time
i ****** off ******* for 2 hours
and imagined:
well... i guess... ******* are off limits
to men when a woman has a baby...
and she's actually breastfeeding...
i couldn't imagine this fantasy to live
beyond that date of conception
through to having finished breastfeeding
a child... but... for a while...
i gave careful attention...
to what it would be like...
with a lactating woman...

that was the zenith of my exploration...
eh... *** parties? filmed in those shabby
intz intz horrid dance music scenes?
n'ah... i wanted something more...
more... archetypical...
something teasing the forbidden...
but not forbidden as such...
something akin to:
having to convince her to **** while
on her period, in a bath,
wearing a ******: to ease, the, cramps!

ugh... czech house party *** scenes...
or those scenes from prague,
the inverted glory-holes...
what you see are cubicles
of women's legs sticking out...
again:
too much imagination already given...
none of this was akin to
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...
everything was moving,
i was nothing more than a ******,
always the 5th wheel of the wagon...
somehow, yeah, "somehow" necessary...
even if a woman was ******* 3 at the same time,
there was the fourth... watching...
via the 5th one: filming...

hyper-geometry of a triangle...

what was essentially missing?
accents of eroticism - subtlety -
to have an image in your mind - quiet static -
and to allow your imagination to seep in...
all the other western alternatives
were nothing but meat-markets / slaughterhouses...
none of your imagination could seep in...
not even with the first pornomags
of my teen years...
protruding ******* like the eyes
of judge doom from: who framed roget rabbit...
which always begged the question...
very much akin to the question
posed by Milan Kundera in:
the unbearable lightness of being...
**** with your eyes closed...
or your eyes open?

the sensuality of worms and all those
murky beings: primordial *** -
eyes closed -

      eyes open? the seemingly anti-sensual
inconvenience of mammalian
reproduction - with no pain upon giving
birth: what pleasure upon reaching an ******?
asked the wind of a savannah to its inhabitants.

Islam still wasn't helping -
i could never understand how a woman's eyes
were the most ****** aspect of a woman's body...
perhaps her hands...
well if you have hands like i have...
what you have in your pants isn't exactly
an ego-trip... you're holding a sparrow...
she's holding a bulging ribcage of an albatros!
you can hold a basketball with one hand...
and she is... a knuckle short of your four...
why wouldn't a woman's hands be the most
****** aspect of her body...
after all... a non-discriminatory plateau:
all are the hands of a a geisha...

geisha... islamic eroticism still isn't working...
hair... hair...
a lot of people complain if they have
a fly / a hair in their soup when served
in a restaurant... jokes on me...
i have a beard and the hairs of the beard
are the same consistency of ***** hair...
so i basically have ***** on my face...
ha ha...
why hair? what's so ****** about hair?
what if i tell you that as women age...
almost all of them decide for the pixie girl look -
and what if i told you that...
ifindwomenwithshorthairintheiryouththezenithoferotica?
ag­ain... islam isn't helping...


.a thing of genuine beauty, is always predicated upon transcendent value of inquiry... to transcend the common, daily, human squabbles... it becomes areligous... while daily human squabbles continue, what has been lost, is an item of transcendence, it was never to be a focus of some "parasitical" sycophancy of tourism... there's nothing to be celebrated, and... nothing much to be awed by either.

well, what did the ottoman turks
do to the hagia sophia?
they converted it,
but they weren't philistines
to the point,
   or say, a bunch rabid mongols
from the 13th century
in Bagdad...
                      like:
                     and why didn't
the nazis not destroy certain valuable
cultural cruxes?
   that picture of st. paul's cathedral
during the blitz...
  yes, the english might think
it was a symbol of defiance...
but i'm pretty ******* sure
that if one luftwaffe bomber dropped
something on st. paul's,
they'd return home and be
shot by a firing squad...
            they might have been
nazis... but they weren't philistines...
even the ottomans...
süleymaniye was so jealous
of the byzantine building
that he had to commission the construction
of a building to match-up
to the hagia sophia in some
way...
           again:
                  prank call buddha...
tell him they're also
tearing down idols in northern europe
with their phallus cult
           of the large wooden
***** carved from a tree.
what's that?        you yell'ah?
i mean: in the heyday
   of scandinavian black metal...
varg vikernes... 'nuf' said.

_________
a
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
Maybe maybe
Please, someone,
save me?
Maybe no is okay
Questions about all
exclamation points

What is the point when
it's not ((Ok)) maybe no
But yes is
something to
outweigh the odds

your feelings
Higher force
The Gods
Mowing your lawn-
Until Dawn meets her clown
So underweighted feeling down
((Minds Inflated))
The bad depression
feeling disliked being liked

He's heavily happy
The before or after 400 pounds
Can't you pick your relatives?
Your niece the Alaskan- Huskies
Howling Greyhounds
Maybe stand-up
Maybe waiting stood up
Like the walking dead
diseased no way you became
half-dead---?
Or maybe no I'm not
OK? What's in my head
You decide (No-Show)

No, it's not my fault
Maybe she shouldn't
open up the
$$$
Bank vault
Increased blood pressure
Not Moms coffee pressure
The world of electronics
Everything Melancholic
Depression became
the liar

Losing your shirt like
Sport big-time gambling
Scattered all broken glasses
Maybe no blind spots
wearing your sunglasses
The reasons Maybe no
I shouldn't
__pass
this opportunity up
Buy the video game
Snapping perky eyes up
The flash drive all hyped
Overcharged to get recharged
On your Visa charge
Well what do you know
Is one cup of coffee going to
miss my meter fine

Gives me no joy from
your joystick .).
Maybe the change of soda's
Ms. Coconutty
Cherry Godzilla
On your Mozilla

Joy to the world
fanatics of electronic
Heres to your litter's cats
and dogs
Twinkle star OK Twitter
Maybe Scarlet and Rhett
butler went with the wind
From behind demon's Scarlet, no's
I will be dammed ferocious
The hospital surgery OK
I got eye strains

Maybe no routine is better than maybe
Is it OK to feel guilty getting the guillotine
My Contagious computer
My snacks chocolate
covered drakes

Bending your head down
at your phone, it breaks
my heart spinal
degeneration
Like a hermit that's
OK!! No home didn't
pay rent

Welcome to our ((Generation))
24/7 and everything will be OK
  those hours don't ever take away
Broken bones earphones
Arthritis, It's Ok

Write something every day

My family is my heart of the lifetime
Once upon a star blessing all the time*
Early birds After hours of words
So maybe no could have
made a lucky, yes

Go to Disneyland and say yes
Those high heels beauty and the beast
OK let it be let it be
No-one will take that part away from me
Maybe No but why is it more so well that's OK I guess we are writers but we are Ok with that electronics became the biggest thing and you're ending up in the hospital no one is calling you like the dead ring
Satsih Verma Jan 2017
You shut to it―
the window, on watching
a row of walking stones
without feet.

Pouting,
scowling―
in a mile of tears.

(A pink lotus spills
the colors on water)

Let me talk
to my wilderness. The
script was incomplete
in shadows of greyhounds.

You crawl on the grass to find a four-leaf clover.
tires of
wires that
will a
horse when
hen's teeth
do query
and tread
next to
the fence
yet never
betray his
master's advice
and her
talbot may
foxtrot with
greyhounds at
mercy point
mercy point is a church while a talbir is extinct and  hen's teeth are rare
preservationman Dec 2019
The Greyhound name that got around
Across the country are terminals and small depots that are found
But the Greyhound name is still destination bound
Greyhound travelled roads when roads didn’t even exist
Oh that stretched Greyhound dog that no one can resist
The trademark known worldwide
The travelled miles
The varying paint schemes
State too state and town too town
Oh yes, that Greyhound continues to move around
Greyhound’s history full of achievements
Elements were always the test
But our Greyhound Driver training says it best
“DRIVE WITH PRIDE”
The customers will enjoy the ride
Greyhound is a company anywhere bound
Hear engine and watch on the highway in the Greyhound sound
Departure with an arrival
The vast of Greyhounds to just marvel
Greyhound has been doing for years
It all started with Anderson and Wickman rugged pioneers
If you want proof, look at Greyhound’s track record
It seemed Greyhound wouldn’t survive
Yet Greyhound weathered many storms
It was far from any norm
The Greyhound Bus Company continues being the highway journey
It’s name being worthy
So Greyhound continues to be on the move
The wheels are rolling and operation being everything to prove.
Ashlyn Yoshida Feb 2020
What exactly is happiness? Is it the hollowness in the chest when you've stopped crying and you feel like there's nothing left to do? Is it that feeling of wanting the world to stop so you can enjoy just a few more seconds of silence?
Is it being with friends and laughing until your gut hurts but then crying when you go home? Is it addictive like a drug?
Is the withdrawal from happiness the symptoms of depression?
does that mean we need happiness like we need oxygen?
Are we okay?
If the past can overshadow the present then what's the point of reminding ourselves about it?
There will always be bad things, we can't change that.
No. We could change that.
We just don't want to. Happy is fleeting and never stays. that's why we want it. We would hate happy if we had it forever.
But we chase it in circles, like greyhounds on a track, coming across it only to realize that it was fake all along and the real happiness
the real glow and joy
was that small second before the race, when you felt like you were finally going to reach it
And now?
Now you don't have it. Because you believed it would fix your problem.
Well. To the ones who believed they have found happiness I must ask you
Did it?
Mary Gay Kearns Feb 2018
I remember the death of my grandfather
My head filled out the spoken words
There a man stretched out, sublime,
In an upstairs bedroom room,
Unable to breath, doctor called,
His family standing at his side.
This was 1957, I was five.
My father had gone to be with
A father he both loved
And feared, felt tenderness for
and pitied.

I stayed with my mother,
Saying "just because
I do not cry Mummy does not mean
I am not sad."
With my small child's hands
I made her a cup of tea.

Grandfather was a rough, tough
Man,
Always impeccably dressed
In white shirt and a tie,
He threw his dinners at the wall
Collected greyhounds
And raced them at the White City
They all died, all six.
Gave me a shiny half- crown piece
At every visit and a razored kiss,
He was a lamplighter, fifty- six.

I loved him
In a child's simple way
Knew his heart loved
But life was tough.
My father spoke kindly of him
"Poor burger" my grandfather said
When my father took on a mortgage.
Poor ******.

Love Mary x
In memory of my father's father ,Chester Road .ff Ladbrook Grove
Isolate?
do you want me to isolate?
you can wait your turn,

they'd all like to see me on my own
all alone, home alone and there's
no, on your Jack Jones, it's only
Jack Jone when you're on your own,

**** em.
it's just another drug, so
stick me with the hypodermic
and
promise me
I won't get sick
or
won't come quick
and
be a ladykiller,
something on the
lines of 'Thriller'
run as fast as
**** The Miller
and
do you remember
greyhounds?


if you don't get the reference
go Google
go boogie-woogie,
but leave me
alone.
Ten years for now. That’s how long it’s been since I last saw the Welcome To Ellis sign as I drove away as a newlywed in the back of a limo filled with regrets.
Since I can’t say how many times I’ve thought about making my return. Hundreds? A thousand? Somewhere in between, most likely. I’ve pictured myself in a fancy sports car with my hair down into a scarf like I was Grace Jenavia, or maybe in a chauffeur-driven SUV.

Once in those ten years did I think I’d be coming back to town on a Greyhound bus.
A woman next to me snores so loudly, she wakes herself up. Her head jerks from side to side as she wipes drool from the corner of her mustache.

Nothing,” reply as I pull my baseball cap over my eyes and read- just my sunglasses to hopefully cover my black eyes where the makeup is wearing off.

Hoping my iffy luck will hold until I’m off this bus, and she won’t have a clue who she say next to on this long ride from L.A.

What’d I miss?” Leans over me to look out the window as we approach the bus station. He’s six feet under, and I’m the famous one because I’m the black widow who killed him.

Know the truth, but no one else cares about anything so mundane as that. Fall from wife of a rock god to the most hated woman in America has been a rocky one, and to be honest, I’m lucky I made it out of L.A. alive.
Greyhounds brakes squeal as it slows to a stop. Changing the direction of my thoughts. Stop thinking about what I’m running from and put it behind me.

I just never thought I’d be running toward Smith, the place I spent so many years desperate to leave. I want is a simple, quiet life. Something normal. Aways from the paparazzi and accusations. Even away from doing guilty that I fear.

I glance out the window, expecting the old wooden train depot, but we’re on the wrong side of town for that.

Smith. That’s one major reason I don’t know if I’ll ever find peace here.
Soon as we hit the city limits a few minutes ago, my heart is like stone.

Force my breathing to slow and try to look at the name without feeling anything.
Instead, I glare at it, like that’s going to help me find some inner strength.
I would match everything else in this town em blazoned with the Smith name.

Hospital that’s probably only a mile from here. Court-house that takes up one side of the town square. Smith bank and trust two blocks over, near the Rodriguez Art Gallery.

The only thing that doesn’t have their name is the town itself. Pretty sure my ancestors are still smiling in their graves about snaring that honor right before they jumped the Rodriguez’s gold claim and started a feud that’s lasted over 180 years.

I did my part too, and I’m not proud of it.
Wait my turn, specifically for the woman beside me to move, I can haul my *** off the bus. The bus rumbles to life again, and I watch as it rolls away. Left surrounded by the sum total remains of my former life, in the form of ridiculously overpriced Savellia Vuitton luggage, while I wait for my chronically-late-from-birth cousin to come get me.

Cricket begins me to come back to California, I probably would have stayed on the bus all the way to New York. Well I heard they’re friendly up there........ unless they’re Idelfonso Rodriguez fans.

Ohhh, baby! Look at that **** thing just waiting on a ride. You wanna come on up with me, girl?”
Catcalls had come from a man, I would tensed and prepared to bolt, but no. A voice I’d recognize even if it had been eighty years since I’d been home in stead of ten.

First time in months, a genuine smile stretches my lips. I know I don’t get into a strangers van unless someone offers me candy first. “
As well, get up here, little girl.
I’ve got sugar for you. Cricket puts the van in park and hops out, running around the front of the faint Econoline. *** Jesus Christ, you look just like a real beauty celebrity-who forgot to tell her chauffeur where to pick her up.”
So, I rush to meet him. We collide ina hug. “ I thought you were my chauffeur. But is to early too. I wasn’t prepared to wait an hour for cricket Time.”

Cuz my cousin smells exactly the same as the last time I saw her- like *** smoke, coconut, vanilla and sunshine.
“ Lord , I miss you, girl. It’s been way too ******* long.”
Pull back. Your tawny eyes dance, and her dark brown hair is braided around the crown of her head like she’s a perfect flower child.
But she’s alright.

Her heart squeezes at her smiling face. I’ve miss her so dear to much. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. “ I know. I’m so sorry__
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2022
Samsara

I remember you telling me
that you wished I was never
born and also the day I tried to
save a struggling black beetle
from the ***** filled toilet pan.

          You flushed it

I will never forget when my father
took me to a coursing meeting to
see greyhounds dismantling hares.

What was all of that about?

I'm a vegetarian now and a poet.

On mothers day I went to sing
a song at your graves like you
asked me to, before you died.

It was about re-incarnation, I am
a buddhist, I made a wish for you
both to come back as something.

     I bet you’ll never guess!

— The End —