"parlours" poems
I had put on weight,
I enjoyed life,
I was optimist,
I was my children's number one,
My husband had not left me,
Though my beauty was receding.
Didn't have time for beauty parlours,
I decided to sum up myself in the mirror,
Looked at my curves,
None at all,
Looked at my face,
Slight traces of beauty left.
Needed a face lift,
Smile still **** and beautiful,
Hair, high time I went to a good hairstylist.
I turned this way and that way,
I was no more stylish,
I was fading.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
I heard a chorus from behind me,
"BEST CREATION FROM GOD"
My three children and husband
gathered around me for a family hug,
We love you as you are,
Nothing More Nothing Less.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
-
Why can’t I see past the buildings,
skylines obstructing my view,
collecting on the curb
with doorways and steps
inviting to someone else I suppose
Still I push past,
hugging the shoulder
of a rush hour highway
Staring into windows
as they pass, staring back
Exits signs point at me
but I can’t listen
Their warnings make no difference
in cloverleaf grumblings
and exhaust fume skywriting
One foot in front of the other,
worn converse high tops
gray, the greens are lost
with the sunset that breathes down my neck
reaching for one more moon rise
No rest, still creeping alongside
sleeping 18 wheelers purring
on their asphalt mattresses,
straddling yellow lines
leading to the bathrooms…not a chance
27 miles the sign reads
in reflective lettering calling out to me
It seems like nothing,
compared to what is behind me now…
My life or what it was
But that is no longer my concern,
my future is now 22 miles away
Where your arms are waiting,
holding my future…open, warm
and I begin running faster
Another 10 to go, down main streets
with coffee shops and beauty parlours,
one traffic light and a train station
a kid on a bike delivering newspapers offers me a ride
No need, it’s just around this corner…
On the lawn is a flamingo,
plastic and pink behind a white picket fence
with a gate that creaks and a porch light comes on…
illuminating my dream…as I see you,
it has finally come true
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
*i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*
a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.
Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******
Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Never mind steel,
We are creating new materials,
Carbon nano-tubes, poly-ceramics,
Twirl a ball above your head, we are
Building elevators into space,
Stringing massage parlours around the earth,
We are engineering ourselves,
Computer worlds and,
Selling real estate, we
Are leaving the old people,
Behind,
Stained curtains and they are,
Walking into forests,
In Japan.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
He left with the passing time
no farewells offered
no heartfelt backward glance
his footfalls ticking seconds
echoing in the Sunday parlours of the righteous he despised
He left with the passing time
no one mourned,no tears were shed
His sacred, bleeding heart
now but a tattooed image
on the chests of the dejected
He left with the passing time
on whispers of myths
and suspected tall tales
doubting his own truth
despising the lie of his creation
He left with the passing time
while pious mice sang of his glory
behind the battlements of faith
as the wars of the wicked raged in his name
He left with the passing time
while mothers wailed at shaken babes
and the disappeared sang from **** choked graves
He left with the passing time
as society shunned his brand
and drunken feet danced lasciviously on his moral high ground
He left, with the passing time...
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
There were thousands and thousands o'kids
Pushed down pits or stamped out in t'mills
Mekin theer bids fer freedom.
Aye...from the drudgery and slavery of serfdom.
Now I realise..all that they got was a sub standard plot..
..and two penny's to cover...their poor dead eyes
And in the parlours Ma cries.
It was the minimum rate from which..
..we still cannot escape.
The rasping and grasping maws..
..the jaws that still trap us in poverty and penury
It's time for the judiciary to alter the law
To give poor people more.
What the **** are they waiting for?
A return to the old ways..
..back to the old days?
I wait for the answer but suspect I won't hear
And wonder what year this can be
Or even what century.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
England lies below the ground
Chiselled out of diamond,
Blackened halls where men would dance
On floors of obsidian, twice removed from the stars.
Parlours made of coal.
Where man and beast alike would toil
Birth would grant them pigment
But birth’s decision was in vain,
When the sun began to fall, they would arise, of colour all the same.
Nowadays the men walk free;
Above
Drink pints in the morning, offer empty yells,
To that guy who came here to escape the shells,
To the girl who arrived here with three degrees,
And now scrubs floors down on her knees,
To the guy who works for minimum wage,
He could be writing upon this very page.
Spirit crushed under coal when the mines closed down
Now England lies below the ground.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
In Albion’s realm, where misty moors do lie,
‘Neath ancient oak and silver sky,
A question stirs in hearts so deep,
A debate where souls and morals meet.
In halls of law and homes alike,
Where whispers rise and thoughts take flight,
Assisted dying’s call is heard,
In hushed tones and measured word.
Through corridors of time we trace,
From Hippocratic oaths to modern grace,
A journey long, both fierce and bright,
Through shadows cast by life’s last light.
In England’s green and pleasant land,
Where life and death do hand in hand,
A plea for mercy, calm and kind,
In final moments, peace to find.
For those who suffer, bodies frail,
With voices weak and faces pale,
A choice they seek, with dignity,
To end their pain, to set them free.
Yet in this isle of storied past,
Where traditions hold and shadows cast,
A struggle brews, both old and new,
Of ethics deep and justice true.
The lawmakers and healers stand,
With heavy hearts and steady hand,
To ponder laws and futures bright,
In sleepless thoughts through endless night.
For some do fear a slippery slope,
Where lives are weighed with loss of hope,
And others see compassion’s glow,
In helping those who wish to go.
Within the courts, the voices blend,
Of those who seek life’s gentle end,
And those who guard with fervent plea,
The sanctity of life’s decree.
In parlours warm and hospital halls,
The echoes rise of earnest calls,
For choice and freedom, calm and clear,
To face the end without the fear.
Yet also rings the cautioned cry,
Of hasty laws and who decide,
For life’s great gift, both pure and bright,
Must not be dimmed in darkest night.
Oh Albion, with heart so fair,
In this debate, take utmost care,
For every life, a tale profound,
In every heart, a sacred ground.
So let the voices blend as one,
In search of wisdom, never done,
To find a path both just and true,
In shadows cast by life’s last view.
Through trials hard and thoughts so deep,
In sleepless nights and dreams that keep,
May mercy guide, with steady hand,
In life’s great arc, from birth to sand.
Oh, Heavenly Father, light our way,
With wisdom’s glow, both night and day,
Grant us the grace to choose what’s right,
In shadows cast by life’s last light.
In Albion’s realm, where misty moors do lie,
May wisdom reign and spirits fly,
For in this choice, both grave and bright,
Lies the soul of mercy’s light.
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 1:07 AM UTC
The city
illuminated
by neon lights
Busy souls
electrify the shops
and parlours
Rows of cars
line the streets
their headlights glow
Walk down the
sidewalk and see
people drunk on love
and *****
We're waiting for the green light
We're ready to go
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
*the mirror eyes of the corpse, long after people
voiced their concern of the fear of seeing
them no longer blinking, or allowing a peering
into the window of soul, either shuttering
them still to suit the numb limbs, or preparing
them with two coins for Charon and the crossing
of the Styx - that foul river of modern combustion
engine ointments of unrefined diesel.*
i'm angry at my piano of letters,
i call it the dog whistle piano,
the silent piano that rightly can also be
compared to a machine gun -
and that dumb musicology of poetry
is rhyme, or as one english teacher
revealed, the poetic alphabet of 52 letterings:
roses are red (a)
violets are blue (b)
dearest repertoire of procrastination's jive (c)
a head donning a beehive (c)
better dead than red (a)
i wrote this wearing only one shoe (b)...
and like this onto:
bring in the four elements,
atheists argue life ought to be like air,
never connected to skeletal structures,
randomised in atomic form and our bodies too,
the ones citing life's arguments
using earth have the easy inhibitory
village life, they're the characters
on b.b.c. radio 4's the archers (not
that peach schnapps, the mighty
"i'm living on a farm yo ** **
what do you call a non-urban benefits
system? farming subsidy) -
those of argument from water we take
to imply basically all of us -
the fiery ones' motto better to burn out
than fade away - the 27 club -
and then the lightning ones
are stuck in a dying light-bulb epilepsy
of constant mirroring rejuvenation -
mind you, the moths are bewildered,
it's a lysergic acid (can you imagine
a lysergic alkaline?) trip for them,
so they don't even bother smacking the
**** thing for an instant light-bulb-tan:
moths invented u.v. sun-tan parlours long
before we had the thought of it.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
in the house of bumbling,
frogs jump sidways
to avoid the talk
tense
with the things
unspoken....
in the house of bumbling
birds mime joy in silent cages
waiting for life to smile...
in the house of bumbling
ants march in straight lines
hugging the walls
leaving poisoned crumbs
behind...
in the house of bumbling
the lizards no longer lounge
but busily repetitively clean
the cowebbed dark corners
in the house of bumbling
spiders have no parlours
****** no flies
they now knit cardigans
and read the words
of the wise
oh the house of bumbling
is a place of curious wondering
and sometimes is found
stumbling
in the reccesses of my mind
where and whence
it goes
when not residing with me
i do not know...
perhaps you may have
the delight
of the house of bumbling
staying the night
and removing the seriousness
of the plight
the one in which
you fight boredom
in the dark reaches
of the lonely night....
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
Something knocking
one time dead,
something knocking
in my head.
My eyes open wide and that
something slides inside
and the knock, knock,
knocking fades away and then
it dies.
Baby cries deep in the crib
Mother cradles one more nib
and Father writes of sights
he's seen.
King of parlours, Queen of hearts,
no matter who
the knocking starts,
knock, knock, knocking,
baby rocking,
eyes tight shut
but
the knocking
waits.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
So you stared at the hourglass and counted
For all that it was worth, for every grain that fell
What exactly are you trying to achieve?
Drunken nights and empty parlours
Bottomless glasses and dusted shelves
you look in the mirror and see what bloodshot eyes can see
blurred lines and skewed vision from your lack of depth and ability to perceive
You watch the clock make it’s way around once then again
More like you’re on a boat in the middle of the sea
lost at will and on course to the places you’ve never been
And the places you least wanted to be
Live inside the walls of your mind
They’ve carved you out so well you could be a pumpkin on All Hallows Eve
Everything that used to be a part of you was simply tossed out the window to feed the starving crows
I see that your heart is bleeding again but no amount of gauze will swallow the pain
You can stare at the mirror for hours trying to love the parts of you that you hate
But they’ll never see the rotten parts of you that you see so clearly
The walls are closing in again
Don’t lose hope
Don’t lose hope
Don’t lose hope
(m.e.)
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
English journalists writing about Mao's
China have this air about them
that's best summarised
by Charles Dickens'
attempts at philanthropy;
by the way, i'm taking this
point of view into Essex county
on the N86 bus:
were it will fester explosively
like a gangrene wound...
and rear parasites, upon parasites'
worth of infestation allowance:
Mongol horde to reap the rewards
with ****** from Goodmayes'
"tanning" / "massage" parlours
while the Bobs of Scotland Yard
drive their german machines
in idle splendour "unaware"
via the practised criminality...
for the ******* dole chequers
players equipped with old
age as excuse... lassoo those bums!
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
There upon the foamy waters
boats rock with silent ease
all about reflects the sky
forget me not blue
stretches the miles.
Hushed I watch the majesty
of simple lives
Under the toil of the sun
boatmen sing their nets ashore
shimmering with life
as though the dawn itself were caught
within
a single bell, chimes skylark sweet
keeping time with the rhythm of all.
Calling home calloused hands
to pretty parlours
where rest and the devil take hold.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 4:45 AM UTC
The Twilight Zone
In the nearest town and close to all amenities
such as hospitals and funeral parlours my wife
and went to look at an elderly people’s hotel
where people of a certain age get a small flat to
live in, yet it has a café for the social evening with
where young ladies who have gone to university
and studied geriatrics, sing and give the recital of
something suitable not to offend and often
a priest comes around and talks about Jesus.
Sunny Lodge the place was called, and we thanked
the manager we should think about it and was given
brochures to read. Driving home my wife cried, she
has a daughter who is no quite there I have no offspring
we decided to live in our cottage as long as possible
egoistically, I hoped to die before her it would save me
the funeral and sorting out and throwing away my private
collections of bleakly second-grade poetry, blowing in
the dusty wind of forgotten time.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
My environment raised me to fantasize
and romanticize fairytale plots
Constantly told Everyones special, but if
everyone’s special, is special... not
told violence isn’t the answer, but grown men start wars, told its childish to fully
Manipulate and intimidate at school...
like adult workplaces don’t have bullies
My lack of contentment and resentment
are petty and petulant, so I’ll recant it
but impossible expectations make failure an inevitable feeling as disenchantment
comes from being sold magic and gold dreams were told to chase and harbour
but reality showed the fallacy, cuz the only happy endings are in massage parlours
Cuz maturation, brings lacerations
a mental state knowing only ************ for self exploration, so complications
with my identity caused me exasperation
so my child will learn of the wild waitin
Nothing inhumane, just rationalization
No Unrealistic imagery, or idealistic epiphany, just realizations
Instead of illusions most institutions
that directly rooted, or Alluded
Being intoxicated left toxic hatred,
I got from the delusive undiluted
Euphoric delusion, an intrusion conducive
with ecstasy come downs, now habitual
feeling missed opportunities residual
like manifestation of the metaphysical
actually exists, it insists, a ritual
a nagging cyst that sits, subliminal
like a psyches itch, that persists, and only exists, cuz I can’t resist, being miserable
but what is emphatically unequivocal
makes me combatively typical
Like my psychosis births mitosis roaches
that are magically cynical
like an angry lucky charms leprechaun who’s going insane, way passed clinical cuz I’m too myopic to see this topic,
making me neurotic, isn’t the typical
response cuz logic isnt the pinnacle
when trying to ration what is invisible
and take the hypothetically and try to remedy, what’s not theoretically divisible
So I’m left where I began, remaining
Knowing my complaining, is draining
Partially wishing, for the convincing
the world is beautiful, the painting
I use to see when faith in humans
and in destiny, still arresting me
instead of seeing how dark and cold it is, unable to ignore the unpleasantry
life isn’t all jewels and sparkling glitter
Happy thoughts & rainbows and that
Doesn’t change earths mean maggots
Like jean jackets bedazzled, it’s still crap
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC