"scrapheap" poems
saying **** off* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
Barely do my Wednesdays fill with longing,
Lost observers rendering August whims to the scrapheap of infinity,
Galvanized entities downing tools schematically,
A posse of awareness pronating towards incandescent light,
Mostly everything a prolonging of jest and belly laughs,
Dawn brings the sick belly of listlessness,
Hordes of happenchance and imaginers of silence dancing,
The chitter chatter cadence does dim for a minute stretching yonde
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
obviously Gibraltar would vote to remain,
it would be one of the few remains of
the British Empire, the Spanish
version of Hong Kong,
4.1% leave, 95.9% remain,
no immigrants there, just expatriates
from Benidorm - if it voted to leave then Spain
would double the emphasis to eject
the British from the region;
but if you're going to fully pull the thing apart,
and go to a history of myth, Arthur
prior to Angevin Empire, i guess you have
to give that little scrapheap of pride back too -
this referendum is really like watching
Gorbachev pulling apart the Soviet Empire
in slow-motion, it's not chunky like
Kazakhstan, a banoffee pie, but more
like what remained of feeding the 5,000 thousand
at the last supper.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
… On a bustling street,
she shuffles her feet,
her eyes hold a desperate heat,
eyes darting, discretely charting
a line through the crowds that are parting for her.
In a world of abundancy,
she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
her life breathes new life into the rubble
from a fickle society’s burst bubble.
Her world otherwise grey,
she colours her day,
collecting, affecting
what the world has thrown away.
Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
discarded, unguarded;
all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.
Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.
She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.
She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.
Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.
In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.
She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.
She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.
Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.
On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
The tired old robot came to rest,
Years of working, left him worn and distressed,
His batteries lacking power, he walked without grace,
The lights dimming, on his dented old face,
Rust makes him brittle, seizing up his hands,
Joints lacking oil, clogged with debris and sand,
His circuit’s burn, as the sparks rattle his brain,
His memory corrupted by electrical rain,
Reaching the end, after all these years,
The robot cries, his battery tears,
Crashing to the ground, falling apart,
As the power slips, from his computerised heart.
There he lay, upon his back,
As the wind covered, his final tracks,
Placed upon the scrapheap, stripped of his parts,
They carefully removed, his memory and heart,
Words read from, the old kindle book,
As they restored his body, with the classic old look,
Wires refreshed, the burning of solder,
Faint light returns, to his classic controller,
One final piece, to power his soul,
The heart replaced, in the mechanical hole,
Twitching fingers, he opened his eyes,
Met with cheer, and emotional cries,
Holding his hand, were Robots restored,
Embracing each other, mechanical applause,
As Light beamed, from behind the seventh,
He spoke..........
"Welcome my son, to robotic heaven"
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
*and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
∞ = a-z....
the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
sell her tomatoes...
and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
pet a rat!*
and will i dicta villager simply,
qualm?!
you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
avocado fat ****
let us bravado a chin!
that double! half-wit quiff!
fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....
you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
i carve my name in lamb limbs...
so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
into basin...
for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to? ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
a warring tide...
there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc. as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
Time to grow up behave like an adult now get away with anything in twenties somehow
But now a year older that milestones been reached
30 years old time to join the scrapheap
Its better to be over the hill than under it how old are you now? not easy to admit
Not to worry though *** your not on your own
As im 30 too with me you can let go and moan
One step closer skidding towards the grave
Now knowing that its time you must behave
Looking forward to having wrinkles all around
And the sound of your ***** dragging on the ground
Coz gravity isn't kind to those past 30
Not believing anyone again will be flirty
Luckily enough there's Botox for the cracks and push up bras
And wheelchair access in motor cars
But don’t let it get you down , don’t feel blue
Because im right there aging more so than you.
Its now your day and time to celebrate
So have a happy birthday to you on this date.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
Kiss My…©
Morning people,
Those people up at the crack of dawn
With more energy than a ball of fire
All done up like they haven’t even slept
It is in those moments I want to say
Kiss my sass
Looking at them through my bleary eyes
Me feeling like something off a scrapheap
Their exuberance like a cup runneth over
Excitement exuding everywhere
It is in those moments I want to say
Kiss my sass
My rear glued to the bed
Unable to muster the motivation to get up
I listen to them espouse great plans for the day
Bubbling with sheer excitement
It is in those moments I want to say
Kiss my sass
We all have our place and so do they
I have to admit with some dismay
Andreas Simic©
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC
A great chasm gaping but no words are escaping and it feels like I'm skating on ice.
Nice though it may be each day comes to slay me as the morning breaks open my eyes.
It cuts through my skin as it finds a way in and I want to get out but cannot,that spot in the sky burns me down and I die into daylight once more.
I am trapped on the scrapheap where sleep is the answer and the question unset, is this moment in time where I get the unsettling feeling that my life is just peeling away,
the chasm spreads wide like the tide's going out and I find I can't swim but the day's already in and so it's going to be fine.
Then the wine flows like evening that goes on and on and the bottle once full is now gasping,
almost gone.
The ash of the day flusters slowly and gray and the night grasps me tight to her waist.
This tester,this taster of what will be later is enough for the hour of me,I see trees bare,unladen with care,I see them full with the blossoms of May and am blinded by beauty,
surely
sore and rocked by these cores which are central,essential and necessary to me where the elements line up and the squadron I see forms the form of all things
and the conclusion I come too is that all things will come true as each day I break out of breaks through into me.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
Tour of Duty©
I awaken from a fitful sleep
One where slumber was not very deep
The night before after counting many a sheep
My eyes closed and they did meet
A dream was had that made me sneep
You and I were there in a jeep
As I mentioned another tour you said nary a peep
But in your eyes I capture “what the bleep”
We both know the long stay at an outkeep
The enemy would be nearby and they are prone to creep
The sacrifice again would require a big leap
Is this a mistake or am I being wheep
Once again into our love my duty does seep
For a promise I knew I could not keep
Is the price for going to war really this cheap
The returns not guaranteed and the climb out steep
Or maybe we need to stop and make a clean sweep
And throw our relationship onto the scrapheap
Hearing those words make us both weep
For a promise I knew I could not keep
Andreas Simic©
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
my body has become a scrap heap
there is a black hole
where my organs used to be
pulling everything in,
my hands are built to destroy
so I break my own bones,
sharpen my vocal chords
to play the tune of destruction
we crack our own mirrors
because we like the
distorted, smiling face
broken parts
remind me I’m not whole any more
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
I woke up today
with the future upon me.
It pressed hard to my chest
in paralysis;
a hypnagogic sigh.
Other people pass by
as if the sun only shines for them.
They pester the street
with ease and no care;
I'm always questioning the sky.
The pain has returned,
and all the tears have dried.
There's nothing left in me
to pour your drinks, to smile;
to carry on with this lie.
Come together, he sings,
I think I'm in love, is his own reply.
All I have is the rhetorical romance
of art, never reaching completion;
the bonds I could never untie.
Cocoa butter is my solace,
returning the youth to my skin.
The rest of me is a scrapheap of flesh;
of knotted bones
and only stirring to die.
I'll fall asleep tonight
with no future upon me.
Old friends press memories
to my chest.
I hold them close, wish them well,
and for all that I can barely breathe,
I have no tears left to cry.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
You're
younger and fitter,
you ********
I'm bitter and
who wouldn't be?
If I am the ebb tide and you are the flow
where can I go
the scrapheap?
but what's the hurry
I may not like what I see
but
I see
and that's a luxury.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC