describe to me the setting sea against the tidal suns
tell me bitter lies of why it is how you used to be
and how again it was no pain for wave to break
shore leave fantasy incredible relations between
***** muck cracked claws on diamond webbings
sin first to be last to win thirst against troubled
these times are horrid ticks against the nature
of the beast of the man un nat ural ural ural the sea
it'll be better, he said he said to me once on a sunday
hell is plane that ever plain never lands upon the shores
never leaves absent mothers mothered bothered by
and never never never ever always contradicts
by nature it is it is unatural unnatured beast of wild
a forsaken tool to best be bit by other claim in sin
the thirst is taken by the moon, a tidal blood
in throat the catchings diamond webs of spiricals
of the sunday bishop movements, ever always after
before before the time it was again begun
and and in somewhat strange obtuse pear trees
strange fruit from cocoons hatched sideways
until pear time fruitlets dropped in spheres
into the open casket boiling cracking crab like muck
of breaking waves in boiling oceans, horrid licks
you find you dunce that chasing shadows much like days
pass far too quick to grasp the nettle and be stung
and be thirsty for a placement upon the mantle up
where higher drownings laugh all about the smoke
all in shade of biscuit trees all in fade of tin echoes
empty Christmas biscuit tins sound like themselves
the hollow noise of prophecy against september
again the bland misunderstandings recalled
no pain, never ever always was in hell in heaven peace
that breaks the ocean belts the cliffs produces shame
in fingertips in felt like cat skin rugs and wigs cat hair
counterparts to breeze it is the summer storms the
bleak monsoons of rain that's ****** from mothers ****
that seen to rise in single breath of sky and fall in
grey obtuse sleets to earth made sea made mirrored sky
sage test by broken widowed insect feelers pert to thunder
hunger by the hundred lightening strikes to mass in
bleak grey ember skies, silent spiracles of sun in
shade take refuse out from heap and pile again
beneath the skins of elder hills of somewhat tainted
trousers made up of younger weeds and roots and
****** thirsting up against the garage door that opens
fast too quick too soon too much and **** dirt up
again ever never after seeing hell far too often break
up break up and smile that ocean going smile
wave goodbye with breaking helm with crack of pearls
and peal of thunder late reminder of the blinding
light against the grey now november skies
again, again, it ever never is always maybe somewhat
breaking on the steps on the path away towards
under bleak stained crab carcass shores away towards

Describe my imperfections,
In a trained diabolical voice,
Fill in the cracks on my skin,
With tender blessed nuzzles,
Search for all the scars,
& make them tell tales,
Of me being the intermediary,
Of the constant battles,
Of angels & neighborhood demons,
Siphon blood from my veins,
Make a libation then taste,
Then tell me if it's pure,
I know I have flaws,
I don't have habits,
I have deviations,
My bones are rusting,
I have spiracles on my spinal column,
To breath the breath of the sages,
and my teeth fear the tongue,
So the wording is usually prolific,
I have hieroglyphs on my chin,
Because it's shaped like a pyramid,
My poems are imperfect,
My word-crafting is iRreGular,
Now change me if you can.

My drum has perforations; now flawed
Mylar parchment once taut on bone
Leaks prose; but each metaphor pored
Percussive skull reverbs teeming tome

Waning instrument yet waxing lyrical
Tympanic threepenny opera still plays
Snare split - verbose ****** spiracles
Whip quick flick of offal; tongue flays

Well weathered but - oh still sensual
Drum bongo crammed with lyrics learned
Skin leathered; worn – still beautiful
Spills tales – well told – well earned  

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)

Said nettle to butterfly, 'welcome back!'
'i remember you when you were black,
bushy and wrinkled, fat and hairy!
hardly a month since last you fed on me!'

'bushy and fat? don't be ridiculous!'
snorted Painted Lady of colouring meticulous,
'but what can one expect of insolence infamous,
just like your hairs, pointy and venomous!'

'don't be so hoity, my young lady',
hummed Urtica dioica, 'I'm not so shady',
'you, on the other hand, have changed your look,
you're like a chameleon or shifty crook!'

'Don't nettle me', said m'lady blushing,
'i'll not be accused of guile or bluffing,
it's you that ought to be of yerself ashamed,
hiding burning-needles in hairs untamed!'

'Each to their own', shrugged the burn-****,
'Don't ask anyone to touch me Harris tweed,
but i'm here for you, to meet your need,
i give you food, I help you breed'.

The butterfly appeared though not to hear,
Engrossed with the nettle's front 'n rear,
Her abdomen bent, spiracles as bow,
She laid her young children, her seed to grow.

'It's not too late, my little young'un,
a little courtesy and manners to learn,
be nice to he who gives you good turn,
'cos it's your eggs i do discern

on underside of my green leaves,
the least you can do is say "how d'you do"',
but butterfly had gone, as succulent beeves
to little brown wren, in beak as he flew.