The stream (all workshops)
The empath is victim of her own submission
she will go hungry with your hunger
and she will feed in the ocean of your despair,
her ribs will be your ribs; your agony, hers.
She will burn with your matches and
your heat-seeking missiles in the loneliness
of your hut where you have hidden yourself
in the blindness of your heart. She will war
with your peace until you have laid down all
your weapons, until you have lain in her arms,
embraced like a prodigal child. Like the return
of a lover after the third world war.
Assonance
When sober Booze Hound is sound, yes he is solid
down to earth he is a bloke whose thoughts are coherent.
Thoughts are well founded and down right consistent
Consonance
Mad bad and low down
danger hides deep in the depths
Of his dirty debauched soul
Sadly
sadly time never lies
when love sprouts then dies
in thorny hearts
sadly truths gets hidden
when deceit takes root
in dishonest words
sadly life gets rougher
going gets tougher
when faces turn their back on you
be true to self
when a fall is shameful
stand tall walk in integrity
my baby at my side
these worn boots with dust
and sheeps dung
the satchels of old soviet
issue rounds
dust like thoughts to
the earth grind in dreams
upon the teeth and
irritate machinery
tobacco is a sin
unlike the killing
that is accepted by
gods desire
starlight is our night scope
and landcruisers are our
camels
Toyotas with thin skins
easy to feed
and run
no armour plate
and hollow as a drum
HUNGER
no bread to feed
my hunger
no drink to quench
my thirst
a spirit left to its death
scattered pieces of a soul
lost in one breath
my heart beats
a rhythm almost to still.
yet by some magic
or holy thing within
my will gives birth
to a light
bright enough
to endure this earth
and feed the peace
I hunger
Do not propose to understand
what lives within these walls
Our lives are as individual as we
What came before ,just may be more
Then one can understand
The present and the future days
will find us going separate ways
Living the best we can
Neither I nor you are here to judge
what a person may feel inside
The outer image that we see
May not be true to life
If poetry is the bread, what is the butter?
It gets succinct after that, that first reading
and you're left with an unconscious reflex.
(You want, you ache begrudgingly but never trivially.)
She feeds you lines as if she were your slave
but she's a headhunter eating your
brains for breakfast and your soul for dinner.
He's the master of disguise and you are devoted
with purpose--to love his real face.
Words often can fail
but I try, anyway.
The verbs wrap around
a particular noun,
and adjectives help them stay;
causing images to move, and sway.
Before your very eyes
I'm hoping that I write,
will an image, send
concerning my friend,
the woman known as Twilight;
who toils throughout the night.
Summer, in the desert
owns a suffocating heat,
dispatching out
enough self-doubt,
to squelch attempting any feat;
including walking on the street.
When we were children
We knew nothing of this planet
In the wood we’d build our dens
Play war games with our plastic guns
And cowboys and Indians
Then I’d be the Lone Ranger
Or Roy Rogers with Trigger,
Sledging in the winter
Swimming naked in the lake
In the heat of summer
Playing doctors and nurses
With the girl next door
We had no idea what to expect
The world was an adventure
A great big planet
Waiting to be explored
Yet, now we are grown, we find
Life did not fulfil its promises
if you have never defiled anyone's couch
you're not an angry moving man
the twenty-dollar tip running from your nose
heavy refrigerators you couldn't lift
in the crook of your back
the cast iron sarcasm of chipped porcelain
paydays missing you on those windy days
like runaways laughing, blown into a thousand tight spaces
with calloused hands
going from place to place they leave you
another empty room
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