As The Children Knelt To Pray



Did you die today my brother

are you ghostly in your dreams

father, sister, uncle, mother

carve your name upon my screams,

let your blood unfold tomorrow

where my death can never walk

in the wretchedness of sorrow

'neath the whisper of a hawk,

is the sky my soul confounded

by the ashes of today

where the roar of death resounded

as the children knelt to pray,

do they care, my sister, brother

do they care that you are gone

are they seeking for another

in the tombs of Babylon,

tell me Guernica is ended

tell the world you truly cared

tell your conscience you pretended

tell my mother I was scared.






Wanton Satellite 




He tempteth me and beggars me to write

of plaintive things that will not let me fly;

come climb aboard my wanton satellite.


I am the shadow giving birth to night

a Hanso bludgeoned cosmic Samurai;

he tempteth me and beggars me to write.


Is tragedy not umbra turning white

or yet a poet made to ossify;

come climb aboard my wanton satellite.


My birth was from a Chimera in flight

my death will be a starlit termini;

he tempteth me and beggars me to write.


The moon is only tethered to my kite

by motives that enchain my stimuli;

come climb aboard my wanton satellite.


My quill is dipped in blue black dynamite

exploding without need to justify;

he tempteth me and beggars me to write

come climb aboard my wanton satellite.



Synthetic Poetry Of A Psychedelic Mind


Let my dreams be misanthropic anecdotes

seven pulsars 'neath the dying of the moon;

show me silver wrapped in flouncy petticoats

I will show you death in portraits of maroon.

Let me fly in lesser moments of cerise

falling upwards to those places non can reach

place my eyes as some demonic centerpiece

on transparent prayers of printed microfiche.

Is the world not apparitions of the mind

rainbow dreamt as some distraught monstrosity,

as the future meets the concepts of the blind

painting vacuums of intense velocity.

Psychedelic is what was or never shall

be condoned as some occluded rationale.

Shooting Arrows At The Moon


Mesozoic in a sacrilegious way

is just nonsense that I wrote because I could,

not for me the tralatitious - Summer's day;

so alas, I will remain misunderstood.

Is a poet not their own worst reverie,

dreaming words that bring them compliments and praise ?

Like a sonnet from a golden coterie,

where the arrow seeks the moon, to coin a phrase.

Should I wear a coat of white inside my cell

where the bars are thoughts and walls are metaphors,

should I wear another's name on my lapel

so they will not know who spurned polite applause?

Let me quote ' Of rage and rage and death and light '

How I envy those with talent born to write.

Tie Me To A KIte

If poltergeists were spiders

and ghosts were kangaroos

would I be like Obama

in Democratic shoes,

if so then I'm an aphid

who once met Santa Claus;

excuse me for a moment

I'm waiting for applause,

if elves were made of rhubarb

and fairies made of jam

would I be made of custard

or twice the man I am,

if someone wrote a poem

on twitter as a tweet

would I be liked on facebook

by everyone I meet,

I haven't got an ending

so tie me to a kite

then fly my poem backwards

to where it was last night.

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