Slightly Disturbed Cabaret 


                               

          



Can't get the rhythm quite right

head like a crushed satellite,

mind doing free fall through gray

slightly disturbed cabaret,

melting at twelve Fahrenheit

 

Trying well into the night

can't get the rhythm quite right,

feet that can't tap are a waste

change them with copy and paste

dance like a dead parasite.

 

Poets are shadows in chains

slightly bemused hurricanes,

can't get the rhythm quite quite

soak it in spiced dynamite,

drip feed it into your veins.

 

Words often travel in pairs

flustered when anyone stares,

not in the least erudite

can't get the rhythm quite right,

sad fact is nobody cares.

 

Stress is a broken stringed kite

clutching at clouds in its flight,

iambs are trochees on speed

Shakespeare in shame once agreed

can't get the rhythm quite right.

 

Can't get the rhythm quite right

head like a crashed satellite,

mind doing free fall through gray

slightly disturbed cabaret,

melting at twelve Fahrenheit.



 


Contemplating Parakeets




                    



I'm kicking cans on city streets

while contemplating parakeets

my mind is strange, it works that way

each thought just seems to ricochet

between absurd and sensible

which I find reprehensible

and though I've tried to switch it round

my mind is like a battleground

where oceans surge as waves are tossed

and every thought is sadly lost    

except at night when all is still

and some dejected whippoorwill

is making sounds I can't explain

that crash against my windowpane

and so I sleep between the sheets

while contemplating parakeets.





 

Poetry - According To The Spider



                 



' Write ugly ' said the spider

' Write uglier than me

let blood define emotion

through death and poetry '

 

' Be brutal ' said the spider

' Embrace ferocity

let words enrich your malice

with animosity '

 

' Be callous ' said the spider

' ignore the begging plea

rejoice in all things worthless

and inhumanity 





Poetists






And so they gather ..... poetists,

in swirling rains and ghostly mists,

their words are sharp, their thoughts cuspate

in breathless hush the world will wait,

some delve in rhyme, some fly quite free

then sadly ......there is little me

who butcher's words until they bleed

whose rhymes are often fricaseed,

whose meter lacks what meter is

it lacks that sparkle, lacks that fizz,

it's known the Bard once said of me

don't let that fool touch poetry,

and with a sigh he soundly slept

while Wordsworth, Keats and Poe all wept,

I'll leave you now, I'll be just fine

and this will be my final line ............

......  There was a young man from Nantucket.



 


A Folded Sonnet






I wrote a folded sonnet in a room that wasn't there

while other poets watched me with an apathetic stare,

they judged my words as vacuous, incautious and jejune

but I felt altruistic so I handed them the moon;

no, no, they cried, this cannot be, your ghost was never sane

it swirls as though a feather in a savage hurricane,

has love become the fall out from your wanton satellite

there is no rhyme or reason to this indolence you write;

I lay there fully conscious of the smoke and caviar

and cut the strings of verity from this sad repertoire,

the poem stumbled drunkenly through absinthe residue

and closed the door inside the room that no one ever knew.

 

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