A selection of pieces in progress

When is this going to stop, this giving beyond our means,
it will lead to unpleasant scenes,
on and off our tv screens,
if we do not retain and rain in this irresponsible sharing,
this devil may care sparing,
this gross decline in standards of propriety,
weaving such a dense fabric of society,
we will not be a able to see our selves from the trees
of mutual needs and shared responsibilities,
please I beg you please keep what is yours to yourself,
to share is to devalue the wealth; what we have is not ours,
spread between us value looses its powers
of persuasion, of concentration, of the mitigation
of a circumstance that has the myth of chance used to entrance,

———————–

An interrupting sky held her eye, while stitches were unpicked and memories were licked, to the wrenching wenching bone she’d rode to reveal, the pleasure to unpeel, skin; the treasure to unfeel, sin; Oh, what a joyful glint unshod the shoes from her lids, chased the don’t s and dos that forbids: Oh, the wrestling rustling of being unwrapped, the nestling muscling of being unmapped. “Are feeling you alright Granny?”

————————————

 

The ideology of supply and demand

is that some kind of slight of hand,

The more there is of some thing the less it is worth, is an illusion,

a dubious conclusion,

based on the notion,

that circulation has to be the motion,

 

The more there is of something the more value it has,

because there is more to go around,

to share, and more needs can be found,

 

Gold and diamonds are nearly worthless,

there is so little to go around,

 

—————————–

 

How chaffed can you get

The thieves in the night, sockless,

Ankles red raw,

Salt stained shoes from the shore,

Visited the homes of their celebrating rescuers.

 

————————–

 

If we are what we eat, then what does an empty stomach make us,

swallow our pride?

 

———————————————

 

Scented caressed tones

softly sung

Through a mouth that

bees have stung

Notes o’loved honey spread over

an open sore

Echo and echo more and

more

Sweet vibrating sound, heard

by the lie

That, ‘absence is an alibi’

———————————–

Pulp Fact.

The lurid light spilt its seed on the page,

The words recoiled with rage, into rhymes that shamed the sight,

that spent that light, to see,

tiny French elves crying to wet the words,

to wet the words,

to wet the words,

Papier-mâché, Papier-mâché,

 

——————————-

 

Polluting, is not the equivalent of looting,

our children’s children’s future,

Not the equivalent of a riot,

no, its very quiet,

 

———————————–

 

It was a rush of blood, a flood,

A vein attempt, in contempt

of courting etiquette

A kiss to soon is like a bridge to far,

Like a bumble bee needing a pee

in a shaken jam jar,

Some one is going to get their feet wet.

—————————————————————

 

Scratch and smell

The blind retired money trader had a hundred dogs trained,

When wet with pond water and petrol,

To rub their heavy bodies against the grass,

round and around her garden seat,

Despite the embedded glass,

And there she would recline amid the symphony of sound and smells,

And the dogs yelped, ‘what a shame she doesn’t smoke, what a shame she doesn’t smoke, what a shame she doesn’t smoke’.

 

—————————————-

 

Money is dead long live the poor,

 

————————————

 

Funny smell to forget,

Ring bells of regret,

set his teeth on edge,

to taste and to dredge,

the loveless pledge, that bound his heart like a foot,

with or without odour eaters, Madam, Sir?

 

—————–

 

I found a twenty pound note the other day,

and wondered, whether it had found me,

I put it back on the path and wondered off,

I hope that road wasn’t covered by cctv,

maybe it could follow me,

————-

She ate an apple as if I wasn’t there,

She ran the bath as if she didn’t care,

She’s often seen in the strangest of places,

Gathering moss on unfastened laces.

She ran the bath as if she didn’t care,

She ate an apple as if it was a pair,

Gathering moss on unfastened laces,

She says liquorish to people’s faces,

She ate an apple as if it was a pair,

She swallowed my love like hair,

She says liquorish to people’s faces,

She mimics mumblers traces,

She swallowed my love like hair,

Anger simpers with her unraveled stare,

She mimics mumblers traces,

She is forgotten places,

Anger simpers with her unraveled stare,

She ate an apple as if I wasn’t there,

She is forgotten places,

She’s often seen in the strangest of places,

————————-

Nothing stood still, there was ice cream in the air, falling.

Two mouths copied two pairs of widening eyes,

Stringing hands spread cloth over boned fresh and blooded,

Mourning stretched to the horizon like an endless splintered stare,

the breathes that could be taken so longed to be given,

for those wrapped there. What time was hovering in the streets, in the work places and homes?

Dripping wax like.

Seep seep seep shallow grave the deep.

Prune eyes on stalks, take food of forks and

If time hovered like birds hover there would be time for an answer to that question.

You can try and make it hover with a question, try and take a picture of it with a question.

But you can’t make something in to a picture, you can only take a picture of it.

———————————-

2 thoughts on “A selection of pieces in progress

  1. Polluting is not like looting – good one!

    ANOTHER BRICK

    Cynically smirking:
    The teacher’s way of working
    a child to a lather,
    Revenge denied by power

  2. The ideology of supply and demand – plays a nice twist, showing how value depends on how you want to view it. A Saharawi refugee said to me last week that someone can have two houses and three cars and all those things, but they will die just the same as me, and will their life have more value than mine?

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