manic
ideas cannon. billiard balls on yellow baize .
cracking off consequence all energy imparted
reordering opening new ends and opportunities -
a game of angle and motion over hidden slate.
creativity displayed in those dizzying plays
when lethargy is a memory long departed
urges to shop, no fear, future or immunities
as exclamations leap forth too early and late,
hunting achievement and extravagant praise
risks are chanced and taken without care,
the folly hurts, the cycle back where it started
as cold grey stone shows through the tear.
We are running out of retro
coming up short on the past
mullet, spike, wedge and 'fro
are going by so fast
twist, hiphop, disco, jiving
hoop, bubble, mini, thong
a retro future's arriving
and it can't be long
so much for outdated fears
acid wash, stretch, slim, flare
if we run out of fashion ideas
will anyone care?
it's a bird, get it. No get it, the bird. She walks so wonderfully that wonderly. What a bird. To think they almost had it in Istanbul, but, hah, she flew the coop and ever since there has been lies, damn lies flying by and, oh, her wondrous statistics. Are you on the scent, my heaven sent; the eau de cairo and her sharp stammering fragrance of fear. more dove than falcon, my maltese. Who is telling the truth and who cares? can you smell the truth at night? I want the wonder bird, the swoop of prey with a heart of gold. You see her briefly, in for the kill at full speed and then all greed: her down an alley, in the office, alone or waiting for the fatman and the kid. I have to move fast but she's quicker still. Nothing is as solid as it should be. And when it all comes to an end, partner, you are left wanting; you leave her fast. It's over all alone; over in a flash. All because of an ordinary lump of lead in the heart.
By goes time as...
The beginning of a beautiful friendship.
When the plane arrives from the fog,
we meet at the airport.
I take back the exit visas,
because you plead to stay,
choosing me over
the stern face of a hero
who leaves before he spoils
our intimate world.
By goes time as we sit at the piano
talking about our future.
You back out of the gin joint,
but we meet again in paris.
German tourists wear grey.
You are in blue,
and we, the usual suspects,
are rounded up in love.
La Dolce Vita
la dolce vita
my hands roam over your body, bella. rome like the
trevi fountain. wet tumbling from a divine gown and i watch. all hands, jet black, no penny. penny once announced "i may be a dag but i'm a happy dag" and that's me delirious and raving as your dress comes off. a cascade of fountains. la dolce vita, splashes and you stripping slowly under a fur. a sluice of fur for inquisitive hands to explore. fur that hides new rushes and roaming. a waist,
a vespa, italian for wasp. i whisper to you of the fountain,
falling water and the love i bring, words splashing into the room. the thunder of hearts and the buzz of a vespa. an eddy of daggy words too mad to stay silent, happily spoken now. never again to be sheathed, but oh, the sting of your eager skin. a flash, paparazzo, another flash and I spring there, roman, besides your bedazzling, flash, white skin. we speak across the river, an acqueduct, bella, ends in a fountain of
la dolce vita. the good life is sometimes sweet.
my first effort at a prose poem and one of my favourite films
