An Exegesis of Homophobia- Imprecation No.1

An Exegesis of Homophobia-

Imprecation No.1

i.

A childhood

on the boundary

of bush and lawn,

black and white,

where no dawn

soothed the night.

ii.

to be a lover

was to be

a fighter.

bookish,  nerdish

pacificist.

Limp wrists

of

Queensberry pugilists.

take

their

hands off

socks.

their

sweet

tongues

enticing cocks.

iii.

 ailing , you

blur faces

at the safety of the bar.

Upstairs you fall,

beloved,

following the rat piper.

Die young :

The  old  ritual call.

More pretty friends dead,

 pity

is all.

Glimmer

Glimmer

A moon strung across the hill

illuminates

mopoke tune

 as she

sings star

through my window sill

  Lanes  where

 silver eyes

 prance on weathered posts.

 There!

Prize

hosts.

Frog Song Tuned to a Plover

Frog Song Tuned to a Plover

aka Nature Lover

( For Anita)

Hawk hovers over olive

as kangaroos

 look bemused

on golf buggy

east

from creek and estuary

choked by daisy

Hawk hovers over olive

by water of shit, blood and piss.

squalling galah

raising crest

on dead tree

with mundanity

of pink and grey

preened display

Hawk hovers over olive

by water of shit, blood and piss.

trespassing cockatoos

litter pine cones

and the grey bulls

lull upwind

from Brahman

waiting butcher

by  water of shit, blood and piss.

more slink than a Zsa Zsa mink

He slunked more slink than a Zsa Zsa mink

Universal consciousness

developed schizophrenia.

 Long,

uneven song.

No sound

was really in the stare.

But it echoed

and echoed

my name,

there.

bodies count

Cupped breast

and alcohol.

 where she plies the waters of Lethe

with a broken speedometer.

 & a taste for  the velocity

he could have

 drunk in

dark dreams of distilled horror

there, only ghosts

stroke  my hair.

Eleanor The Night Ripper

sometimes as I cruise

the single pages

I get an overwhelming

condescending

feeling of sorrow

for the world.

non-scene and not herd 1

non-scene and not herd

fat fruit ripe for picking

the year of  rain

washes away songs

of lost pennies

as another summer comes

in  green

danced by dragonfly

on breezes filled with bird call.

the night  sneaks through a narrow temporal

and physical gap

alights atop the curtain

watches the swirling sounds

of car and winds

down valley

-the spell of public laundering closes with a pleasant outcome where upon we eat oyster croquettes and curry while flirting unselfishly-

I paint what I don’t see,

in words I don’t , nor would.

deer graze in the grey sea.

dolphin frolic  through green wood.

 these tales

 the river bore

with

suspicion to Mr  Toad’s

grander door.

a flower it was

a flower it will

 a man in repose

I suppose ?

by  a window, still.

a man

of silk

a man of fine

mr toad

makes him gift.

bud to bud

light refracts from glass

imitative of

sunlit web
on pink peach
bud to bud
bee 
beneath a slice of sky
too bright for word's camera

boring cynicism

couldn't decide between giving my nephew a sailboat in a bottle or the advice that 99% of humanity are shite, the sailboat went down well

poetry is prose for people

poetry is prose for people who like a few pieces missing from their jigsaw puzzles.

 spurious addendums to bokonism, 22^nd ed. @emptycage.com

sunset

sunset on bird nest brain
as
dappled tree
of many voice
just

past brillig
sings laughter
through scurries
and moment's
leaves.