trying to be normal
making plans for holiday(s)
not a holy day
but gawd all mighty what a toll
it takes
the sky to fly
the home away from home
the road less taken in a car
of dubious making
the choosing of the date and then
the moulding of the cake
trillions of web browser tabs
of my choosing
and in the end
the lingering doubts
that maybe this time
will be no different,
a last minute cancellation
making these
stressful times
a wasted
effort
I do not like planning much
thinking ahead of what might be fun
doing
doing
doing sweet FA
is what I like
doing
doing
doing zilch
and thus you brand me
a boring
fuck
I no longer
answer the phone
though I sometime get up
just to check
the likelihood
the caller
wanting
me
There were things…
… no, there are things …
… of less, or more, importance than …
… the … … …
(definitive article always throws me)
… the the … vs. the a …
… without hindsight … is …
… a struggle … maybe the struggle …
… mankind suffers … over less …
… I struggle .. a the vs. the a …
… Bond on TV … IT IS IN FRENCH …
… WITHOUT … without … i.e not there …
… a subtitle to help / the subtitle could help …
… Je ne parle pas français !!!! …
… yet the a and the the …
… continue … to … enchant …
… these inept …
… rambling …
… at 32C and …
… counting …
Your words; naked
You; draped in black cloth
Your words; naked
You; with scythe swinging short
Your words; naked
You; taking that was not
Your words; naked
You; perish into dust
Once upon a Spanner
The history repeats
We do again the things we did
When youth we were and did believe
Once upon an Inn
The history defeats
You do again the things you did
When youth you were and dreamed if it
Once upon a Works
The history goes chirp
They wonder not of that which was
When youth they were and comfort lost
Once upon a better world
History became the hurdle
We, You, They and the rest
No longer pondered youth
nor pleasures
It smells like home,
a cinnamon bun,
never overdone,
just right – spunge
With sugar on top,
special sweet crop,
cold milk tumbler,
the matching – stunning
It smells like home,
the wanting strong,
the cooking erring,
still longing for – home
There were no dreams; growing up
I was the leaf; blown about by
an autumn wind; drifting free
yet shackled; restrictions imposed
unknowingly hampering
the dreaming; the purpose
of all
The day I stopped living
(*)(*)֦
~~
The day I stopped living
now faded
beyond memory
fragmented
horrors
stirring
The day I stopped living
the ghost came down
the attic clown
in clogs
slowly turning
mirrors cracking
my waltzing Matilda
a dutchess
in dreaming
The day I stopped living
I toppled
stirring
frowning down the
piper of Maris —
burning
The only form poetry I write
is one that fits the pockets
of a wood —
overcoat
