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By -

Dulcius ex Asperis.

Maybe Death comes knocking
when Time has left you behind,
when all hope is gathered
in a pile
awaiting E10 climate-saving petrol
to infuse
and succumb to the Eternal Fire,
if ever a light or spark be found…

or

maybe Death comes
looking for the low hanging fruit
left as Time withered and waned,
unknowingly pilfering the last truth
known to man: a fruit – any fruit
tastes sweeter when picked;
Death knows only bitter ends
to birth, life, and our ultimate
sacrifice: like fruit, our decay
is not remembered, no struggle
or sweet moment recorded
for prosperity, we leave nothing,
heading towards nothing,
no sweet dreams after the struggle:
Death’s an empty bowl of soup,
life without ladle, spoon, or hope.

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By - 
A Nut
Sorry but my head don’t rhyme
exposing oddities like 
my words that aren’t poems
rhyme either not does,
and 
as evident 
the characters lined up 
fail to say anything using 
established literary techniques; so
in a nutshell (not a metaphor) there
is a nut.

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By -

A

“So what’s her verdict this time?” A said. “Any fanciful new insights into your stagnating life? Anything worth repeating I mean.”
I was barely through the frontdoor and here she was again, poking and prodding; she should know better, after all she’s the one forcing me to go.
“Well … yes.” I said. “ … she had one insight … relating to my dreams…”
“So? Spill it.” A said.
“Something … about expiry dates …” I said. Better to be vague; ragged and baggy eyes, she could do with a few more hours of sleep.
“That’s it? Is that what I’m paying for?” A said. “Should we switch to another one? A male perhaps?”
“Definetely not.” I said. “You know me and men, doesn’t really work now does it.”
“No, sorry, I forgot.” A said. “I’ll grind another bash of black beans for a brew, then we’ll sit for a chat.”
Oh great, another sitting down, digging deeper into the life of …

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By - 
Age is just Time on steroids, 
a Meter unable to count 
the lawful circumference
of fifteen point nine one
five five times 
a pie too desired 
to consider. 

Age is just a Meter stretching,
just Time gone awry.

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By -

K

Her movements always turned subtler just before delivering one of her thoughtful insights, but the twitch of her head, the carefully suppressed cough meant I was never caught off guard.
“The problem, as I see it,“ K said “is that your dreams have no expiration date.“

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By - 
The Nobel Prize in Poor Judgement
If there was a Nobel prize in poor judgement I would win, hands down I would and claim it with my record as evince, signed and sealed by the magistrates of fate. 

I have no defense, no means to fake my failing flaws, hereditary in nature yet I did not see this coming, did not anticipate rust where no iron could be present; where love came knocking like a vacuum cleaner salesman on a Friday just after lunch. 

Yet I refuse to give up, refuse to give in to the promised land, the green grass and swelling seas beneath the permanently present sky in all hues of blue. 

If there was a Nobel prize in poor judgement, I would win. I would thank them for their judgement, being a being of poor judgement, what else could I do.

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By - 
Lies Intertwined
I intertwined the lies
the spoken and the heard 
with lies soon unearthed,

I formed a plait
wore a short skirt 
and painted lips,

I danced your night away
saw the last coil straighten
and a man slowly reverting,

I let it loose
let it fly
and left my sign,

I unpacked and embraced
your final muffled words
behind the plastic mask,

I dyed it blue
my innocence
in a kiss,

I danced alone that night
along the river of dreams
atop your shallow barrow,

I stopped
and turned
to remember,

to greet a stranger’s smile 
with a twirl and a bow
is a lie worth pursuing.

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By - 
creaking in a blessed night,
wickerwork and cold shower
taps; they made another,
an other spawned from darkness 
of night – and of minds 
creaking.

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By - 
incomprehensible: her words of love
and loving and living in a moment,
he found in there no understanding 
of the magic they shared; words
so eloquently painted 
on a canvas of divinity, of light
where he could only see a moment 
fleeting, a lover fleeing and in love
the ultimate betrayal.

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By - 
no one shares him, no one will
carry forth his stories: the facets
of an unpolished rock
slowly disappearing 
slowly becoming
a desert devoid of mirages.
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