So now I must start with a line that’s off kilter,

setting the tone for a poem with no filter.

I must admit I did like your verse-

a beatific Bentley to my poetical hearse 

that rears down side streets, coffin akimbo

with words flying all ways, in a lyrical limbo.

Quick, close the window, we’ve just lost a leg,

I thought you told me that this corpse was dead.

But shit! A red light word count- I’m being forced to stop

by the Brothers Grim reaper who’s given me the cho….

 

There I was, knocked out, KO’d-

facing the jaws of death,

yet even in my hour of need

I was hit by his acrid breath.

 

I said, ‘hey death, what’s with that?

You’re cramping my pearly gates-

here have yourself some Listerine

you know it’s never too late.’

 

Well death, he says ‘How blessed am I-

been searching since 1254…

Is there a way to ever repay you?

Another ten years? Or more?’

 

I said, ‘nah, you’re alright Death-

life’s just plague and misery

and as for the Listerine…

It was buy one get one free!.’

 

Can you see me?

I came here in my mother’s mother’s womb warm walls.

Been here long enought to call it my own, my home-

where the orange blossoms of tomorrow

call California today. No

Dust Bowl blues bound Oakie

on the road to lost wanderlust,

or condoms and needles lining the cathederal forest floor

gonna flip this bitch- I ain’t for turning back.

 

Give me Ms Liberty, scales and all

and I’ll make her stand tall and proud again. I’ll

give her a face and eyes this time-

hands for doing. Sunset Boulevard

may be littered with stars, but

I am real and here and now and

full of wine turning back to water

and the promise of a million other untold miracles.

 
Here I am stranded in the mare,
a couple of centuries from anywhere
dancing with the times and Fred Astaire.
I could be in Ibiza- but I don’t care,
this place ain’t fun… or fair.
Lets go Wales watching… it’s still there.
Should have liberated here not Iraq, under Tony Blair!
All I can do is stare
at the ghost of Christmas past who’s lost his hair.
All my sins have been laid bare-
we all have our own town shaped cross to bear!
Some people call it a recurring nightmare,
I call it- Wester Super Mare!

 

Let me paint you a picture…

A farm house full of harvest gypsies,

a French frame of mind.

Half haven, half half-way house

to a right race of ravers

on ‘three strikes you’re out’

 

I abandoned my assertions- ‘I don’t think I’ll drink’

As the boudoir was transformed

from French new age Zen, to opium den

in a blink.

Before you could say

’Vouz papiers monsieur, s’il vous plait’

we submitted to folly and fumes,

were consumed in a haze of days,

assumed the role of lost coins down a hole!

What year is it anyway?

 

Even the donkeys wheeze

as they whisper ‘hedonism’ to me,

then turn away in silent disdain

as the bottles mount and the money drains.

 

Drum and bass- the basis of this race

like an omnipresent present from the creator of time and space,

providing a life-blood, as we harvested life from the ground

dancing with decadence as if no humans were left around.

 

A festival of the senses,

Of love and life endlessly spiraling through

until….

 

Until cold, steal way ground

and ice on the window sills

 

Until autumn leaves, all crimson in the green

and the winds alpine embrace.

 

Until the days end before they begin…

 

I had a feeling

that became a thought

that became me.

Forever caught between the future and the past,

present in theory and not practice.

I asked for a path, a route to take,

with each road an endless unknown-

my choice to make,

as I lay awake

in the doubtful, dubious, dawn

of the unwarned hidden side of hedonism.

 

‘The Monloguer’ logs his monosyllabic syllables

into captive audiences’ eardrums.

You can’t get a word in edgeways,

straightways, sideways, backwards, during, after or before.

It’s his role in life- to peruse the ear,

to filter, caress, batter, penetrate until you can no longer hear!

Until his words lose all meaning.

And then he steps up a gear….

 

Men get up mid flow- go to shower.

Stay there an hour-come back

and he’s still at it

in a perpetual, torrential torment of the tongue.

 

The art of the conversation is dead and gone!

Long live the monologue!

 

‘Uh uh…. Yeah.

Oh really?

I see, ok, yep, that’s good.

That must have been…’

 

Cuts you off mid-sentence-

he’s not finished yet!

He’s getting to the part in his life story

where he’s reeling of regrets…

‘I never told her that I loved her

then she died in an explosion’

‘Oh really?’ I retort,

‘Are you sure it wasn’t a case of

traumatic audio erosion?’

 

Yes I know you’re lonely

and yes I know you’re sad

but fifteen minutes in your company

makes me feel as bad

I wish for you the best

in whatever you may do

but give your mouth a rest

and give my ears one too.

 

You are a world record holder

for wasted words within a minute

and with the minutes that you while away

the clock tick tocks on to another day.

I’ve aged about a decade since you began,

lost weight around the waist-

became an absurdist stranger

disconnected from the human race.

 

But I see a way back….

My teeth and tongue have made a pact,

a gentleman’s agreement that

if they ever get used again

they’ll go on the attack

They’ll make up for lost time

in a Warsaw-esque agreement-

it’ll be a verbal blitzkrieg

with no searching for appeasement.

I’ll dominate proceedings,

dictate every conversation

like American foreign policy

regarding every other nation.

 

I’ll become ‘The Monloguer 2.0’

the return of the King

take over his mantle

and enter in!

 

I’ll love you by moonlight

the mirror sun still burning bright

lit between the leaves and the sheets

creating worlds we can only dream of.

A stranger’s touch that fits like a glove,

we can be young here and brave

together, dancing our way to the grave.

I’ll love you by moonlight.

 

Muscle memory, the old routine,
the armchair that we helped you buy
now permanently in recline.
I keep reaching out for you through the week-
through the suddenly empty evenings, that once
might have made me feel free.
Now I have to walk off the urge to see you
around six o’clock- you gave me that time of day
when you paid £11.50 for me to make you laugh.
A lifeline that I could call a friend.
O’ old eyebrows- I wish you could see,
If you were still here I’d do it for free.

 

People who drink cocktails have better stories,

Good things come to those who wait,

Don’t hesitate- phone now

We fight any claim.

Every little helps,

It’s in the game-

How do you eat yours?

 

Tired of being tired?

I have nothing to lose and perhaps a lot to gain.

The future’s bright, the future’s orange, the future’s now

It’s a game of two halves-

Just do it!

 

Kills germs dead!

Live well for less,

Be the best

Love the skin you’re in-

Because you’re worth it

Simples!

 

Good with food

Life’s for sharing

8 out of 10 cats prefer it

It’s not Terry’s its mine

Love sex!

 

Kids and grown ups love them so, the happy world of

Creative technology-

It gives you wings.

Priceless, there are somethings money can’t buy, for everything else there’s

The power of dreams

Someone’s knocking at your door-

This changes water!

 

Washing machine live longer with

A sprinkling of fairy dust and you can do anything!

Here today, here tomorrow, 

Let’s beat cancer together!

You either love it or you hate it…

Kick it out!

Fair play!

 

Eat more chips!

Tell more lies!

When the fun stops- stop!