Burning coal black gold
Sleeping in the afternoon.
Eyes shut, streaming with light,
Eyelids closed against the glare,
The rotating blades drag their wings,
Chopping the swollen air,
Cutting strips of heavy heat
That unravel gracefully spiralling
Down on the supine form
(on the body on the bed),
sweat beads glisten and roll down,
breath hot moist the pillow heat,
the light turns white to yellow to orange
as the clock hands creep toward six.
Waking up is hell, the head swims groggily,
The mouth coated with bitter slime,
Eyes water down the stored up heat.
Bloody Sunday afternoon.
PIECE OF DIRT
It lays lightly, covering your skin,
A grey coat greasing clingily clad.
Drag a finger along the skin
Like furrowing a fertile land,
The straight black line forms
And thickens under the fingernail,
Flick it with the sturdy thumb,
Out comes a beautiful crescent moon.
There’s beauty even in the black grime
That touches but a tender eye,
Look and observe, and you will penetrate
The secret of the creation of the gods,
That there’s beauty even in a piece of dirt.
Swollen eyelids shutter down every
Six and a half seconds
(droning voices all around).
The dragging pen scratches forlornly,
Wandering away from the steely lines,
To be brought back to place with a jerk.
The top of the head separates and swims
Upward and away, slowly,
While the droopy eyes watch,
And slowly settles down again.
The head then nods losing its
Centre of gravity, strains the neck
Threatening to snap.
It grows like a Jurassic baby,
Heavy and ponderous, has a
Magnetic attraction towards the
Book on the desk.
ZOMBIE LAND: the idiot’s box
Turn it on and it takes over life,
Spewing sights and sounds on a rote,
Monotonous in its continuity,
Never fatigues, never dims its fiery colours,
Keep at it, the brain turns mush,
The body mashed potato served on comfy couch,
The dish garnished by slender remote.
Staring zombies stare deaf to each other,
Meals untasted, books rotting away,
As minds dip and immerse in fantasy land,
In the bottomless pleasure pits of Hollywood,
Or the slimy spicy cauldrons of Bollywood,
Or other stuff all far removed from reality.
Seething sanity buckles under
The muddying pressure of cheery crap.
A DYING CAT
The last of the leaves fall
In the autumn dusk.
The last of my days trickle past
Slowly slowly . . . crushing, moaning.
Snaps of memories
Fade in . . . fade out . . .
The first scratches . .
The first kill – a limping rodent,
The scald from the first hot milk,
The stinging laughter of the kid,
And my revenge . . . shredded leather deat.
The first female – virtual lioness.
I peer at a raggedy cobweb
Through rheumatic eyes
And try to feel toothless gums
With a slow, curling tongue.
I look out the window again,
At the last autumn leaf,
Grey and wrinkled,
Teetering on the sinewy branch.