Anger

We’ve all been angry enough

to kill someone

red mist and adrenalin

but somehow we don’t.

We shout, we scream

we smash the furniture

but the brakes kick in

and breathlessly

we leave it

sleep on it

and think again

yet some don’t

and we call them monsters

and deny that we’ve ever known

the touch of fury.

Composition No 2

Here's an old favourite:

Tensing, straining, holding muscles

Contort stance and visage

Breaks for readjustment

Turtle’s head touching cloth

Sitting, pensive, relief from strain

Stomach empty yet full

Adjusted and cleansed

But still the remnants

Are leaving on parachutes

Of fairy’s wing

Dented and creased re-cycled

The silvering handle makes

The orifice sing

And all is gone

Round the bend

Mank Boliday Honday

Sunny skies said Michael

and everyone smiled

and rummaged in the closet

for the lost sandals

and the hat of straw

we’d never ever wear.

Blue and bright our Monday

with everyone off work

all barbecues and picnics

by the green lakeside

that we never see

until this time of year

Hot and sweaty bedtime

with everyone awake

the duvet on the carpet

face stuck to the pillows

remains of the day

still buzzing in our minds

The Death of the Raconteur

When did it all change?

and why wasn’t I warned

that opinions are fleeting

so swiftly out-moded

by the clamouring hordes

with nothing to say

broadcasting it twice daily

then bragging about hits and likes.

The vandal takes his graffiti

off the cement and bricks

and with no flare or art

scrawls on a thousand screens

and defiles a million eyes.

So unprepared;

some lament the losses

as others count the gains

made in targeted advertising

that everyone ignores

till the subconscious pipes up

eventually with uncalled for suggestions

The joker’s delivery

his wit and repartee

replaced by handing on a handset

and watching for the smile and nod.

And this progress

is somehow better than unbridled laughter?

So the raconteur dies

or becomes an oddball rarity

occasionally feasting on human contact

thriving with emotion’s ebb and flow

till he ends up a random guy

reduced to a tweet.

Foiled Again

I was so disappointed

My plans, my schemes

Are ruined

I saw a commercial

For a spray-on cream

That got rid of hair

On lady’s legs, yes

But I began to wonder

Could I use that stuff

On an unsuspecting acquaintance

Instant baldness

How we would laugh

But I just found out

From those that know

(a lady no less)

that it wouldn’t work

Gutted

More tomorrow...

Background

There is a street

that’s never silent.

Doorbells chime

and cats meow.

Postmen whistle,

lorries rumble,

TVs clamour.

The only time

You can’t hear its nonsense

is when you shut the window

and go to sleep.

More tomorrow...

Delusional

The two of them walked by like they owned the place. No’ lookin’ at anybody; flauntin’ it; flickin’ the hair like a shampoo advert. And I felt like standin’ up and shoutin’: “See them? Aye them two that we’re no’ good enough fur! That’s them just oot the toilet. Aye. Knickers doon like everybody else. They’re the same as the rest ay us! Don’t let them shove ye aboot! Manipulatin’ bastarts.” Eyes narrowed I’d sit doon while everybody cheered and applauded. And them two? They’d be askin’ fur ma number later on. Oh aye. Cut through the performance and they’re hingin’ on yer every word.

More tomorrow...