Molly

This poem is a 'univocalism', which is a text that
only contains one vowel. This poem only contains the lette 'o'.


Molly, tot, prods odd oblong pot on top of wood stool
Who's fool prod, prod, prod pot on top?
Knock, thonk, bonk on block
Two drops of blood on floor
Molly's gob booms room down
Good job pot hollow
Shoot to door to room
Troop to Molly's folly. Go Potty

Hoot, hoot, hoot. Worry, worry, worry
Mommy go potty no totty
Golly gosh, not two toots on took Molly,
toy dog 'Woofy', yo-yo too
to Old Doctor Bob, who's spot on.
Doctor Bob won lot's of top doc comps
Bob promptly storm troops flow of blood
on Molly's bonk on block.
Tomorrow's bloody Robocop doctor
Whoop whoop, Doctor Bob!

So, dot dot dot, good job
Lolly for Molly. Got to go, Now!
Mommy foot clops from work soon
Zoom to motor - VW polo
Shoot down to town, loop on North
Go Go Go!
Got to front door, STOP!
Look cool. Molly, look cool. Molly nods

Mommy stomps from cook book
"Good God", Mommy gobs
"How's Molly got bonk on block?"
Oh no. Drops of poo roll down
from hot poop toots.
Mommy looks on long
"Tom, How's Molly got bonk on block?"
Look on Molly who boldly gobs
"Tod Gordon from school throws rocks, Mommy"

Vanessa

Her discombobulated thoughts form curls
of raspy speech around the microphone.

Unforgettable memories of love and pain,
inseparable from each other,
bleed into the black mesh in front of her face,
down the wire and amplified out into the open
For all to bear witness

Each recollection hammering home the hammer blows
of her love and his pain
His love and her pain

The pane's of glass watch 20 years of tear of tears
drop past the last words from her trembling lips.
And I sit, unlit, contorted in the shadows
of her fractured past

I Can Taste The Ocean On Your Tongue

A dark silhouette of a man, shabby, with dust radiating from him like smoke,
sits on an old creaky, wooden porch holding the last remaining element of his wife.
Her tongue, not long out of the pickle jar.

He brings his cupped hands slowly up to his mouth and delicately licks the shrivelled muscle.
His eyes roll back as his lids close and he fades into the jaded memories.
He breathes slow and deep. When his eyes re-open, he is lost.
His expression of contentment fades into one of oblivion.

Rage, hurt, pain and regret fills him and in a petty display of self-loathing,
he hurles the ornamental flesh into the bushes beyond the perameters of his present existance.
"What have I done", he screamed. "You are lost forever, again, because of me".
He wails to the sky and hacks off his own tongue, which he throws over the fence,
so the memories can die together

Endlessness

Concrete towers of hope and condemnation surrounding a hungry rat
Automatic scrambling for survival against artificial monkeys,
swinging on branches of their own pebble dashed breath
Gusts of dust and wind blowing through their heads
When will it end?

Flaming tongues of giants blazing promises of lies and lies of promises
to a gathering cloud of smog
Microchip brains consume in circles and gather nothing
Life preservers are thrown to the sense of logic of those who think and feel
but the lines are cut by hot banana scissors

Cold hot face packs peel back their skin, replaced with programmed expression and judgement,
eager to gaze at their new image reflected in a scalpel.
Apparent incisions into the public membrane with a cubed and digital edge

Hollowed capsules of life lie piled up, spent and used,
sucked dry for all their worth and worth nothing in abundance.
This crystallized, sparkling age of darkness
where remote controlled lives are the only ones that thrive and remain alive
But for a price.

Square-eyed fork tongues feel safe in the race behind locks and chains and weapons of death. Consumptions shrouding mass perspectives of importance and necessity.
Fat back paper pockets squeal in triumph.
When will it end?

Rapturous Delays

God sits, irate, at the Gate's of Heaven.
It's the 28th Heaven-day, and it still hasn't arrived.
The component for his transportation device.
"The repair man lied when he said it would be here by the tenth" he thought.
He had sat there through sunshine, snow and mist.
"They're going to start to think it doesn't exist" he grumbled
And every rumble of a Heaven-car that passes,
produces a twinkle in his eye.
He smiles and listens.....to the sound disappearing in the distance.
His smile fades.
He struggles to suppress his rage.
He flops back down onto his seat.
Jesus brings him a cup of tea and says,
"Don't worry Dad. You'll be glad when the repair man arrives
with the component you need and we transport those lives"
God pouts and grunts,
"I don't think it will ever come"
Jesus shrugs and skips back to the house.

There's Not Enough Gay Men

It's 3023 and there's not enough gay men.
The seemingly good idea to be more like earth has been proven to be fatal to our way of life.
How could we have possibly foreseen that 20 years after our 'transition', we would be invaded by torturous sex robots from the future, who's only weakness is to be seduced by gay men.
All that's left of the gay's is a small rebel faction, hiding somewhere under ground,
idly trying to convert heterosexuals. They have this bizarre notion that it is achievable to create a super gay army with those who are left in order to win this war.
Futile! That's what it is!
I should know. I was one of them

I Am Hungry

I am hungry for love and waiting for it

I wonder when my love will be noticed and accepted
I hear them screaming for change
I see the ears of salvation hacked off,
trodden on and sold back to them
I want to hear them hear the screams

I am hungry for love and waiting for it

I pretend to pretend for recognition
I feel the weight of carelessness and hate
I touch the bars of the prison gate of our dreams
I worry that we will never see our true selves staring back
I cry at myself
For them
For us

I am hungry for love and waiting for it

I understand that we exist
I say that we shouldn’t.
Destroy it all and start again in the name of truth and love
I dream that tomorrow we will wake up and realize what we are
Before it is too late
I try my life away
I hope that all of our love will be noticed and accepted

I am hungry for love and waiting for it

Homeless

A bag faced bottle muncher
chugs down the dregs of his wishes and dreams
Surrounded by the gleam of a farcical means to an inevitable end
He hides his strides in the cut corner shadows of an undeniable evolution in the wrong direction
The fashionable outlines patrol the edges of light
Guarding their precious reality very closely so
His scratchy shuffle steps grind clear-cut pathways
in the tar pit darkness
Never to set a step in their world again.
His head hangs so low
Bowed and blinded by his own tainted reflection
In this, his matchstick haven
Stumble mumbles pour from his glands like sweat secretion
As he risks to lift his hand at his help point spot
Where the fashionables recoil with repulsion
Some days he is lucky
Most days he is not

Home

Underneath everything we are all screaming out of our skin
Our hopes are lies we tell ourselves
Do we really know who we are?
Aches and pains for answers to which there are no questions.
Closed hearts hide behind locked doors.
Closed minds suck on the teat of the eternal channel of endlessness
Machines of death explode and shower the earth with unmerciful destruction
Machines of profit explode and shower the few with unmerciful greed
I’m cold and old with so much time.
Time to think and cry
While others whither and die
Saturated by lies and hollow truths
Infected by continuous hatred
Seeping and oozing through.
Mangled versions of our selves calling for calmness.
Waiting for a world that doesn’t exist.

A clenched fist.

The antagonism of a chrome-plated existence with liquidized distractions.
Faces bleak and broken.
An empty shell of humanity where we once were
Emanating echoes of happiness.

Contorted Souls

These are my words of truth.
A truth that only exists in the few.
We dream of a world that sometimes seems so close,
And other times so far away.
We watch and hope that the seemingly pointless death
serves a worthy purpose. If not, then we are completely lost.
Lost inside ourselves, when most of us don’t know who we are.
We can’t ignore the desperation of lives seeking life
Rather than a day to day existence.
We refuse to switch our minds off to the injustices
and allow the implanted thoughts to rule us.
We, the broken few,
that try so hard to do what we can to make a difference.
A permanent difference

Mish Mash

My legs are soft boiled eggs, marching like buttered soldiers.
Shoulders like rolling boulders chasing ‘Indy’ in the Lost Arc
My eyes are helpless flies, stuck in a super sticky web.
My fingers are fish stick crumb coats,
with banana coke floats for toes, and a milkshake cat flap for a nose.
My mouth is the mouth of a mouse and I am the size of a house
with razor sharp arm swords, hilts for hands and a body of beef
My feet are constipated punk skunks
that had to much rotting meat to eat
and my bum is a barrel bursting with blackcurrant flavor chewing gum

Draw me

Assimilation

She holds innocence to ransom
while thick ropey harpoons of self hatred
spring from her heart and pin me in place

Her secret mechanized tin can laughter
pitched at the appropriate frequency
generates pulses of infectious pain and rage

The power hungry velvet cloak of vengeance
breathes forward and consumes our time and space hidden away

Giant scaly price tag labeled spider legged tentacles
burst out and dig hard into the ground elevating her
ready for the next stage

ASSIMILATION ALMOST COMPLETE

Cleverly disguised crystallized shards of splintered words
spit past her perfect lips
Sprays of serrated consonants and vowels
pierce skin and burrow deep into my heart

The solid black core of this superficial princess
bubbles and boils over oozing past her hips
Blistering spurts and gushes of oily manipulation
twists truth and seeps deep into my mind, tearing me apart

Construction of a formation
that is deemed fit for controlled activation
is bestowed upon me

ASSIMILATION COMPLETE

Abbs

This is my first poem about my wonderful God daughter, Abbie-Leigh

My world explodes into a billion particles of dust
and dissipates into the wind, each time your eyes,
like bright blue suns, meet mine.

I am suspended in a timeless world
of pink cotton candy cuddles, kisses, smiles and giggles,
where nothing else matters, but us.
And I'm tattered and torn and worn down into the ground
With no one left to love, except you.

So each time you wave goodbye and I'm left on the step
with nothing but a fading trickle of your smell,
lingering in the air, I indulge for a moment,
then turn back inside to pull cotton candy
from the bottoms of my pockets to add to the collection.

Because I fear that one day my world won’t ever blaze blue
Or have time twist still into pink.
And a wave goodbye would be the one thing
I'd be trying to forget

Construct-a-con

We used to think as part of the construct
Mind’s susceptible to the flickering of pixilated images
Subtly perpetuating the need for un-necessary necessities.

We used to walk as part of the construct
Zipping in and out of glittering doorways
Accumulating a multitude of name brand hand attachments
Spreading out, clasping at those precious trinkets

We used to talk as part of the construct
Jibber jabber lashes of consumer tongue self obsessive ignorance
And government funded hardship
While the ‘worthless’ die alone in the shadows of our thoughts.

We used to act as part of the construct
Roaming as blind robot worker bees
On our knees
Paying our fee for survival
Never truly seeing the hypocrisy of the authorities
And their exploitation of everything that is natural and real
As a means to a profitable end

We used to accept the construct
Without question
Loyal to it’s laws of the past and present
With no regard to those of the future
Our future

We chose this

A light House Light

A lighthouse light
Beaming out across a sea of forgotten stars
Scattered in the midnight black.
Constant thunders of blistering illumination
Through the haze
Witness salvation
Lost in the pin prick pockets
Of a silent siren
Screeching out a song of hope and hate
To a boat that has set sail
Deaf ears wave backwards with the current
Leaving a lurking mist
To leisurely engulf the luminosity of the house
And all is lost with the stars
In the end