The stony benches stare
their stony glares I’m sitting there
belittling where I’m splitting hairs
unpicking nits let’s call it quits
before my mind’s behind forgets
that most of all I’m feeling numb
the cold befriends my lonely bum
it all depends it never ends
it twists and bends
its weary way it wends...
around the Courtyard of Dispaire.
Along the Hallway of Tomorrow
All the tumours beg and borrow
bloated bags of pus and vinegar
shiver, quiver, quaver or deliver
punctuated full-length features
starring all pipe-smoking creatures
eponymous green-hatted leprechauns
strangelings taut and sinning blameless
well-known if not despised and nameless
unhinged, unhorsed and plump with sorrow
trotting comes my old friend Zorro...
along the Hallway of Tomorrow.
From the Chamber of Self-harmful Thoughts
where crystals of bright-sparkling quartz
embedded feebly in the walls
from whence the stench of unburnt warts
uncharms the unarmed child who falls
bipedal sausages screech akimbo
airy tarantella dancing limbo
unplanned, suntanned defenceless and
unmanned and senseless sequestrated
anesthetized not liquidated
from the Chamber of Self-harmful Thoughts.
Outside the Bathroom of Disgust
he knows he must, constrain his lust
regain her trust, refrain from thrusting,
busting, tunnelling through time’s carapace
belatedly unarriving at the Shop
of Emblazoned Theodolites
unsurveyed undammed canyons but
flash-floods for this unwindowed hut
crush xanthophobic kidney streams
where rusty mud encrusted
dust needs must entrust...
outside the Bathroom of Disgust.
Beneath the Carport of Crass Jokes
all the pretty artichokes
fellate parenthetical kobolds enigmatically
conserving quasi-heretical brigadoons
contemptibly noble-browed, like the currency folks
debased, redoubled, and mythically apportioned
heroically distortioned among the willows
lurch and larch beneath the birch
unsound the oaks, the treeman trees
the spokesman speaks, the stoker stokes
cellular automata fuming...
beneath the Carport of Crass Jokes.
Down the Toilet of Lost Souls
uncosted re-shelved golden bowls
wide open but not fully free
enjoining silver-corded foetuses for tea
never asking why in polls
in surveys, ballots, probes or scrolls
or scrawls inscribed with moving finger
writ and having written linger
in dreadful Schwarzchild’s kitchen
baking sons and planets for predestined roles
forever spiralling through black holes...
down the Toilet of Lost Souls.