Thinking Wonder
I wonder what you are thinking
when you first open your mind
in the morning, when you brush
your teeth and look at yourself
in the mirror: what is it you see?
I wonder of many things, like
when you hear a particular
piece of music what feelings
are briefly woken:
when the phone rings or
when a letter arrives,
what are you hoping for?
mostly I wonder, how often
I am part of your flowing
thoughts and of my
residence within your
heartbeat, growing
feinter every day.
The Crime Scene
A pen pusher,
the nib a
shark’s tooth,
words ripped
with passion
and fury,
pages consumed
and attacked
with a soulful
thoughtful
ferocity,
leaving behind
a clean
crime-scene.
Running Low
The ink seems to be
running low,
the poems walk a
high-wire,
most fall
but some
fragments
survive: I gather
them like
fire-wood
and wait for the
incineration,
the cremation
of the words
to step forward
and
sacrifice
themselves.
The Caveman
She was totally disgusted
and repulsed when I
mentioned that I’d piss,
in the late hours – early
morning’s: I’d step into
the back garden and
piss in the back-yard,
because, it was the
quietest and quickest
route, otherwise, I’d
need to stagger up a flight
of creaky steps, and
chance waking her and
that would really rile
her:
‘Caveman’ she said as I
slid my knuckles across
the floor, heading for
the chilled wine.
A Good Price
She’d had good ‘reviews’
she flirted and flaunted,
she was sexy and sensuous,
she was attractive and
alluring and she fucked
for a good price:
no oral:
heroin aged her, quickly,
brutally, whipped and
slashed away her
physical beauty
beyond recognition:
she now services
for a cheap-shit bottle
of wine, or a joint,
but credit to her,
payment first,
she’s been burnt
too many times
before.
