Poems. By Colin James.

The Passage

Three hairy youths
met us in the basement of a 1950's vinyl sided cape,
where their band practiced.
They had discovered a doorway
beneath a rusted oil tank.
Their nerves had been temporarily soothed
by the intake of the lord Ganja.
We, all of us, lifted the door out
revealing descending stone steps.
Some words on the door were partly
discernible, partly faded into nonsense.
We improvised an appropriate content,
"Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here".
The three hairy youths became animated.
Much hand slapping ensued, and the seeming
overuse of the word "cool".
Before a plan of continuance could evolve,
they had all disappeared down the hole.
We waited a decent amount of time,
even calling down to the lads
to come back to our world,
before replacing the stone door
and leaving them to their fate.

An Overabundance Of Circles

It starts with a lot
of discriminate following
until realization
begs to differ.
An associate tailed
a John Hurt look-alike for miles
through the complex turns
only to reveal
his uncle's squash partner,
although sonorous of voice
minus a useful backhand.

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