AT LEAST FOREVER MINIMUM
The psychedelic pseudonyms
written on your birth certificate
are illegible on soggy paper
and going for a song at your old school fete.
You’re sweating in a heatwave.
Wrapping up to keep away the cold.
You’re not bowled over by anything anymore.
Wear dark sunglasses to be cool on streets of gold.
ON MY BALCONY
Sitting on my balcony.
it’s eleven o’clock whenever that may be
looking down on chess piece people check mate happy
far away below wherever that squared street is I see.
Meanwhile I’m booking whatever flights of fantasy
may boarding card me to greener grass destiny
as my cat is playing with the dangling string bookmark
in whichever ‘notes for poetry’ notebook I happen to have tattooed on my knee.
Both of us restlessly resting from overnight infamous anonymity.
A SEAGULL
strode across my small-hours square.
Noone there.
Acted like it owned it – strode in defiance.
Then flew away when it heard
a human break the nocturne silence.
VICIOUS CIRCLE SERIAL SERIES
Those animals kill
like humane humans order a coffee at a bar.
Those animals pretend to be humans still
and get a prison cell with a star.
If their names don’t come up as a lead
they’re happy.
They don’t speak to keep victims dead and buried.
They end up wanting to get caught to boast of their crimes without setting anyone free.
DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
Hit those machines
cos they’re mean
and don’t work on purpose
with their hocus pokus.
Computer driving you nuts
for two hours? Punch it!
CD player stuck
on track 3? Shake it!
WiFi not working
yet again? Scream at it!
Internet radio getting
on your tits? Throw it!
Show them who’s boss
or they’ll have yer!
Time to start giving a toss
cos they’re taking over.
FAN CLUB
I’m your biggest fan.
I follow you everywhere.
I’ve got your autograph
but it doesn’t stop there.
I got your number
and on the back of my shirt.
When things go bad
I feel your hurt.
SORRY BABY PIGEON
You were helpless
and asked for help.
What to do? Did nothing.
Twelve hours later too late.
Had a chance
but in the wrong hands.
Such a sad end.
Ending so sad.
Poor little baby pigeon
Abandoned and lost.
Walked towards me
and that was me being useless.
MR AND MRS MONEY
He counts on her.
She counts on him.
Obsessing with what they’re worth
Investing on each other’s whim.
They share what’s in stock.
Their market moods swing.
Open the door when opportunity knocks
and close it when their heads fluctuate and spin.
Have child benefit for their childhood memories.
Have a mortgage for where they live.
Have mortal assets which they freeze
and a pension plan in place for every day they cross fingers with.
Mr and Mrs Money
say money’s not important ‘cos they have it.
They flip a coin for whether
love is more important than property.
Go to Source
Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
