1Life's what you make of it 
2The secret
3Meteoritic indecency
6So our eclipse
7Wolf moon
8December, birds
9Bone age beyond
11Your loss, she wept
12Odysseus sailed
13Fast lane collection
14S'unken 'eads
16Odor rant
18Shortsighted, we see
19Titan plight
20Life depends upon you
21Halliburton foiled
22Improvised jazz
23Bedtime soundly
24A wake 'n
26Still comfort
27Resting wishes
28Gold wife
29Thurnby 2347
30A shore
35Say once
36Dear Saint Pete
37Superstition rules
38Pillow talk
40Suicide advice
41'appy 'alloween


Life's what you make of it

Deslumbering. You?
Plans? No plans?
Probabilities of
breakfast? Starvation?
Transport or stasis?
Showering or not?
Designing a life or
muddling through a
morning? Your call.


The secret

Amand knew
math. He worked
at NASA. He
heard from a
friend, who had
stopped coming
to work. There
were several of
them. Amand
stopped too. And
his wife, who now
also knew,
stopped her job.
And the secret
grew and grew.
And everyone
that heard
stopped. The first
ones got money
out of their banks,
emptied their accounts,
splurged, stocked up.
But then the bankers
stopped. And the gas
stations stopped.
And all the stores
stopped. And
money stopped.
And the phones
stopped. And the
pilots, cops,
suppliers, and
media workers
stopped. No
stations on TV.
No news. No
radio. No
electricity. The
army deserted.
Even the nurses
stopped. Some
went hungry. No
riots though. They
all waited, silently,
with their loved
ones, having
drunk the last
of the wine.

And after the
had come and
gone, and nothing
had happened,
they each
wondered why.
False alarm? Was
the math wrong?
It wasn't April the
1st after all.

A giant sigh of
relief. The joy of
life, with shell
shock, went on.

So they started to
show up to work.
Vacation time all
spent. Credit
cards to pay off.
Services slowly
returned to
normal. Back to
the grind.

But a few NASA
guys restocked
with wine, partied
on. They knew.

There was more
to know.


Meteoritic indecency

dinosaur Dunno
makes his life
seem safe,
dawn after dawn,
dusk after dusk.

Mammals wait.

It comes.
He's gone.

Birds fly on.

they chorus
for love.



From a billion
million miles away,
and farther,
again and again,
echoes of afterlife's fleetings
flashed past our earth,
waves unheard
by our warring
primordial soup,
armies of apes,
ancient ones,
mired fighting

They all missed the message.
Learnt not the lessons
of dead flags, signals stopped.

We struggle with others.
Instead of seeking wisdom,
we build better weapons.
Beyond bronze,
iron to atom,
hydrogen power,
mutually assured cooperation,

Our winners' mind set,
deeply inculcated,
plays Nash game,
Pareto be damned,
Pyrrhic end.

SETI listens
for intelligence.
The silence screams
stupidity afar.

Guns of August.
Evolution's raw law,
demands one winner
no sharing.

universal laws,
godless selection.

Soon our signal will stop.
None will hear it go.

A lonely universe.
Short blasts of life,
then the inevitable



Half moon plunders on,
steals away time.

The shadow grows.
A face fades.
Crescent awaits.

Her darkening edge,
ridged with craters,
shows a well-worn age.

Waning on,
she'll smile at me,
with beauty,
and be new,


So our eclipse

Aren't you strange?

Orange June moon,
now low,
above trees,
below Venus,

Your trodden path
July just
a cycle away.

you brighten
the darkness.

sun humble

So we ready,
soon to see
you nighten
a day's brightness.

Birds will chorus
your false dawn,
call in all
your dark glory.

Until the suns of man
flame in our apocalypse,
unblest by their lunacy,
we'll watch and wonder
in your night light
and rare full shadow.


Wolf moon

Wolf Moon,
smallest of full,
shines on the freeze
of a January dawn,
as it sinks
behind bare trees.
No howls warn
of winter hunger
these years.
Long gone.
with bullets
and what
society thinks
and wants.

Silence cries,


December, birds

On my way
to work today,
a blue jay,
in flight,
only one.
Where were its kin?
Hey, might
you say
lonely, done gone?
My thoughts begin
to ponder solitude.

Soon I go past
a sullen contrast,
black vultures
ornamenting a dead tree.
A large committee
in sad camaraderie,
waitin' for the road
to provide lunch.

My wheels do not
oblige the bunch
with a feral cat.
So that was that.

Here's to their hope
that tonight
a startled deer
will appear
in headlights and make
a festive breakfast
for their next wake.
Holiday cheer.

One crow high
in the sky,
flies alone
seekin' its murder.
Stark, not dark,
better than none.

A mockingbird
crosses the road,
no joke,
nor absurd
for a December morn.
Just one.

Leafless oak.
Bright cardinal atop.
No song.
Won't stop.

Further along,
peter peter calls
from small,
winter residents

A squirrel jumps
off the ground,
hides around
a thick trunk.
Tail flicks
at my chuckin',
annoyin' sound.
I fear, he's not f'
playin' with me.

Christmas is near.
Cold, depression
'til spring.
Then lots of life
will reappear.

Wishin' y'all a merry, merry,
and much more hope
dan dem thamn vultures.


Bone age beyond

A stick, a stone,
a brick, a bone,
one alone
owns the age
that shaped our ways.

River rolled,
a stone tool
Hands came,
Who knew
a stone could fly?

Oh, my.

A clever mind
adds a stick
to the stone.
A club is born,
applies leverage
to less-advanced
stone-throwers' skulls.

Make better arms.
Chip away,

Ax wins.

Our simple start,
bash, grind,
breed, live on.
Rules ingrained,
long before laws
and injustice reign.

And then we're off
to overcome each other,
gain dominion,
challenge even the Titans
for all land, sea
and heavens.

Bronze, iron,
toaster age.
Sail, steam,
talking machine.
History recalls
restive Luddites,
shoeless saboteurs.
Technology counts
beyond ten,
finds zero,
then on to one.

fire clay,
bake bricks.
Move cave.
Add fort,
with a deep moat
and sturdy keep.

central control.
alters to cathedrals.
Precious gems,
minted coins,
counting houses,
stored wealth.


Even a pyramid,
whipped up,
here and there.

Sticks and stones
do break our bones.
And bars and chains,
wages make us work.

Can words save us?

ruling ape,
with war mind
set in stone,
brutal butcher,
you survived,
a new,
clear age
now awaits.

I give you Plato

(and poetry).



On a hospital ship
at Gallipoli, 1915,
long before 'n after
song be fore 'n aft,
'er laughter
got soldiers,
not so old in years,
to forget dreadful wounds,
the storm's cold,
their fears.
It brought some
comfort 'n calm,
warm thoughts,
Christmas memories
of distant mothers,
sweethearts, wives,
sisters and daughters.
Soft female respite from
dawn's dark bravery,
by Jingo, manly
slaughter of lives.
Thank you nurses,
one and all.


Now later, a hundred years,
much war remembrance
and sadly, still savagery
across Ottoman lands.
The cruel curse
of repeatin' history
by misunderstanding cultures,
not by forgettin'.

With outdated battleships,
sunk or scrapped,
our drones now safely
inflict pain
over foreign bands.
The ends are just the same --
stir hatred, no peace, tears.
Vengeance explained,
no mystery,
my eye,
den yours.

Heed not the foolish,
arrogant ideas again.
Feed not the violence.
Use our power to protect,
refrain, and so silence
the cycle of misery.

      Dedicated to my grandfather,
      who served in the British Navy
      on a hospital ship at Gallipoli;
      my son, who served with the
      U.S. Marines in the 2nd Gulf War,
      and my grandchildren-to-be,
      whom I hope will never have to
      repeat such service and folly.


Your loss, she wept

old maids,
future mothers,
in spooky,
wet, wind swept
if you
forego Saint Andrew
for ghosts ain't true,
and skip prayers
to his bones
for safety
and success,
you'll lose
communal strength
beyond you
from all who
believe and follow
his cross.

For all others,
it's fishy.
Think why.


Odysseus sailed

If a Cyclops gets
a glass eye,
it's only for looks,
Narcissus echoes.

If one bears glasses,
prepare to drink,
no nymph tempts.

Cavely Polyphemus
gets blinded, drunk.

hang on to your sheep.

your son's eye's gone.
Tricked, he failed.
Go anger divine
from your deep.
So vengeance is thine.


Fast lane collection

Concrete carves carnage
across our continent.
Ancient migration paths ended.

Three hundred miles
of late night interstate
at eighty, Jeep top down.
My life in the fast lane
with the elements.
Wind, rain, heater
blowing, radio crackles.

Must slow.
Ten minute crawl.
Blue lights flash.
Cops, fire trucks, a wreck
jam four lanes to one.
One semi, one car,
one winner.

Back at speed,
still neither wildlife
nor death. No deer.
No possums. No
raccoons. No
skunks. No frogs.
No moths. Not
even a shattered,
flattened armadillo,
plates scattered.

No silly suicidal
squirrels run at my
wheels here. Only
endless cat eyes
shine back from the
darkness. Roadkill,
long dead, all gone.
Small populations,
isolated, hide unseen.

After nearly 50 years,
I remember the sounds
of a German shepard
in my wheel well
while speeding home
with my college sweetheart
after late night parking.
Its limp legs battered
again and again
at our Mercury,
in a quick execution
with neither ceremony
nor padre.
I still shudder.
Bet KC does too.
Shakened, we drove on,
then called the police.

And the startled
eyes of the barred owl
looking at mine
as it jumped up from the road
to meet my Jeep's grill.
Its life had purpose.
It ended up in our
natural history museum,
with its parasitic flies,
I must add.

My mind struggles for humour.

A chicken crossed the road...
not a chance.


S'unken 'eads

Aedes aegypti
mosquitoes feed.
Yellow fever,
West Nile.
Think ya's need
a Zika beater
to save the child?

Last night
fifty small canaries
flew to my porch lights.
Under bright stars,
waning January moon,
they sang to me.
All's well
in my rural spot,
source of life,

Look into your
sad city sinks.
Stars lost,
canaries gone.
Zika beware,
the Orkin man
has us covered.
Stay in Brazil,
too much poison here.



Come friendly seas,
rise up, fall on, cleanse.
Restore our never ever glades.
Wash the face of the near bugless,
birdless ghost land.
Rub the belly of the Zeka beast.
Soothe its fear-infused colon.
Drain its spray-dropped poison.

Tide in, conquer,
reclaim your orange grove,
sugar cane swamp.

Darken the natureless land,
tract houses, shopping centers, street lights.
Bring back the heavens, night's reign of stars.
Brighten Capricorn, Virgo, Orion, Leo
for all to see, migrate by.

End earthly cancer,
sink her nude, toxic fields,
exotic, beeless gardens.

Drown the foreign escaped pythons,
invasive pet perfusion.
Salt their scaly skins.
Brine the iguanas' breaths.
Let native crabs return,
feed on the fallen.

Wise Nordic King Canute knew
Nature's power a millennium ago.
Command not the waves to stop.
Their flood is coming.

Where is my soapbox, bullhorn?

Take heed. Move away.
Higher ground awaits the wise.


Odor rant

Your home seems safe.
Nothing inside now crawls,
'cept chemicals.

Secret fragrant odorants
cover your smells.

Xenoestrogens abound.

Most tap water's lead-free.

Beer's okay,
not yet in plastic bottles,
leaching PBA into our souls.

Organic food would be good,
but costs too much.

Cryptic product labels
confess our dreams.

Hormonal disruption,
cancer screams.



So 'ope
you're clean.

Not 'e been
washin' well.
No soap!
Ought'a smell
by now.
But nope.

How so?

Naughty dope
for hours
with just water,
'e'll tell.

Even 'is bum?


Oh, no!

'e's 'opeless.


Shortsighted, we see

A poem,
a tree,
poem meet tree,

Bee poetry is free.
So pay nuffin' more,
Joyce Kilmer.

Sadly, you're dead,
as are dem hemlocks
in your memorial grove,
dynamited after
Not enuff said.
Our grand ol' forests
without chestnut, elm,
butternut, dogwood,
fir. The rest? Ash next.
Man, miss 'em, rage,

Maybe "only God can
make a tree" but fools
'n bad policy sure can
kill 'em.

Good stewards,
lift your arms to pray,
and act today.
Stop importin' exotic
plants, pets, pests
'n pestilence. Or, after
ash, who knows?
You goes.


Titan plight

Atlas wonder,
'hole world,
wrought high,
shoulders done,

So as not to bother,
I'll cry on some other.

Your Atlantic fills
with tears shed.

Goodbye, Asia.

We sail west
to a new land
of hope
and now honey.

But the natives
don't welcome us.

They shouldn't.


Life depends upon you
     (and your social networks)

Now ponder the fate in our dominion
of wild dogs and big cats, and polar bears.

What's our opinion of the Japanese
killing whales for science? Oh, please!

Any stand to stop the great ivory bearers
of Africa and Asia being poached?

Doing anything for the apes of Borneo
facing the invasion of palm plantations
for cheap, unhealthy oil?

Are we looking out for "the birds of the sky",
few in China, and the diminishing
"fish of the sea," on our plates?
Go ahead, let's walk to school for our planet
and eat tuna sandwiches for lunch.

And the squeals of the baby seals?
Daughter, do you disapprove of the slaughter?
Son, do you kill animals for fun?
Must they succumb to our greed
for meat, fur, even scrimshaw trinkets?

Are you a good steward of our planet?
What do you think it's all about?
Ask your parents and grandparents,
ought this be or not?

As we plunder sharks for fins
and so disrupt their reefs,
should we worry more about climate change
and a coming yard rise of the seas?
Yes. Yes. After the corals are slimes of algae,
ocean acidification will have its go too.

Your thoughts on current two-degree warming?
How did Passenger Pigeons and Great Auks
fare in our ancestors' hot pots?

In the face of unregulated hunting,
overfishing, rapacious land use,
without parks and preserves for wild things,
"for every creeping thing that creeps on the earth,"
let our carbon footprints stomp, "Nonsense!"

When you grow up and rule this planet,
don't be more short-term fools on it.
Focus on what's important for all life.
We need new values, to show kindness,
forego selfishness, ditch the needless stuff.
Ask all your friends for their help.
As a group you could succeed
where your elders and I haven't.

Please try. Get together. Share.


Halliburton foiled

with all five eyes.
She knows
the mountains
are safe
from any advance.
A hypnotic
the alien moon.
Her power
Magnetic fields
so strong
allow a smiling,
wise vermiculum
to float over
flexing his polarity.
dolphin thinks,
nothing more.
Thick static
excludes robots,
any machine.

No mining here today.
Let's move on.


Improvised jazz

Lost in lust,
frightened by fright,
loaded with language,
laughing with joy,
this is what I foresee
for you and me, tonight,
but we must avoid Hanoi.

We think with freshness
on love and resentment.
The dog collar of doom
says she's today's echo.
She's wrong,
but I haven't a clue,
and nor do you,
what these words mean.
So no sappy ending
to our silly song,
only maybe, a replay.

Just like the music,
it's in the sounds.

Scat poetry,
without melody,
says rhythm and rhyme,
wop diddly do daddy's
fancy word dance.
Half-formed thoughts,
dredged up by the band,
bounce for more room,
as an unstrung double bass
talks to the unblown brass,
windless sax,
their silent embrace,
unfulfilled, yet free.


Bedtime soundly

Dark graveyard shift
convicted night felons
retrograde fluffers
porn queens, queers
sisters of indulgence
transgendered wannabe brothers
child festered, pierced, tattooed rodents
society's underbelly of insomniacs
that keep the night alive
drugging, dreaming, dancing
who missed your mothers' abortions
cannibals of thought
chromosomally-challenged above 23 and me,
asymmetric-faced dyslexic beasts,
curbside creatures, pedophiles, alien priests
listen, bond, accept us all.

PC be damned.
Another ending,
you bark dastards.
Listen to the music.
Let's have fun.

Attempt three.
Go to bed!
Or murderous spotty-child sacrifice.

And then what?

A poet's work
is never done.


A wake 'n

Open your eyes.
Dry your tears.
Look around.
Listen to the stories.
Joke about me.
All my foibles,
dreams not met.
I'm well accomplished.
I brought y'all together.

Should I pass muster
with His fallen angels,
the Lord may judge me
but not as kindly as you.
Dear family and friends,
community, my loves,
celebrate my birth,
life, as it was.
I'm in your minds,
hands, living on.
There's still much
we must do together,
for the world,
for each other.

All serious stuff said,
now please party,
give fun,
carry on,
laugh with me,
join together.

And every five years,
let's do it again!

A wake 'n I live on.



After rain
Soft ground
innocent Child
Four years old
Maybe less
Plays around

Neighbour hears
Loud questions
Without tears
Smart suggestions

When dat cat dies
will we put it
in a hole, Child cries,
cover it up wid dirt?

Well, may I dig
de hole den?
is Child's wish.
May I dig it now
since ground's squishy?

answer unheard,
likely, No

grave digger
wanna-be insists.
Bedda to dig hole
and have it ready
when we need it.
Some day
dat cat will die.
Dis way
nobody has to dig
when dey're sad.

Cat wanders by,
Looks on

I wonder next day,
Is dat cat dug in yet?

Or does fun an' all,
black veils
smiles to shroud
still await?


Still comfort

Don't ride the old
horse to death.
Give it rein.
Let its mustang
spirit be free.
Let it run
to its thumping
heart's content
and gallop me
with life's
full glory,
a furlong beyond,
to cheat the
knacker's yard.


Resting wishes

No shallow grave plans for me.
Such diggings are better for beets,
onions, potatoes, even eggplants
and their friends. I want to go
to med school when I'm finally ready.
Promised me mum, because she wanted
me to go, become her son the doctor.
I failed, disappointed her,
not wanting to spend my working life
always around miserable sick folk,
their dribbling snottiness,
itching hemorrhoids,
and miasma of others moans.
Better a life teaching the ways
of the world to young happy minds,
who have yet to have their ideals
aged away and be in need of nursing.

Patience, Mum, your wish may come true.

Unfortunately, there is a wrinkle
in my plan. My wife thinks going
to medical school to be cut up
into bits when you're done
is a disgusting deal.
Won't have any of it.
Feeding worms and veggies
is a more dignified ending
for her poor husband,
who'll by then be beyond
his last say in the matter.
So should she outlive me,
I'll end trek to me grave.

But if she goes first,
fear not, no grave for her.
She's off to med school
to train young minds
in the art of pickled flesh.
And then, I'll eventually join her,
together forever in pieces.


Gold wife

I still seek
your salt tear of life
upon my mind,
lick its love
from your face,
find your soft skin again
with my tongue's tip,
recall our joy,
exotic tropical tastes,
dancing eyes of youth,
our fingers run
across spring
before the summers'
beads of sweat.

From the wet smells
our flesh and blood
were born.
Nested and fed,
they grew and flew.
Our success.

Let's try friendship,
autumn's kindness now,
as we walk our ways
together in the evening
glory of garden sunsets
and go to sit alone
in memory's smile
of moonlight.


Thurnby 2347

My phone exchange
and number as a boy,
inculcated in 1960,
58 years ago.
We used it for 7 years.

Life was simpler then.

Or was it Thurnby 2446?
My recall only just muddled,

Life is simpler now.

Back round

Bedroom ceiling fan spins.
It has for 23 years.
How many revolutions?
Who knows?
It does its job.
It keeps us cool,
circulates the air.
When we're gone,
nobody will remember this,
certainly not us!

The daily

Yesterday was our
wedding anniversary,
the miracle of 39 years,
four children,
a meal, a movie,
early to bed,
so tired.
After two hours,
I woke.
She snores beside me.
I write.
What of all this will
our grandchildren know?

They'll have lives of their own,
shouldn't care.


A shore

Washed like sand grains,
my sure of memory fades.
Stones to pebbles beaten,
it rushes back and forth
with the soft hush
of thought waves rolling,
a jumbled mumble
of words scrambled,
more and more memories lost,
confused in the muddled flow
of needless ramble.

What can my aging
mind now form?

Slow rivulets,
maybe just a puddle,
I fear.

Or more,
whispers this elder's wisdom.

We'll see.



Clear August sky.

Bright full moon.

Red God of War's
out too.

Seven heavenly virtues.
What about them?

I'm drunk.

You must be joking.

Now there's a thought.


Tomorrow's calling.

It's time for bed.



Clarity bubbles up
from my mind's mire.
No worries.
We can wash it back down
with another brew.

Such fun to brush off thrown shame,
shield society's uptight scorn.
It's not in me genes nor nurture.
Thanks, Mum.
I'm incorrigible.
It's in me culture.

Dutch courage.
Double the ration of grog,
there's war work to be done,
then jokes to be told.

Leave alone a northern lad
that laughs, tells tales
of his stupendous stupidity
and lucky survival.
He's battered, alive,
better than boringly proper
or gone.

I'm old, have learnt to do
as I foolishly please.
At twenty, I thought I was immortal.
Now I know I am.

Bottoms up.

Judge not
us living,
til dead.



Beyond blueberry,
lime-sized now,
within still-hidden
uterine grapefruit.
Nearly 13 weeks.
From amphibian,
surely not with little
chicken wings,
your mammalian
form recapitulates.
A wonder.
A relief.
A joyful celebration
of fear-arresting
Not lurking
Not cancerous
Your sickness,
now known,
are welcome.
But you are not.
you will soon
be gone.
Mother's choice.
Father's too.
It's not ours
to advocate for you.
But if you were mine,
I hope you'd be
our first.



Four Glenoides moths
this early, crisp, October morn,
all grinning, two winking.

I talked to them,
blew kisses, winked back.
To the last, a male,
antennae grandly plumed,
I extended a forefinger.
It flew, landed near my right eye,
behind my glasses.
Gently I brushed it away.
It returned to the wall.

I wet my finger with a little spit,
stuck it again in front of its head.
The moth walked on.
It may have fed, drank some.
I think so but am unsure.
It bobbed its head, nodded wildly,
danced up and down to nearly my knuckle,
twice, as I recall.
Did it prance?

I put the possessed moth
and its spirit back on the wall,
took two photographs of them.
The last shows the spirit's eyes have opened,
appear red with black pupils.
I haven't seen such a look before.

I laughed, talked more,
expressed love, friendship.

I now howl softly to a barred owl,
bid dog to breakfast,
look forward to my next encounter.

Madness, doubts, joy,
together, one.


Say once

Hey, if I talk to the spirits
and they can hear me,
but I not them,
can we communicate?

In my eyes, they
seem happier than
a year or two ago.
They're smiling more,
not dark at all.

If I were to wink at
them, then in time,
will they close an
eye, wink back?
Or will they open
their mouths, as if
to moth words?

So an experiment
calls. I'll wink and
flash record.
We've already taken
two thousand
faces. Let's now
seek a response,
get digital proof,
for all to judge,
whether we can
weave smiles with
the underworld,
signal each other,
or just document
my mind's madness,
endlessly exploring
discovering why we doubt,
or don't.

We know much less
about any manyverse
than not so long ago,
when science began,
after the Titans
fell from grace.

If the silent spirits
should remember,
they could tell us much.

I dream
but do not sleep.


Dear Saint Pete,

My test at heaven's gate
should surely wait,
I here advocate.

Sweet mead of pleasure,
immortal angels of lust
kissed these lips,
flow in my blood.
Talk with me, you must.

This well-worn,
worldly soul of mine
wisely readies.
It seeks a long postponement,
or better yet,
an unholy reprieve,
your Lord's pardon please.

As my drunkard words
confess this life's truth,
boldly laugh with me
at much foolishness.
Don't dilute such fun.
Any goodness,
my kindness,
forgiving side,
deeper hide,

So. No rush.
The bean-tally's
not ready.
No holy reward
of death
yet needed.

Hell, had I known
not to forgive the Devil,
I might have left
other friends,
sinners unforgiven,
stained my humanity
with more than red wine.

If the time comes,
judge kindly, I beg.
Rest this warm soul
in heaven,
as flawed
but just.

you wouldn't want
to quench my thirst
in hell for eternity
with silence,
and chastity.

Nor for now in heaven.

So let me stay here,

Yours (eventually),
in all sincerity,


Superstition rules

Chances are that you'll see me tomorrow,
but not if you're first blinded by lightning,
punished by your wrathful Catholic Lord
for your indolent, sinful life.
In your sad case, even Jesus Christ
won't be able to wash you clean.

My Lord, on the other hand,
is kinder, more forgiving
to both hedonists and hypocrites.
He would only want one eye.
He's such a generous god
that you'll even get to pick which one.

So I recommend a quick conversion
to Thor's camp.
Then when you go to sleep tonight,
hold a silver coin to the eye
that you want blinded,
say your prayers
and beg for forgiveness.
In the morning, if the Tooth Witch
hasn't removed any teeth,
you'll probably wake up just the same,
sinful and gullible,
like most of the world,
needing to hold off paying
for their wicked ways
with mantras and prayers.

It's certainly easier to pray often
than clean up your act.

There's good news too.
You can keep the coin
and use it again tomorrow.


Pillow talk

We loved me
mum til the very
end we did. She
had a fabulous
sense of humour
til the very end
she did. Had
Parkinson's too.
She struggled on
to the very end
she did, til me bro
got her with a
comfy, feather
pillow he did.

And til the very
end I love you too
I do. Be warned.

Last verse

And when it's
me turn to go,
I'll try to not
to wriggle as
much as me mum,
me feet held down
til the very end
by me youngest son
he will, with me bro
on pillow again
he says.



Wench of Death,
Hally Happoween.

lazy guardians,
untether your little skulls.
Let them run amok
for candy
and I fear,
one silent,

The masks' hollow eyes
are unwise.
Their grinning teeth,
costume facade.
Let pumpkin flames
lure them in.
Let the black shadows
flicker no warning.

don't be the last,
run off quickly.
Don't mind
the bushes,
the trees,
savour a sweet
The chocolates
are dark.

I wait.

my darling Fabula,
we feast on the flesh
of a captured straggler.
We'll drink warm blood,
quench madness,
end our hunger
with a sweetened
small soul.

count your sugared-up charges.
Call for the missing one.




Real fear.
The worst.

You hungry?
Let's banquet like Tantalus,
on food fit for the gods.


Suicide advice

Practice makes perfect.

Golden Gate Bridge?
Jump fifty times first
from a chair.

Self immolation.
Beginners start with a candle.
But don't do this in bed.

Learn how with your pillow.
It's a struggle.
Try not to wriggle.

For strangulation it's best
to choke a wrist for practice.
If your hand goes numb,
then you're ready.
Move on to your neck.

Drowning. Quickly drink
eight glasses of water.
If this is for you,
do the same once more,
but aim for your lungs.

Poison. Swallow a soda.
Repeat again and again.
You'll eventually get there.
Beware that this can ruin
your teeth and make you fat
along the way.

Stabbing. Harakiri is a little
extreme on the first try.
Who has a sword anyway?
Try pins. In the eyes if you must.
Body piercings and ugly tattoos
are the gateway to this approach.

Guns take training to use safely.
Start with your favorite foot.
Work up. Shoot both knees.
And then your ears.
If this sounds too painful,
use ear plugs. They help.
You know what to do next.

Yes! Have a last cigarette
before you go, and another,
and another. Some say to be careful,
don't get hooked, smokes cause
long-term health problems.
Smile, you're free not to care.

If you eventually succeed,
and with practice you will,
you won't be a failure,
or laughing,
just dead.

Oh, and don't forget to feed
any kitties on your way out.
Otherwise, they might eat you.
Dogs won't.


'appy 'alloween

Evil spirts,
be upon thee.

Dark angels,

Swirlin' over'ead,
ever so silently,
brewin' a spell,
dey wear
dead faces
from d' underworld.
Dey bear
an infectious gift
of slow justice,
Yer life's end
is joyfully,
dreadfully near.

Yer selfish
deeds done,
moons ago,
betrayed trust,
loyalty, honor.
Y' lied to us.
Of course y' do.
As do we.
And our blood
does too.

Hatred feeds
slowly in silence,
grows, strengthens.
Now she's strong,
ready for revenge.

Vile bleeds
from our hearts,
sweats from our pores,
cries from our eyes
for yer demise.

Relive yer wicked sins
'n repeat yer lies,
again, and again,
'til our curse
of insanity
comfo'ts y',
befo' death cures y'.
Yer laughs,
children's screams,
tears, now men.
Every day, every hour,
pray fo' fo'giveness.
Beg in yer dreams.
No Christ t' hear y'.
So d' 'evil
will fondle
yer empty soul
in 'ell
for eternity.

Our eyes now watch
from d' shadows.
Y' sleep troubled,
guilty, restless,
not oblivious
to our call
fo' yer death.

Fear d' spirits
dat wait
wid such hate.
Dey'll 'ave no pity.
So, Francis pleads mercy.
No! Man's misdeeds curse ye,

Y' can try t' run,
y' can try t' 'ide,
but yer guilt
'angs deep inside.
Y's done.
Evil eats evil.
Save us some trouble,
kill y'self!

No note needed,
welcome t' hell.

Tue Dec 4 13:38:32 CST 2018
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