how London reeled
its fate seemed sealed.
There was a bridge
up near a ridge
which you could climb
if you had time.
‘What is the use’,
I asked sleep drunk,
of the rotund and
helpful monk.
‘It leads you to
the golden shoe,
you slip inside,
go for a ride.’
‘Where to, my friend,
where will they send
me from the shoe
endorsed by you? ‘
‘Please understand,
it’s Yonderland,
a land so free
where you can be
where children thrive
truly alive
where they may sigh
but never cry.
first having passed those miracles of craft,such handsome specimens, so lovingly createdby my young dentist, who -still laughing- clicked them in.Arthritic wrists no longer need to worry,their brushing days are over, now we have solutions.My grandson runs back from the barand nearly spills that unnamed drink,I think it might be called Jack Something, well,one cannot…
The money came in all-green leavesmy shepherd kept away the thieves.My dog supplied his droppings, tooI added, also, chicken poo.The tree grew big and even biggerit was a huge imposing figure.And from the top you could make outJack Daniel’s place, on Hilltop Route.I cared for, watered my big treeit did allow me to be free.And…
And, should you find I fit the bill,I’ll be your special bear.I’m well-behaved and can be quiet.I sleep all night in one position.I’m not to choosy with my diet.Like reading books or going fishing.So, here I am – respected Master-your other half (and that’s not silly) ,but to avoid a big disasterI ask you: Please…
between two cocos palms.The hammock having carvedimprints like woundsin sunburned skin,and I am swayingin the breeze from Torres Strait.White, flashing teethof small black devilswith coarse brown hairand fat pink lipsare playing their new game,it’s known as speer-the-fishand does have all the trimmingsof practicality and island life.I soon drift off againto melancholy distant lands,where snow-capped weather…
They stay for a bit, smiling, nodding.They eat off your table,they use your name,they smile, nod and say:How are you?Then, one day, afterthey have eaten your food,smelled your roses,finished your Beaujolaisand slept on your pillowthey wait, until it’s midnight.And then, they stab you in the back.Again, and again, and again.And, if asked the obvious question,WHY?…
a rather stupid looking head and faceperched on the very top (no neck)of massive layers of porcine lard.They wabble, sideways throughthe widest door available, and huffand puff in an attempt to gather oxygento feed the cells of their cognition boxwhich, a sheer misnomer, does not needmuch of those molecules of life.They spend their lives in…
