Tuesday, 7 August 2012

various mad 2008 poems lol


FLYING LOTTO
Airline pilot dreams of winning the lotto as he reads “Yachting News”,
Cruises with the autopilot on. Aerobatic pilot thinks of post lotto life—
if I want to fly a 737 I’ll buy one. A 747? 14 hours in the air?
I don’t think so! My flight—seven minutes of aerobatic flight.
In a one kilometre box, puzzle in the sky picture perfect.
Don’t need no airline heavy metal here!



CLEAN ME

Hey cleaning lady, you look fuckable with your brush handle.
Leave your black bags alone, come to me, I’ll make you cum.
You should be with Essex Wideboyz next door, not here
Shifting shit. Am I a better lover than Aston Martin driving
Essex Wideboy? I’m from the north, got the gob there but I
Don’t speak like you. I’ll look after you, be my slave till I
Die and go to kinky land!




REB TREE

Rebel tree, not going to cut me down no way!
I’m head above you all, you lost your flowers
to the snail clippers.
Evil council men butchered you all but you.
Tell me brave one, how did you survive the strimmer?
Rotating triple tungsten blade. No answer but miracle
of mother nature. What’s your plan, single top flower?
World domination by your pollen, no GM crop crap here.
Tell the people of strimmer beating flower,
nothing going to stop you now.
Not the council or man with a dog pissing on your brethren.



FUCK UP FAIRY

What an amazing site I behold –
Confederate and Damnyankee armies locked in battle,
Pittsburgh burns and war visits everyone.
Ruined houses, burning tanks, screaming airplanes, bursting bombs.
A hand waves in death as a tank moves forward,
bloodily glued to the tracks. Cannons roar
and men in butternut defend each and every house in morbid violence.
Grey men advance and fall back under fire,
Asskicker dive bombers clawing away their numbers.
Soon this attack is over, men re-group,
injured are tended, dead left immobile.
Ammunition is brought to the front,
each side prepares for battle again.
Who will win? Yankee or Confederate,
the fuck up fairy rolls her dice
once more in America’s second civil war.




RANCID

I could say I hate you all, that I want you all smoked by 50 nukes –
hundred million dead. That we must all learn the harshest of lessons,
to all lose a relative in limited nukes go pop. I know we’ll fail.
One option, huge meteor from the dark reaches of space.
Final total fucking obliteration, annihilation, elimination,
extermination, devastation, destruction of us, rancid humankind.


SKYFALL

Big massive piling machine hammers thumps huge steel
iron girders into evil rancid ground. Tree spiralling behemoth rams
dead tree stumps into bare earth to hold up falling cracked sky.
Without them we’d be crushed dead. Empty heavy sky forces on me, us.

HEADY

Dizzy heady rush leaves me gagging for more—
this’s something new.
Deepest memories and then some.
We’re up at your place, years fall away, dizzyingly.
Now I can’t think what we said. Do we do it? We leave.
Your gal’s here, I can’t talk to you with her here.
I want her to join us, not to fuck, day out.
Heady rush. I speak. Betray her. Effects. She shudders,
stops, talks in Welsh. I did it. Leaves Eyes, leaves us.
It will be okay won’t it? I don’t care! We go. Walk on,
see view which took my breath away all those years ago.
Different, yet real. Walk down steps, trees overhead.
Arms interlinked, you and her, me and you? Go down.
Halfway down I see yellow long grass like nowhere else on earth.
It’s chilly but humid, what the fuck? To the road, touch of snow.
Past pubs and houses. Dream image moves, in the car
I’m driving so fast, not lost my edge? Fast, down Rippy road, too closed?
Got your phone, is that a camera? Mum used to have a Cortina GT like it.
It’s too fast, will we hit white van, get my pie, die?
I’m going to cut up my licence. Where we going?
I’m not thinking straight, heady memories tug at me all at once.
Got real enemies to watch. Yet we have fun.
I’m back at Moorside. I used to live here…


No comments:

Post a Comment