A stormy stench lingers
the rain has begun to pound
the eucalypts have buckled
the roars have stirred the ground.
Flinders Street is drowning
the locals are stifled and hot
the koalas have retreated
seeking shelter at a stop.
Oops they did it again:
Man-eating lizard people
dressed in corporate suits and ties
appear on Capitol Hill.
I don’t like what I see here
an underclass of laneways
cries from the lost and forgotten;
I want to go back to daisy chains,
bursting MJ from my walkman
alongside the River Bourne
whilst writing over my hands.
I always wanted to travel,
see what the world had to show.
Now I’m painted Brunswick Street
finding love over Milo.
The greatest fear is to be lost
we need see the bigger picture
as thunder stirs above our heads
purple lightening, it will feature.
The last time I saw double…
Oh my, was I in trouble.
My eyes rolled inside my head
I don’t remember what I said.
I wished my lungs to keep breathing,
but my heart was over beating.
I only remember one small thing;
jager-bombs won’t give me wings.
San San Poem:
She stood upon Chelsea’s streets
thinking of yesterdays ghosts
as they age like fine wine.
Stories are where her ghosts meet
to share wine and a Sunday roast
drawn on an ageing page.
Chelsea is her family’s spine
Chelsea is her stage.
Slow and steady wins the race
remember the tortoise and the hare
wait for the opportune moment
time will get you from here to there.
Regret is for those who didn't try
they say it's never too late
tomorrow will knock at the door
today cannot wait.
The early bird catches the worm
but the second mouse gets the cheese
a journey begins with a single step
and an acorn becomes a tree.
A dream you have will come true
do not fear what you don't know
the simplest answer is to act
through action you will grow.
An A-W found poem built from Bill Bryson's 'Mother Tongue' index.
of double entendres.
faggots in gravy
Johnson and Americanisms
of our language,
trust an Englishman.
Westminster, Wales & Washington.
Night has fallen,
the hum of electronics
hover in my eyes
the vroom of weary cars
sigh in urban driveways
the crickets begin
a creekside melody
amidst the whooshing
of a passing 747
as I lie here
my heart thumping
my stomach gurgling
my throat scratching
my eyes tearing
my insides screaming.
I'll wake up properly tomorrow.
In darkest London
all that is solid
melts into air
the greatest mysteries
of the modern world
fall into the electric mist
of hunger games
and fairy tales.
made in America
are catching fire
in a restaurant
at the end of the universe.
Prompt: Write a “book spine” poem. This involves taking a look at your bookshelves, and writing down titles in order (or rearranging the titles) to create a poem.
The mother tongue inside my head
was made in an English hamlet
she a built a world, on words she read
and followed the white rabbit.
She never knew who she was
although she knew her name was Alice
but she kept on going without pause
and took her place in Hatters palace.
She drank tea with a squeaky mouse
and spoke riddles with a Cheshire
she grew to big for her house
and loved the people that met her.
The mother tongue inside my head
is a lot like little Alice
she listens to every words that's said
high in her urban terrace.
It's raining orange and yellows
the wind whistles in the air
and as I wonder about tomorrow
there's a hibiscus hiding there
her colourful little petals
shivers under the wooden chair
waiting for the wind to settle
but Autumn is in the air.
If you are a serial singleton
and you dance to a spinsters sound
then February most of all
is the cruellest month around.
Society turns to the brightest red
raining chocolate and jewellery
everyone has a lobster
well, except people like me.
They'll link their fingers and profess their love
hog all the good eateries
cock their head and ask out loud
Is there something wrong with thee?
Because in the month of February
when society is pairing
some of us are all alone
and have lost all sense of caring.