As you have probably seen, we have been mightily busy here at Bunbury over the past few days. We have had a new issue out and getting ready to take the next massive step in building our support network. Because of all the exciting things happening here, I have not had chance to sit and update the blog for quite a few days. I have still been writing poems, don’t worry, but actually sitting and getting them written here has not been possible.
Here is an update of the poems. I will do three tonight and three tomorrow for 11-13/07 and 14-16/07 and then carry on as normal from there. I know just one or two poems at a time is probably more than enough drivvle than you can handle so I thought I would break it up a tad.
Here is a poem.
Her shoulders slung low
covered in spider-spun-thin
lace while all the men
stood catching flies,
hypnotised by the chain-link
waist and watch-face hips.
The kind of sway that inspires
skulking in shrubbery at three a.m,
unlicensed firearms and missing
Though never encourages it.
That sway lead cut-marble
legs through clinically-white
door frames into clinically-cleaned
rooms full of anesthetic and blueprints
for less appeal.
Here is a poem.
Space is big, is not, my friends?
The scientificists say that don’t
know much ’bout space. They
don’t know nothin’ ’bout
what it’s made from or
where it came from.
I don’t mind mind sayin’
that I don’t know nothin’
more than what them scientificists
say they don’t know
but I do know I got me a theory.
Now, as we all know,
bein’ compatriots here of this good green earth,
that we is all bein’ watched all the time.
When we at work, walkin’ around town,
eatin’ in our favourite dinery outlets.
Don’t matter where we are, we is bein’ watched.
There’s one place though that they can’t get to us.
Or so we think.
Let me ask you a question.
Have you ever been laid in bed at night
and you can’t sleep? Eventually,
you’re just about to drift off and you
think you see something out of the corner
of your eye, like shadows flickerin’?
Oh you tell yourself it’s nothin’ but
think about this. How is those shadows
flickerin’ when there’s no light.
I tell you now that those are governmental
agents, shadows harnessed from
the deep darkness of space by all
those satellite dishes they got
swirlin’ round above our heads.
Why do you think space is so black?
It’s shadows people. It’s shadows.
Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘collecting souls’ from #cdpoetry.
Screams flicker the ends
of pages of heavy books.
Flick through to see souls
flattened alongside rose petals,
ready for cataloging.