PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Once I had a heart
that carried no scars,
when I lived in an ocean
of spinning stars.
Once I had a mind
that I thought
was my own.
But it flew off wherever
the wind was blown.
Once I believed
the Earth was still.
In a wilderness night
on a cloud covered hill,
by the old Roman camp
at the head of the Aire.
Silence and peace,
without worry or care.

The radio chattered
and the TV, flickered.
The Governments groaned
and the Oppositions sniggered.
The salesmen prattled
and the advertisers pitched,
and the women in the sweatshops
stitched … and stitched …and stitched.
Bulldozers buried
old circles of stones.
Mechanical diggers
unearthed old bones.
War planes screamed;
dope smokers dreamed,
while drunkards sang
of sweet Sally Jones.
The Summer sales
were lewd parades
of peroxide tints
and pastel shades.
A rattle of stilettos
and the accents
of the ghettos,
echoed from the concrete
with the ambulance's wail.

Sweet Sally Jones,
her brain burned by sin,
stares at the shit pot
in the loony bin.
What the nurses see
when they peep
through the door,
is that when she shits,
she shits on the floor.
She is staring at the bulls
with purple skulls
that come charging
through the wall.
Every snake is an elf
my dear,
and every elf
is a snake.
You can get a
snake kebab
but you can’t get
an elfin steak.
They vaporise
the elves do!
They slip through
metamorphic veils.
The prize of having
fairie eyes
is that you
can follow their trails.
Do you like to be
beside the Sidhe side?
When the portals
are popping
and the barriers
are dropping
and this wheel
world is buckled
by the force
it sits beside.
“Where are
The portals found?”
she asked.
“How can we
get there again?”
Imagination, meditation,
concentration are…
the portals in your brain.
It becomes so much clearer
when you are dead
that you need me
like a hole in the head.
No jewelled gate
in Samarkand
can take you to
the promised land.
But some old stones
on lofty moors
are doors, my dear.
And that’s for sure.
So bathe thy feet
in milk each day
when it blows
cold and breezy.
And do so
when the Sun
burns bright,
and thine feet
will be cheesy.
Weep for nothing.
For that
is what you’ll get.

A law was passed
forcing Scotsmen in kilts
to gird up their gonads
when walking on stilts.
There’s a flaw
in the law of gravity
that induces
severe depravity.
The wheel world
of Cicero, is really
a rolling reality.
It’s hub is a collection
of perceptions of infinity.
And the paths
of the perceptions
go out
in all directions.
And gods are
nature archetypes
of elemental kind,
empowered and enabled
in the limits
set by mind.
That’s not
how Cicero, said it!
No matter,
for that’s how
I reddit.
For we are
what we dream,
sweet daughter of Venus.
And you dream daily
of the
pan galactic penis.
I could be anybody;
brilliant or thick,
but I’d do for you
with money
and a prick.
Do you dream
of Jesus
as your lover?
Good looking
well muscled
and tall.
With a powerful Papa,
the guy had it all.
Of course as you know,
power can be manic
and usually is
when it manifests organic.
The protection
of power
is the primary preference
where pain
is a permanent feature.
Nerves and emotions
sum an organic creature.
Emotions have
thermodynamic propensity.
Dormant! Then they overheat.
And their hearts
are eaten
by entropy.
Such is the state
of organicised fate.
Think it’s unfair?
Don’t go there.