I occasionally write poetry (click on the title to read the complete piece)
were told not to wear flowers
behind their ear.
Such gentle things
belonged on the bottom of boots,
pressed into the soil
never to see light.
I saw you on telly the other day
fairly surprised how your voice still makes my heart skip a beat
repeating a familiar phrase but not quite the same…
“We are in danger of being swamped by Muslims”
I remember when I was the object of your “affections”
the only infection was that of yellow fever
I thought what we had was real
On the green and orange lines,
stories are scribed in modern day hieroglyphs
on the side of train tracks with spray paint.
But unlike the Egyptians these stories won’t last
and will be rolled over in gray paint.
Wipe the sleep old man, your hell is not yet over
your body has fell more times than you can remember yet,
mind sharp but imprisoned, chained silver streaked serpentine beasts
coiled around your limbs making you their supper