RHYME TIME (OR NOT, AS THE CASE MAY BE)

There MAY be swearing.

Creation Fail

Standard

His god made him simultaneously strong and weak, I was told

Odd, wrong, meek, the surviving spouse at a funeral

Humourless as the miscellaneous bereaved

Stealing joy with an assortment of self-imposed rivalry.

Back in the day, he would frequent the library: determined, bold

Where, with dread, he would flick through the science he never bought

And as stars aligned

He continued to vacuum happiness

Buying only into the inexplicable biblical things

reserved for his kind.

I observed as I was ought:

Pretending not to read him

Pretending not to need him

Keeping quiet

In case of argument or riot

And because light was at a premium

His eager, bohemian child learned what to cherish

And as he perished, he knew he’d been had.

My father was the dullest dying star at the funeral for his universe

And with me as his nurse

There was no god to see that he was bad.

The Nork Corps (or: not)

Standard

This warning, please heed: if you’re hoping to read a nice poem wot’s sweetness and light

Then please bugger off (*winky-wink, polite cough*) because this one’s all saucy (and shite).

You put up with my rants and my rambles all day and you know my position on celery

And a film I adore (might have said so before—  ‘sgot a cop who’s a tad Peter Wellery)

I could waffle away, go all Joyce, Hemingway—sit reflecting, respecting the muse

But the posts that you buggers engage with the most? Whenever there’s mention of boobs

I’ve been known to immerse in the beauty of verse but I want all DEM LIKEYS, godfuckit

So forget all the beats and the metery treats and the rhymes ’bout the guy from Nantucket

Me, I love the profound but you want big and round—or just perfectly pert in your palmie

Whether perky or droopy, you’re truly boob-groupies—my titular orb-lovin’ army

But I’m sorry to say: I must put them away, coz I bring a new thing to the table

And although it ain’t boobies, it’s still rather rude— full of sauce (well, of course) for appraisal:

It is better, I s’pose, than the complexest prose, or yakkin’ all day ’bout the weather

I should like to discuss why we kick up a fuss about waxing (or not) regions nether.

So what can I say about hairy va-jays—or clean-shaven, if that is your thang?

Come on, let us know: are you raring to go with a baldy or bushy poontang?

Do you like ’em all neat, those wee curtains of meat—or straight out of a seventies porno?

For maybe your ex had the bushiest sex (because shaving would leave her all raw, no?)

(At this point I digress, for I have to confess that I just used my pettiest hate

When I called it a ‘sex’ which is truly pathecks: yucky yoof-misms I do not rate

But when crowbarring rhymes into quest’nable lines, the bar is already quite low

So dear reader, acquit: forgive werds-wot-are-shit; ‘ave a fag, ‘ave a laff, let it go)

Back to flaps: if you’re ginge, do you have a red minge—or d’ya whizz off the hairs as they sprout?

If you have a blonde head but yer pyabs are bright red, you must dye one or t’other, no doubt?

Once de-furred, d’ya partake of a merkin while werkin’ cold rooms in the nude, unattired?

If you grow back the fluff does it warm up yer muff? Do ya suffer hairs on the inside?

There is no way of knowin’ a hair is ingrowin’ until it presents as a spot

Oh, it’s terrible, that, when there’s lumps on yer twat (so I’ve heard – not a problem I’ve got)

But be sure not to blunder your wonder down under, just keep it the way you prefer:

Matching collars and cuffs, fuss your puss till you must; go for satin or covered with fur

Just listen up, girls: many virtues have curls on yer beautiful vertical smiles;

Although bald is good too; you do YOU with yer foo — coz vaginas are always in style.

You might think me disgustin’ but I’m only discussin’ — I loves me some natural pewbs . . .

. . . And believe it or not this all started up top with a thought that I had about bewbs.

Beautiful Fruit

Standard

strange-fruit-12-728

The ancient trees we once were shown
Have taken root again
New matter grows where hate be sown:
A type of fruit that’s strange

The fruit it has no time to breathe
Enslaved by blue and white
A lynching starts as justice leaves:
Shoot first and then indict

Fruits swing as they have swung before
Their skin a foreign land
And from the branches of the law
The innocent still hang

Now executions breed with hate
In jogging neighborhoods
Where fruit is left to cultivate:
Chased down on roads of blood

The soil is fertilised with white
Fragility the noose
Strange fruit still swings; the death of life
And drips with human juice.

My Verse

Standard

It seemed as though my verse had gone;

I hadn’t rhymed in far too long

He took my words and killed them, see;

And then, there was no poetry.

No stanzas came, no stories nor;

All victim to my saboteur

My words no longer coursed through blood;

For what is poetry, sans love?

Of pen and ink: my paper broke;

Of diction: nary a word was spoke.

CM

Sonnet 2,865

Standard

I cannot feel the pain he’s given me
Parental blood be spilled, I hide my thoughts
And as I cannot speak the things I feel
Instead I find I’m saying what I ought.
My birthdate came; he wrote the rules of us:
A contract in accordance with a bond
No more, nor less, no reason for distrust;
He cannot split a kingdom once he’s gone.
Descending into madness left him blind
With horror mainly happening offstage
But had he spoken sanity, been kind,
No need for institution, law, or cage.

A father deaf to youngest daughter’s way
Will never hear the things she ought to say.

POSH

Standard

Universes ago, no ticking constraints existed:
Time, an invented partner for space
Appeasing and squeezing, tock-by-tock
Manufactured gods, divine excuses for humanunkind
One landmass, on one secular orb
Anyone could see it was Good.

The requirement of Openness took thought:
Taking flight, sprouting wings, thinkstuff soared.
Into existence came something from nothing
Sixes and sevens eighted themselves infinitely;
Entire paths crossed on that loop
Somewhen eternal, near nothingness became allstuff.

Godlessness became the new old way
We infected plagues with zesty pestilence
Accidents were rewound and hate unhappened
Death went, unless by nature’s kindness
Old, optional, terminated, cheap and free
This would be our infinity, squared.

Rank planets oozed, blood splats seeped.
Old mould decayed in a day
New muses chose prose for
immortality
Perception’s edge shielded and shelved plans
Nothing doing, no carrots, no waiting
Veni, Vidi, Vici, in Saecula Saeculorum.

Third person passive past words went
You don’t like second, too tense
Literary narratives and linear timelines spent
Bulksome, lengthy word counts redundantly done
All I have now is me:
My own primary, secondary, tertiary person.

Nearing endness, I float to escape
With Eternal words booked, I board
In my everwhere, there’s no nothingness
Stars and univi belong to me
Staccato sensations from beautifully musical storybooks
Now this: Pain Over, Starlight – Home.

09CD7025-F122-49EC-A132-CB9357E638C4

POETRY REVIEW: You Took the Last Bus Home – by Brian Bilston

Standard

On Brian Bilston and why he rocks and stuff and things.

Liberate Tutemet

2017-03-03-23-57-07

I’m not one to compare writers. I hate that. Yuk. Sure, it’s great for marketing, I suppose – if you must market. “Fans of such-and-such will love this novel by so-and-so…” YAWWWN. That sort of crap is lazy and unclever, and has never once given me that I JUST GOTTA HAVE IT vibe.

It’s somewhat pissing on the author’s skills, too: when the blurbage tells me that Writey McScribe is the next Clive Barker, all I hear is “this guy is wholly unoriginal, having re-hashed some dying old trope or other.” Talk about damning by faintstuff.

What I will do, though, is tell you who my own particular boat-floaters are, just so you know where I’m at; this *chick is notoriously hard to impress, particularly when it comes to those who poe. If you’re gonna rhyme your way straight to my heart, buddy, your wordplay is going to have to…

View original post 631 more words

SPEAK WHAT WE FEEL – REVIEW: KING LEAR – Shakespeare’s Globe, London

Standard

King Lear: Shakespeare’s Globe

Liberate Tutemet

Nancy Meckler’s take on King Lear sure ain’t perfect. Far from it. But it’s certainly inventive, and whilst it’s perhaps over-confident in parts, it offers an innovative (if inconsistent) glance at the ultimate dysfunctional family.

We see the stage, which all the world is. Only here, it’s covered with sheeting, and is to be gradually revealed throughout the performance. Dotted about the blank canvas are a number of pretenders to the throne that is The Globe: painted vagrants having a doss as the real action is happening. Perhaps a nod to current conditions (or, indeed, our shocking attitudes towards them,) I’m not sure this device adds anything positive to the production. Lear is enough of a play on its own without adding extra layers or weaving contemporary subtleties into its fabric.

KING LEAR is getting on a bit, and is contemplating abdication or retirement or foot-putting-up or whatever you wanna…

View original post 766 more words

JIG

Standard

There’s only one place I’ll go, y’know?
I’ve bent my straight edges and straightened the sticky-out bits
In order to fit.
But I never quite did.
I’m up for upcycling or resale
Whatever the term is for my retail…
And I’m enabled by a label
That comes with me,
D’you see?
Just to be fair,
It promises that all my pieces are there.
And it’s signed off with a kiss;
But this: I’m not complete, don’t forget.

At least…
…Not yet.

image

SONNET 2,333

Standard

I would not have you fall in love with me
For what would you do then once you are loved?
You’d wrap yourself in everything you see—
For sentiment misleads when hearts be drugged.
You’d tell me how I spin your heart and head
And speak of all the things I have you feel;
You’d fall under my skin and into bed
Where lies the whole percentage of appeal.
But soon I’d be a tiresome little wretch
Who’d fade away, too easy to ignore;
Whose old and rhyming soul falls from the edge;
Too passionate a person to endure.

Unless you are in love with poetry
I pray you do not fall in love with me.

image.jpg

LMN