She Didn’t Bang the Drum

 

She Didn’t Bang the Drum

 

It haunts him if she admits I picked up sticks;

tricks him. Dreams of her because it pricks

his skin like needles until there’s a red rash,

as she ran to sulfur kitchen all mad dash,

pleased to pick them up like knucklebones,

seize tin pot pan to beat like monkeys do.

And he supposes if she’ll confess to it, like:

I’m there, gloss hair, mirroring supersoft sun,

like virus, like jacks grabbing the nearest way,

I bought it, listened, caught what he had to say,

copied what those monkeys done; I’m one.’

Doubtful it disturbs her thin and reedy crust,

his beats moved her, as if in them we trust,

a hopscotch Keith Moon, no talent just echo

blended draught board in pale green gecko,

bent back-cloaked in wooly grey better days.

A crooked knee mumbled litany, she'll pray

to snip-purse devils. Please never cut string,

and fiddle firm your plucked pizzicato violin,

play him a dance, play him your beady song,

see how he moves his hands. They’ll jig along,

crumbled chalk under feet of stamping throng,

thrice denying that she didn’t bang the drum.

Here Be Not Dragons

 Here Be Not Dragons

Imagine dragons? No, I’d sooner not

shag shopworn knights composed of rot,

born to those with wits of rock,

hidden behind some well-shooked locks.

I spy that ever so shy face wielding

her adamantine swords and shielding

just a look at some little bit of titty.

 

Softly, not so softly, he’s peeking out

from behind a gay geriatric helmet,

penning flapdoodle in black crush velvet,

shaking his shy, tiny peekaboo winky

then wiping it upon britches dripping

with warriors that all sneeze doodle-do

and cock legs for a crafty bit of titty.

 

Your dreary game of knock-kneed throne,

all your Googling goblins home alone

clutching Gollums and stolen trolls who rob

squeezed jobbies that are just the job.

Find some ancient cursed enchanted ring,

snores through all the evil it could bring,

and cops for a bit of B cup titty.

 

Here’s our Mr or Mrs Turvey Drop

of 32 Swizzle Street with flat caps of cloth

and ears to boot, owning lifted notions

of twisted witches drinking turgid potions,

wraiths wandering other writer’s pages,

had lost their bearings in the Middle Ages,

but, behold. Just another bit of titty.

An Ancient Knight Came Travelling By

 An Ancient Knight Came Travelling By

 

I

She met ancient knight came travelling by            

of dewlapped chins. Trembled his limbs

but clear eyes full, replete of blazing sky,

cries he, ‘I knew you once, my cherubim!’

 

II

Curiosity winged on red tipped blue

through black forest, where sharp’ning breezes blew,

recall false incantation once spoke true,

travelled her gaze wherever it would do.

 

III

‘Oh Knight, you are dying!’ proclaimed she,

whither remembering did not betray

on banks where wild red roses once grew free

under gloaming grey, upon butter hay

 

IV

quick profits she to harvest withered sedge,

with deft strokes fast fashions funeral bed,

high-minded nurse intend she rest his head

and bewail his passing, lament him dead.

 

V

Where lilies lap pale against rippled shore,

concealing in pastels all waters’ floor,

she did dress herself in shadows dripping,

vestments loosening and all smiles, slipping

 

VI

black-thistled bony hand his hand gripping,

‘You will not return!’ her sour words tripping

off syrup tongue, songs sung of ends begun,

his set smile slight beneath her arching sun.

 

VII

‘Once by enchantment’s rack did you stretch me,’

knelt he by sword, toppling hefty helmet

to rust forever where it fell unshrieved

by the weight of past passage overwhelmed,

 

VIII

bade condescenion by his wasted frame.

Shook she her head but there in shaking came,

‘you no longer hath me in thrall or shame,

but I speak not of anger nor of blame.’

 

IX

Flight perished leaves brittle in spoken looks

shroud sable stones grave, beside twisting brooks

willows weep of wild intentions mistook

and summoning shepherd’s beckoning crook:

 

X

‘my Cherubim once more, come lie with me!’

Gathered evenfall deep of watchful skies,

twinned hands praying have slow petrified

for ancient knights who come travelling by.

Slipways

 Slipways

 

Like seaweed pulled from sand by tide

must claw his frail fronded hands; sigh

all’s too weak, covets limpet’s gluey grip,

thinks mussels who never can be ripped

want two fixed shells and clasp the other,

stretch out in steam to snatch lost lover.

Flambeed desert dust is blown and slips

winged on buried wind, aimless tripped

and lost grip, might ripple water’s skins

falling, flares briefly then drowns within,

beckons in, tumbles drunk and drinking

smoked draughts to cloud gone thinking.

Slipstream sideways held drifted rivers,

grabbed ocean currents never delivered

me to you my Angel or you my brother

who lived in me but slipped each other.