With a Whimper, Not a Bang

 With a Whimper, Not a Bang

 

How chance the roses there do forever last?

But her foolish child sleeps guilty with the past,

and the light programme’s long waves hold fast

to farewells from around the dial, breathing out

breathing in hushabys in whispers, not shouts.  

 

How come the roses there that bloom do grow?

But her foolish child forever the last to know,

pushes and puzzles his stick at unreasonable ice

impenetrable with frosting, she snaps, she bites

and so long will come in dark flowers from light.

 

How casual his roses there won’t fade quick?

But her foolish child green tossed pale in seasick

on high rolling waters, holding out for hands

in reaching can’t murder love as she commands,

but must fade slow with a whimper, not a bang.

A Curtain Calling

 A Curtain Calling

 

The director’s tired, feeling pinched,

trawled her office one times too many times

and that’s some crab she’s got In there

because it’s fucking work tomorrow, dear;

it’s those claws I mean and, oh so petty

when you’re throwing down bass riffs

in disgust. Props among the heavy lifters;

all those around seem like only grifters

and hams to hack up a most rude chorus.

Will that do for you? Is that not naturalistic?

Because it seems to me we walk like that,

talk like that, all coverall cat call struts,

flat white in the left, mobile in the right,

rocking those high heels in shocking pink,

all tits and arse and scripts that stink

and a laugh so false you could use it for nails.

So wipe her tears from your eyes’ epic fail,

given my mood you’re in; your face I’m pulling,

like teeth and rings off cans of flat Miranda

can’t move Prospero or fool Casandra,

because she’s agonizing over her advice today

while I bury the love I feel in sulky boy,

not repent, withdraw what’s spent, enjoy

poor actors cupping beseeching hands,

holding out their echoing beggars’ bowls

in hollow hope one coin will fall

while we bow and take our curtain call.

Feed Me

 Feed Me

 

Some may come by dreams

haunting sleep’s satin cliffs,

balance on high precipice

then tumble in forward rolls,

landing soft on butter spread,

wake to find that all’s fled.

Some may come by hand,

delivered by coquettish courier

all wet thumb, lickety finger,

shaped and pressed into place

just so with a drizzle of sauce

to complement the full course.

Some may come by morning

glorious from next room’s bed

shake sleepy head then fall to,

spoon and stir up the thick milk

from pot overflowing onto silk

spills, until hunger’s craving fills.

Some may come by bold sashay,

in full gooseberry fool junkets

stiffening the ever-starving eye,

stuffed leg and breast and thigh

dripping with dusk olive oils,

unwrap her flimsy foils and feast.

Some come upon my plat du jour,

for I am famished at her door,

by my ringed nose I shall be led

to mop up gravy with soft bread,

devour her heavy laden spread

and lick the plate clean.