Below The Line

below the line
where it hurts
in print
and in hertz

little bursts
of ill

a withered
bill that pecks
where the words
bubble and
meaning tumbles
to a floor

shaved from
stakes
that now
resemble weaponry

a coda to
something grown
and nourished

a redux to
arms called
and blown
away

When The Doors Open And The Lights Go On

Creaking, cracking when the wood
doth smack and the springs fail
again and again in pure dark.
Tiring, too late and reminiscing
in states where we lost our hearts
to a jukebox nailed to the floor.
Vulgarity is the utmost, raucous
endeavour and all we see is
a tunnel of night; too clever.
When the doors open and the
lights go on, a stiff breeze
is bashful and shaming.
The boards ‘neath bare feet
are pricking splinters only to
jab and jibe and remind us of life.

Cacophony

banging drums

rollings tums

huffing lungs

stoppered tongues

leathered games

grazing frames

scoured dishes

busted stitches

climbed-on sofas

sock-less boaters

setting dusk

this trunk and tusk

where do they hide

where ghosts reside

keep that quiet

a sugared diet

shirked of lust

let’s play in dust

we procreate

and elevate

mountains shout

blinded while our clout

is uninterested

uninvested

wily and gross

with those we love most

the dog-barks

taken to task

boldly ignored

minds are bored

with blind ignition

and a silence is all that’s left