Me Too

Why a world and his wife,
Why from a man’s rib made,
You call me trouble and strife,
So why by the male-god be saved.

Why have the woman-word devolved,
It only meant a man’s wife;
And bridegroom’s meaning men evolved
To nurture your longer life.

A prince lives in a photograph,
A film-maker eats jack-mack for tea,
Forensic professionals are understaffed,
I do not want these saints preserving me.

For parity, there are now no actresses,
Perpetuate the man-made myth;
The billionaire’s now using laxatives,
It’s the actors who should have been done away with.

A crowd could be a world and her husband,
Watch as we burn the words at the stake,
Written by femicidists who bludgeoned
From Santiago, to Sheffield, and Salt Lake.

Suicide Watch

There were faded posters on the wall,
And beside his bed a watch that did not work;
A gift from his grandfather, years ago.

A family legend reverentially mentioned
That timepiece stopped when the old man died
On a Tuesday, November, 2005.

Talking on matters neither here nor there
The guardians displayed their daily concerns,
When they entered his cell looked anywhere else.

Having crossed the dead threshold
Those orderlies obese with checklist and chart
Complemented his writing

Where he obscured his heart;
At a dispensary counted Duloxetine capsules
On wheels which had squamous ellipses.

They would say “it’s a shame, he’s not like us,
Some people are born without any luck”;
His arms were grazed and his eyes were black

From the day he had tried to take himself back.
There was an alarm, painted cerise;
The staff would have to break the glass.

A girl kissed his cheek a long time ago,
Then her family fled to some antipode.
They coated the tablets with hemolymphatic

Secretions of lac; the powder had the patients gag,
Diverting minds away from where they had sagged.
They said that the watch contained a curse,

Reality caused a deep dereliction.
The parents wear badges as they sign their admissions;
Hope is not with prescriptions bought.

Last Of The Elders

A priestly patrician without congregation
Surveyed vacant pews from a pulpit,
The last of the lay-folk had faded away,
No longer a nation of pilgrims.

He advertised Matins where nobody read,
He preferred Vulgate Latin to English.
Legionella was rife in the presbytery,
The votive was all but extinguished.

He blew away dust from a hymnal,
The hymn-board held still 3-1-2;
An offertory plate with a mildew fate,
Jerusalem was not rebuilt.

Ivy is choking the chancel,
The first diocese twelve numbered.
There was a day when prayers ended at Karnak,
An unoccupied altar’s in slumber.

Stubble Burning

Just one more week, if I could
See this through, survive, outlast
The plot of harm to my self.

Just this week ahead to eradicate
The one thought-place I could not escape,
For seven hundred journeys hope was surpassed.

The promise of time like a plundered trove
In my hands, I can trace the dates
And diadems, unburnished on its surface.

A progress of letters, a thunderless storm,
All that potential, in kernels of time
Stored like dreams in hibanatory forms.

These nerves to be scratched from the hypodermis will flow,
The urge for receiving dreams is established;
A catch of haddock to the ocean’s returned.

Outside, it is that awful dawn again,
It yawns and with vast arms stretches.
To accept its contract I am forced, I forged

A signature which brings me a trawler, and fish for the prospect,
But no rest in rains, asleep standing up;
I met myself in that week ahead.

My mouth was empty, my stubble burnt,
The workers had gone and would never return;
We passed by each other without saying a word.

But a finished letter you pressed to my palm,
Paused dreams for a moment, I felt better restored,
As arms excavated to a statue returned

Caused a nation’s collective applause,
Somewhere the shrew and the bumblebee stirred;
I opened a window, to one week more.

Haiku #302 – #306


Death’s not living’s end,
Rain’s not water’s final act;
But moments, fleeting.


I read your words and
A new sunflower grew. Rooks
And magpies argue.


Exasperating goddess;
Have my ink, while I would sleep.
Meteorites flung.


Have me cremated,
Ashes sprung where no one owns;
Meditate instead.


My soul extracted,
Mined, shaped into a bullet;
Aimed at love’s steel heart.