Sunday, May 8, 2011


You might be a Genghis Khan
or even a Che Guvera.
Dali the great showman
or Todd the demon-barber.
You might be a hungry-poet
in just the Chatterton mould
or you might be an ugly-threat
to all the forts in gold.
Who is it then now knocks
upon the woman-wombish-door
to lie in death's-closed-box
when life's breath is no more?

Lady I will take my leave,
you can scream from the top of your tower,
fill the moat to the brim with tears,
but I'll be gone within the hour.
You can cry till the dragons come home,
pull out by the roots your long golden hair,
make plaits for a new brave knight to climb,
yet the castle bridge is drawn on our affair.

I call you Cleopatra
and kiss your eyelids.
You are a burning desert
as I trace your pyramids.

I call you Cleopatra,
and your sandy thigh caress.
You call me your oasis.
Later I'll watch you dress.

The kid went for his gun
and Blake for his pen;
the kid was just death,
Blake life to men.
The kid was a killer,
while Blake let live;
the kid was a taker,
Blake had a lot to give.
The kid died from a bullet
and became a legend;
Blake of old age,
wisdom flowed out his pen.

There by York's Little Shambles -
the baby of the bigger mart -
a Gulliver girl in her ambles
sure upset the apple-cart
when the keepers of a stall -
very-mean and tiny-minded -
could have felled a girl that tall
and her arms and legs have binded
for looking-down on what they sold
as old rope at the price of gold.

Goodbye girl, I am going solo,
I'm an adventurous Marco Polo
out here in the Far-South-East.
Yet I'm something of a boho,
or something of an Edgar Allan Poe
but drunk only at this moveable feast.
Goodbye girl, for time quick passes
while you sit-and-hide-behind-sunglasses.

You missed your stop.
You missed your station.
You travel through life
having missed your vocation.
A vacancy open to verse
was this poet's destination.

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