POWM

He walks with smiles through spills of budging mumblers

shorn of locks. The sandy tiles reflecting

talking chins. Encompassing music falls

like sleet. A shiny road bordered fiercely

with shops. The staff, like soldiers after war

patrolling fields of cloudy gory jewels.

And in the street they dress as superman

with forms and forceful laughter they descend

and rip the pennies from the bashful kind

for beasts and babies. The photogenic sluts

adorning all their posters with their tears.

He watches from a window safe and separate.

And then he sees the girl with hairy tits

fading through the crowd. She swats his eye

and quickly turns away. He keeps on walking

towards the nearest sliding doors. A modern

miracle of glass that often jams.

Then air conditioning wheezes like a slave.

And in the cafe with a tea and keyboard

he taps away and empties vibeing brain cells

 out on the screen. They look like suited chimps

all woolly, dense and dressed up for a party.

He overhears a woman loudly moaning

about the price of coffee. He hates bitches

with that tone of voice. He hits full stop.

Waiting

Yellow stripes across the creamy

curtains. Hanging ruffled by the

solid squares of hunkered cushions

pitched together, front of speckled

windows white with roving light.

Passing motors under chirping

birds. A watered rinse of sky

and fluffy serpents white and diving

down into the swoon of rooftops.

Along the street, no face, no feet

tramp along the crumpled bend.

I, alone, sitting meekly

under floors, under sky

pondering the time and place

 and by what phrase shall it be framed?

Fading brightness storms the moment,

stillness itches with the pace.

Down the road, a silent cyclist

passes on my silent breath.

Windows grey with leaving day.

Creamy patches on the eggshell

curtains. Scrunched and tightly wrinkled.

 Frowning hunkered chairs conspire

together. Before the dappled windows.

Sunny phantoms of the atoms

melt upon my iceberg mind.

Tired Writer

Gentle moss sleeps

Between the stiff grey crags

Outside my door.

Upstairs my ghost creates

stories within the memory flat

I have no key for.

Writers voice complains

in my jar of skull crammed scrap

his sullen war

and who’s to say what notes cannot be played?

Outside, a fat and throaty bird is coughing…

Shall all my keys lay dusty with the weight

of our traditions? Every balding faith?

…in elbow holding breeze. An empty morning.