He was the most Klimt witted man I ever saw
His portraits were pointillistic
His fingers were long and pliant
His face a wire drawing of picasso in old age
His ears like two old beer mugs hung with multiple invisible rings
His shoulders narrow,
his coat hung off wrong;
dead cabbage leaves in moonlight, the effect
His body shapeless,hidden
An old wooden peg, blunt.
Legs hidden like Victorian tables
Feet bare but well shaped.
Too many dots and no eyes.
He was all there
Then he wasn’t.
Read the review section tonight;
books I’ll never read fully
probably;
contradictions like Denmark –
Denmark has the happiest population,
and they’re all on prozac, too.Don’t you see?
There was a new poem by Fiona Sampson;
Mein Kampf is being republished.
Then the complete works of a poet I’ve never heard of,
a school teacher
The TV shows a silenced film of murder in a castle.
I look at email
delete most
And eat my supper from the laptop.
protected by a perfumed spicy mat
my nephew sent from the USA;
it’s patchwork.
My mind is on Furtwangler and the Pastoral
Should we judge artists for their political sympathies?
I ask my distant brother in my head
I won’t mention it when I phone him.
He looked like my twin but I don’t know him
He was always running away so fast, I lost him;
now he’s run down, his clockwork broke.
We mention Krystalle Nacht 1938
He seems surprised I know the date.
He doesn’t know I can’t spell it when I say it
[It was my mother in law’s birthday too]
Now I have lived precisely half my life motherless;
I can’t imagine how being mothered might have been.
I’m lonely.
My libido is dead too.
Maybe I should become another gender,
Or species.
I don’t….
What?
I miss it all.
Conkers and warm cobbles
Playing rounders in the road
Uncle Vince’s car
Cousin Frank could have been a butcher
Threw it up for acting
Played Hitler and a Jewish man in Warsaw
And an incestuous father,barbed wire.
Now he’s dead
He still had thick hair;
But it didn’t matter.
Let your lips meet gently, the top one resting against the lower, touching with tenderness your own skin to skin. Forefinger propped on chin, I let the others dangle, like leaves on a branch; how softly gravity tugs them downwards. Let heart beat quietly,slowly as the blood circulates carrying its music, a river, following the path of least resistance. How the blood vessels receive willingly this flow, touching it kindly as with tiny open fingers, helping and being helped. How the hair on the head floats on the breeze, like tentacles of an octopus waving goodbye. Top eyelid loves the lower one; as we blink they touch like lovers kissing swiftly behind a tree. and how the light comes in we see a world. [mine may not be yours,] but the blink of my eyelid sends waves through the air, so we’re all touching and being touched, lips kissing each other, kiss all living creatures. skin to skin. air to air. And inside us,the rich darkness of creative night transforms,in turn, these touches into dreams.
She thought he was going to impregnate her but he has impignorated her to his best friend.She was very angry and decided t
Blight his troth
But what is a troth?
It’s not quite truth
Wait, there’s more! This word doesn’t usually appear in our free dictionary, but we’ve shared just a bit of the information that appears in our premium Unabridged Dictionary.
Late Latin or Medieval Latin impignoratus, impigneratus, past participle of impignorare, impignerare, from Latin in- 2in- + pignorare, pignerare to pledge — more at pignorate
Trapped in cultivated ways ,we may forget
That usefulness can also be a trap.
Am I the one who never makes a bet?
Am I the one who always has the map?
We are no automata, we are flesh.
And even older brains can be rewired
Maybe we need to clear our boring cache
And light a few more glowing mental fires.
Reluctance seems to cage us with our fear.
Though ,despite our wishes, we all age and die.
Time goes and the end will soon be here
But it is never too late just to try.
It is myself to whom I speak in sonnet form
Anxiety is fierce until we learn.
| We landed in silk and money all right.It was a bank vault with no exit |
| We slandered jilted honeys and got into sin that way.Then we went to Confession gratefully |
| Will the last witch step outside with me?I have a broom but no stick. |
| My past cattarrh came back ten years later.Where did it hide? |
| A cough a minute disrupted my lecture on Silence.It was me! |
| We cursed all the way to the bank then fell in and droned monotonously |
| Play down the law, please.We want a riot tonight |
| Lay the hard ones by Jezebel and she will ripen them all |
| Do wink daily as it exercises the lids of your eyes |
| Do leave your bark outside and bring in your bite |
| Deaf at the altar she missed her vow and ever after lived in sin… well it was not exactly sin,more like misclassification |
| An agenda in his own mind made him deaf to our pleasures,fortunately. |
| A weapon doesn’t change its sports.A gun’s a gun for a’ that |
| Blesser of two evils and a cursor on four laptops.. what a life story! |
| I say,let Byron be Byron for now |
| She let sleeping dogs fly anywhere in the world free |
| Let the bureaucrat spout from the dead or at them |
| let’s roll over the edge of the bed and tell lies on the sheepskin rug |
| Do let’s split our hairs |
| Lick Betty’s wick and give her a new match |
| Clicking sounds on and off compulsively annoys the audience,I find.And you should hear my voicetab.. it’s like tom cat on the prowl |
According to this article it seems all languages were writtenright to left when they were chiselled into stone but after ink was invented then it was better to write left to right to avoid blots.Hebrew already being written so much in stone remained right to left.
As to why some people are left handed,I am ignorant.But it’s awkward for them learning to write with pens
How my heart sings 