Poo Corner – Issue 22

NIGHTIES NOW AT HOME, WITHDRAWN

NO MORE WAKING INSIDE AT DAWN

OR THEREABOUTS, LIFTING LIDS, MID-MORN

THEY LAY FOLDED, ASLEEP, UNTORN

WE STILL HAUNT YOUR PLACES BUT CANNOT STAY

THOUGH WE’VE ARCHIVED TEARS, TOO MANY STRAY

ONTO SMILING CHEEKS YOU PINCHED IN YOUR WAY

WE SEE YOU ROUND HOSPITAL CORNERS, SLIPPING AWAY

STEADIED BY THOUGHTS OF HAPPY ROUTINE

BEING HERE, BEING THERE, THE FUTURE UNSEEN

THEN LIPS, PENCIL-THIN DRAW, BREATHLESS THAT SCENE

FINGERING CRUEL DUST, WHERE NOT JUST ANYBODY HAS BEEN

THE CLICK OF A YEAR SINCE SAYING GOODBYE

STILL WAKING AT TIMES WITH THE PAIN OF WHY

BUT USING ENERGIES YOU GAVE ME TO BEAT GRIEF WITH A SIGH

STILL CALLING FOR YOU, IT IS DEATH WE DESCRY

(THAT WORKADAY CRUELTY

WHEN YOU WERE ASKED TO WRITE HER OUT OF FORMAL RECORDS

YOU GRIPPED THE PEN TO STAVE OFF A COLLAPSE

WE, AS MUTE WITNESSES SWALLOWED HARD OUR IMPULSE TO SUPPORT YOU:

WITH A TOUCH, TO HOLD YOU WITHOUT USING OUR TREMBLING HANDS

IMPOTENTLY RESTING ON A COMPOSITE FUTURE EMITTING A PERVERSE BRIGHTNESS COVERING A 15* SCREAM

WE, AT THAT MOMENT INKED INTO US, BREATHED UNEASILY THE WEIGHT OF FORMALITY,

AS FAR FROM AND NEAR TO YOU AS IS POSSIBLE.

IT’S AS IF, SOMEHOW, WE SENSED SOMETHING OF WHAT YOU KNEW AND FELT WHILE YOU  WERE WITH HER, TALKING LONG INTO THAT NIGHT, HOLDING IN TWO HANDS, TWO OR MORE HEARTS TATTOOED ONTO FRAGILE FLESH THAT CONTAINED A GREAT SPIRIT;

YOU WATCHED HER FINAL FALL BETWEEN HERE, THERE AND NE’ER.

WE STRUGGLED TO ACT AS IF NOTHING UNUSUAL WAS HAPPENING

WE STRAINED IN THE WINGS, WAITING FOR A CALL, NONE CAME, YOU STOOD TALL AND GRACEFUL WITH A NARRATIVE SUSPIRE STILL SOMEWHAT WEIGHTED, YOU CARRIED ON KNOWING THE TRUE NATURE OF YOUR SORROW

OUR SILENCE WAS ADMIRATION

OUR WORDLESS UNEASE AN ADMITTANCE OF SADNESS STILL DOUBLED THOUGH ONE LONELY IS TAKEN AWAY. )

POEMS BY THE LESSER KNOWN SCOTTISH RADIOACTIVE BARD, NUCLEAR BURNS.

FUTILE FUEL

Benevolence of our feudal lord

helps keep my cheeks all aglow

but it’s inside that there’s no accord

between my red and white we reap what we sow

they saw my physionomy will potentially mutate

I’ll change in fundamental ways

living a half-life that’s not so great;

twenty thousand years in the dying, nothing’s too late

I SO TO HOPE

Isotope so full of hope

energy to light our way

you are the one true rod for our own back

activity inside us day after day

radiating warmth our bodies lack

hope so full of isotope

FISSION FOR COMPLEMENTARIES

Watt’s happening to our green and pleasantries

a flash of inspiration implodes in us

our pockets blow up inflationary economies

tear at our trousers though it’s not our business

tilting at windfarms easing us round

hot profits rise, no questions asked

futures unclear yet wholly lucrative

for those who know no doubt

as to the whys and wherefores

of speculative certainties

whilst there are those who darn

the windsock of change to keep

themselves warm when direct debits

bounce like old checks no longer in place

and a home becomes a money pit

full of darkness, ignorance and silverfish