Poo Corner – Issue 23

NO ORDINARY JOE

Though travelling strangers

I miss him as a familiar

even my uncertain step

need not faltering

for there were no potholes

no unevenness

Now that the path

has come to a physical end

we light upon a garden

and are at once

at peace

in recognition of

its beauty

Herein he rests

and we need only

wake to remember

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MARK OF PERFECTION

I need to continue the undoing of a perfect dive

I need only to stay the thrashings of my errant tongue

eschew excuses of being seduced by you being alive

your stony glance causes logically eccentric circles

disturbing the somewhat impressive surface

of mawkish music from a lyre unstrung

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SEASONAL GREETINGS

Autumn’s tracing paper greys

coldly etch at tenacious greens

and furrowed, sullen browns

 rest after a hard summer

Streetlights, beacon-like, flare up

in mysterious gloom and flick off

as a sluggish sun takes over for now

Cotton has spun into steel wool

scratching surfaces

to take colour better

for those picture perfect days

of honey gold and envy green

and pragmatic, beautiful blue

framed by serene cream

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Alone.

contemplating

tendrils of connectedness to

vital human beings

Oh, what an absurdly painful joy

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STONE FREE

 You threw in your randomly chosen stone

and fleshed out a cadaverous thought of yestermorn

tearing at the quick, loosening

blood nervous fingers groped

in the past for stained nails

still, you puff out your chest

in absent-minded triumph

and stir even the coldest ashes

though no longer even curious

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TONGUE FLASHING

I peel back my bones

and find only skin,

I prise open my mouth

and release frail bubbles

destined to burst

all too easily

I see around me vitality

pulling, scratching, aching,

yearning, holding, touching,

crying, laughing, loving,

that stirs a feathery quill

scraping intermittently at

blank, thin sheets of wishes

enveloped by inadequate thought:

I cannot be real?

=============================

AN IDEA OF YOU

Tearing at grey matter

for an idea, even a thought

 would do

hearing fatuous chatter

futilely near, divining nought

but you

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Primed, suspected

wrapped up tight as a bomb, culturally bound to say, to touch nothing and no-one;

to reach out merely with a cosmic exclamation, provoking closed caption narratives,

like leaves hustling in a whirlwind,

piecing together reasons for such an outburst.