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Humour in a Foreign Language
Humour in a Foreign Language I heard your voicemuffled in the swirlof the Nautilus Room. Heard you laughingin a language Ididn’t understand, as if humour isbreath. Or DNA.Humour should be a birthright, like2 ears and a nose. Like free speech. And the room fallsabout laughing. Youhave them all rolling in the aisles, andspeaking a languagethat’s…
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Of Flu and Gloom
A Small Girl Wearing Angel Wings She’s as faithful as a tree,standing there,singing,small hands cold as blue light,she takes a coin here and there,sings on the corner of 1st and Hythe Road,stands with a man from the Mission,she’s like a dove,a flushed joyful point in this flu and gloom.…
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Poetic Bloomings “Hindsight”
Some Things Just Stick In Your Head The only time I was allowed to go barefootwas when I took a bath. Had something to dowith catching worms. Mum wouldn’t allow it. Doubt I’d have caught worms from troddingon pavement, but Mum was raised on a farm,and some stuff just sticks in your head forever. My…
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The Best Laid Eggs
The Best Laid Eggs and as I peel eggs today, the soft white flesh sticking to the shell, and tearing away in ragged clumps, My thoughtsWander away withThose words pumped up with helium,Words that escape the tongueAnd rise into the sky like smokeAnd vanish as we sleep, …
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for Sunday Whirl #487
I Saw No Christmas Star Last Night because city light breathes and sighs a gloomy gasp, like dogs barking at quicksilver across the sky, and the moon grows fat, a hanging light that shines the sky …
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Of His
Of His Of his pants,and vests,and corduroys,and Fair Isle snowflake knits,and his socks thatlint all over everything,and the extra strong Polo mintthat went through the washin the pocket of his jacket, but I ate it anyway,of all those things, I lovehis bathrobe most. © Misky 2020
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A Bloodhound Stare
A Bloodhound Stare I sidestep menwith Cyrillic cipheredtattooed arms,men ruinedby drink, androtting from the inside out.Men who sleep awaytheir narrow days,scarred with memoryand a bloodhound stare.I’ve known such men. They’re a spreading stain. © Misky 2020
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A Golden Shovel for dVerse
Under the 500 Spires of Prague It’s the same dream of 500 golden spires, hereby the fast-flowing waters of Bohemia. Areyou and I just vanished reflections off theold Charles bridge? Are we the fallen red tulipsthat are rolled and floating into damp buddedfolds? We stroll the ridge of mortar rot, andfeed stray dogs our bread.…
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dVerse Goes Gothic
An Unscented Rose She stoodon the hillaloneon the cliff’s ridge,seeing only bleaknessin the sunin the sea, bluewashed curtained sky. Gone.Donewhen his carriagewas drawnand broken.His journeyblackened into descent. His onyx-black coffin,a processionwith those unscented roses.Why, too, did theirfragrance escape. Where she once stoodwhere the sun settledinto night’s ruins,where stones throwthemselves from cliffs,where she neversaw the quietof…
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Twiglets #207
You Can Always Trust a Monkey Oh, yes, I peel bananaslike a monkey, and And I love soft ice creammoulded like Plasticine. And I itch, I scratch,I hoot and scowl, I am a monkey,an emotional ape. And I hate the cold,and growing old. I’m grey and silver, beholdthis pale old drape. I tumble. I stumble…
It's Still Life 