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I’m bored again, dear God, you big beardy bodyguard parked on your cumulus, captain and protector of the planet (so the Pope keeps typing onto his computer), so why catapult catastrophe, why visit our writhing lives with visions of hefty thick filth shifting from human life to life and shore to shore, why? Through hubris or something? Nothing here absorbs me, obvious advice just clogs me up as I jumble towards new subversive adventures. Hopefully ...
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Intro: up to 50 words (delete this text and enter your own) ‘I’m planning on springtime and warm April showers,’ said the weather. And the daffodil listened deep in its bulb, curled with its flower buds tightly together. ‘Unwrap your green leaves and prepare for the sun,’ said the weather. The rain it fell warmly on unfrozen earth, warmed by the sun, and wherever that warmth touched with green thumb, life began stirring. ‘Get ready ...
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Benjamin O. Zephaniah, past drug-test, beyond breathalyser, imagined a world free from bigotry’s squelch, in which all Negroes spoke Welsh. Jawaharlal Pandit Nehru had rather a sensible hairdo. First leader of India, best friend of Gandhi. That must’ve come in quite handy. Leon Davidovitch Trotsky, though Russian, I’m certain, could not ski or use any snow-tool. Just think of the seismic trouble he had with an ice-pick. Oscar O’Flahertie Wills Wilde at the end of ...
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'Virus, an avatar of Vishnu' is a poem for your reading and invaluable comments. Please read when you have the time. Thank you for your support. You have a wonderful and a safe day.  Please read by clicking here ...
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Intro: up to 50 words (delete this text and enter your own) ...
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Adolf Hitler was peeved that Germany was littler than Russia. He didn’t invent the walkie-talkie. But proudly, he invented the marchie-shoutie. Osama bin Laden at the turn of the millennium achieved stardom, one of his finest hours, when he may or may not have knocked down the twin towers. Charles Bukowski didn’t always have a house key and was usually sunk in a depression and drunk. Erich Maria Remarque wrote that trench warfare was no ...
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new ...
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On a leafless lane, No first no last. No windward blast. No sun to burn the palest flesh. No script to follow. No shadow thrown No sod to turn. By man nor beast. No parallel to draw. No words on which to feast ...
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There was an old churchman from Limerick who believed his behaviour was chivalric, for he only would force himself on a horse in the boundaries of his own bishopric. There was a young lady from Penge whose minge was as wide as Stonehenge. Her vaginal fluids would froth like some druids were brewing a spell of revenge. There once was a young man from Norwich who squirted his panhandle-porridge into his sister. Their son could ...
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Martha’s Vineyard is running fat with high-end Bermudas Melissa Odabash beachwear - well-heeled bohemia let’s escape take a boat trip to Nantucket we loved that spring  at the cedar-shingle hotel with the creaking rusting sign and the little grey creaking maîtresse de maison who brushing the stoep with a besom broom sang Huguenot villanelles each day before dawn racing rattling bicycles down Main Street cobbles, showing off, you fell off and hobbled the holiday with ...
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I’ll say that compliments can hurt you and men should all obey a curfew, believe in nothing but my virtue, just please, don’t call me sexist! I’ll claim to praise the female shape is just another form of rape, I’ll liken Mozart to an ape, just please, don’t call me sexist! I’ll nod along to your complaining that when a male remarks, “it’s raining”, the bastard’s guilty of mansplaining, just please, don’t call me sexist! ...
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The wilting flower must close its head, The sunlight’s gone the night is still, Not a whisper, so you sleep tight, Awake tomorrow, to open again, Breathe gods air to make life pure. Amongst the chaos & the gloom, Dancing gracefully with the wind, We think of you and anxiously wait, To witness your beauty again, in the mists of early morn. Like the sunflower, Turning to look at the light with laughter, And with ...
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O’ naked oak in the cold winter’s morn, how mighty you look, even in the watery Winter sunlight. How something so grand could flourish from the smallest acorn falling from another, it almost beggars belief. You flatter the least knowledgeable botanist, as every one feels they know you. “I think that’s an oak tree” I often hear them say. Many a story was told down below at the base of the old `door’. If only ...
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Don’t try to prohibit me from saying ‘whore’ or ‘slut’ if you can toss ‘tosser’ at any man you wish to cut and hurl ‘wanker’ like a fast-castrating boomerang at any bloke who doesn’t eat your sour and half-baked meringue. You can fuck as many flesh-bags as your loins desire and I can bash my balls until I’m singing in a choir. Remember that the former is about as big a fuss for you and ...
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(The Lanturne is a five-line verse shaped like a Japanese lantern with a syllabic pattern of one, two, three, four, one) new ...
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