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EN ROUTE BY TRAIN TO UFA

Part 2 after Setting Off For The Soviet Union in 1970 ...
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/ / Journal / 7 Comments on EN ROUTE BY TRAIN TO UFA / 246 words / /

To a Bagel

Little puffy girdling bagel, all lonesome in your see-through cradle, what shall I smear across your navel, peanut butter? Some jam scooped up in a sturdy ladle the size of a putter? You’re incomplete and yet you fill me fuller than a hotel bill, far more than any wafer will. On the table, jam, in haste, begins to spill and stick the label. As I approach you with my cutter, tongue abuzz and gut aflutter, ...
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/ / Burns stanzas, Poetry / 6 Comments on To a Bagel / 100 words / /

a path well trod (venus in a red dress pt2)

the broken cello sprawled on a pile of flea market debris caught Angela’s eye as she rummaged for carrots and cabbage for soup its neck was snapped she soon fixed that with Christmas wrapping sellotape and sat on her sunset balcony miming - it had no strings – to a Brahms quartet on the wireless set money was short, the rent unpaid one room was all she could afford until his promised cheque arrived all ...
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a life frozen by a moment of time

walking an empty pathway blocking out pregnant silences by burbling nervous nonsense until in a pool of darkness between two lampposts’ yellow light Rebekah put a finger to my lips held my face between warm palms kissed me. said she loved me - but she would never be free.   she wiped tears from her face and wiped tears from mine.   at home I pulled my curtains tight against moonlight and the creeping dawn ...
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Discussing Tommy Robinson with Liberal Leftists

          Muslims are a race!           You fascist nipple-face!           They can’t be criticised!           Screw your racist lies!           Freedom? Go to hell!           White men rape as well!           Why don’t you scream your bile           at pale-faced paedophiles?     ...
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RAIN AFTER DROUGHT

a poem in memory of a friend who also loved rain ...
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/ / Poetry / 66 words / /

I Don’t Much Like The Rain

This is a rewrite of something I first penned in 2004.  Mind you, the core of it might be the same, but I have massively rewritten it ...
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on considering a photo of an old friend

on considering a photo of an old friend     your picture in my album is you but the image is not you not the you I knew so well the smiling esprit sardonique whose rapier thrusts and ripostes flew above the heads of dullest ears who laughed without knowing smiled without understanding saw you without seeing. and thought they knew you   some wanted to own you they dared not say so.   the ...
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The Road to 1688

The popinjays in parliament are fat from lack of effort as foreign gentlemen who’ve strangled children in a desert, invited by a German witch, come waltzing with their four-inch excited camel-prodders oozing heatstruck lust for more minge, past Bollinger-soaked Bolsheviks whose every judgement mutilates and sporran-jingling Scottish “nationalists” who dream of superstates to kitchens where they’ll cook up cocktails. Ricin, Agent Orange, all rich in spice that can’t be soothed or sated with a lozenge ...
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(a) broken home

recent reworking ...
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/ / Poetry / No Comments on (a) broken home / 304 words / /

Go to sleep my mummy said

go to sleep my mummy said as she tucked me up in my bed let mr sandman send you a dream  and please tonight try not to scream sleep well my precious little one now your busy day is done theres no monster hiding behind your door or crawling about on the bedroom floor the nightmares are not really real no matter how scary they actually feel your safe here and free from harm so ...
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I am not bound by these walls

i am not bound by these walls for they talk to me in the night whispered words that drip sweetly into my mind showing me things that i should not see a liquid ectasy of crawling madness that devours and consumes my fragile reason... i am not bound by these walls even when they try to cloud my world with sweet treats that leave a bitter taste in my soul leaving me to wonder who ...
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Western Society is Going to Collapse

The overdraft is plummeting to trillions and trillions. Satanic banks are bloating into ruby-crowned leviathans who clamp their clenching, flexing, metal-knuckled, hairy tentacles around democracy’s and freedom’s fast-retreating testicles. Murder-merchants, cardboard cut-outs, billionaire Don Juans grace the White House. Up ahead glint grinning petroyuans. In desperation, flares are shot into an Arab’s bonfire right next to where a taunted Russian bear repairs his empire beneath an evening sky that gasps with flailing thunderclaps. Western society ...
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and in bright morning

  Jenny’s alarm clock stabs my attic it’s 6:30 on a frost-fern window Saturday morning in coal-house January 73   I’m jerked awake cold, bleary  my teeth are crumbling. the bandage on a septic sore is leaking pus from a red line from armpit to fingertip  others spread feet to groin                                                                 last month’s last week’s last night’s whizz is fast eroding me    I need to get high I need bombers I need a ...
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/ / Poetry / No Comments on and in bright morning / 385 words / /

Chuck

Chuck     after midnight and too much tequila booted from the Bar Tropicana my nose feels broke   taxis ain’t running means a long stagger back down siling rain-swept alleyways   I kicked the door open the clock crashed from the wall to the kitchen floor   I propped it half-cock against the ‘World’s Best Dad’ cup I stole for the kids to award to me – so many years ago   the clock ...
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/ / Poetry / No Comments on Chuck / 393 words / /