The old, man the boat.
The young, eye the coast.
The withered, face the ropes.
The strong, head the course.
The old man, the boat. The young eye, the coast. The withered face, the ropes. The strong head, the course.
Headfirst into the headwinds ahead,
the headwaters headhunted,
and the headcount quartered.
The headstrong headman
headquartered at headsail,
headed to his quarters.
Three Sea Birds
Sail the seas to seize the shore, They're sure to see a stork or storm Or sword to sheath in store for swarms Of shoreless seamen, sworn before Some oath in scorn, who owe succour To those that suffered so before,
Struck sore by oars in rows of four Three stone cold sober sea birds soar.
This is no country for lovers
Unwritten rules it's too afraid to write, Unwritten wrongs it's too afraid to right.
That you have to be coloured or collared white, unless you're going to be an oversight - Can't get over sight.
Matters at hand, but how many hands matter, When gluttonous people push profit into pockets of pigs who just keep getting fatter.
What kind of butcher lets their pigs slaughter? The kind that kills for skin and not meat, The kind that sells everything it can see, The kind that holds a grin and a grudge and a gun and a badge and men in a pin and pigs in a blanket, To sleep sound, Without the sound of a pin drop or a gun shot.
This is no country for lovers, This is no country for love.
Reachable
Even hidden in the highest branches of his jackfruit tree, the primate reaches him.
One opposable thumb to the trunk, three tactile touches for it to turn,
that's all it takes.
The first few seconds, tethered back and forth
until the fruit falls disposable.
Made possible, by all things decomposable, and all things impossible, made supposable.
Jack can climb a bean stalk, or go up a hill, but can't hide from a man, a woman, nor Jill, an ogre, another, not even his mother,
there is no seclusion, since stories got colour.
Betty Beige Empty page in her epilogue.
Autobiography still with no conclusion 'cause the ending's wrong.
Hands folded, until the book has ended and folded.
Hands hover over coats of overcoats, hard cover.
Hard candy, apples in her pockets. Drawing book worms, save for lockets that now, look like urns
inside her coat, inside the
nooks and cranny's are crooks and nanny's, cooks, and granny's cookies, and the
dandy damned damsel Daisy Doll,
who wined and dined her dying husband Danny 'til the end, yet Betty stands that to this day, remains her dearest friend.
wishing she -this lady of flowers, blank blush and frizzy hair- would occupy my headspace in only pretty, sheer riviera, rocking chair dreams.
Where she's ought to be the fairest I've seen. I've been sitting here -on this doorstep- for some odd fifty years, looking at my phone subtly, for some reason hoping you judge me, pretending I don't see what's above me, or beside me, as if I didn't see this sign that says love me. My thoughts, behaving like I missed all those signs that say she loves me. Somewhat hoping someone is looking at me from across some street, seeing my signs of solace sitting in this silent something. I hope for some brief moment they love me.
De-escalators deescalate
a
De-escalator
Descends
Down
Drops
and
Declines,
Designed
not
Destined
for
Despair,
but
for
Development
in
a
Different
Direction.
Quotes from a renaissance man
"I'd be lying if I said
I wasn't thinking about dying"
Lamented the dye-worker.
"I'm starting to get
tired of trying"
Boasted the rugby player.
The dawn of me was torn to shreds. An awful, peaceful, morbid death. and on my leave, in mourning's breadth, Fell autumn leaves, felled morning's breath.
Fall spawned me bleeding, born by breast, What dawned on me, my orphaned best. What's gone is free to mourn in rest, From onwards these are dormant steps.
James Clave 