Sky Shadows

I’m not sure if you flap or buzz but I see your shadow in the sky.

And everything is thinly veiled threat, an entity easy to despise.

I hang up a bird feeder for you to gorge upon,

And whistle in the night with a badly written song.

D December 2018

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Will I Make March

My personal plan with WordPress expires in March 2019 and I’ve already had the hassling emails about price increases etc (well technically you now have to pay for the domain on top of the plan, which in my books is basically a price increase).

So though I may have 200 followers, only 20 odd are active and I’m not sure I want to fork out that amount to continuously spout bad Poetry from the mouth of a bipolary. If there’s a free plan I can default to in March I’ll stay, if not we’ll I guess my Web page precence that first started in 1999 comes to an end. To think I once live streamed to 60,000 music fans. How the world turns.

Will I miss it. Probably not. I have made something more precious than net infamy, something that can’t be quantified or packaged and sold. Nor will I let it be indexed here.

{Third week without a cigarette to}

Peace D

Rules of Engagement

There, in ink and sweat we set our rules of engagement. Honour bound and sacrament.

Then in the raging fire your bore a break, to every line, to prove your feigned stake.

You rattled my armour, melted my plastic soldiers, but if this thing we have dies, it’s on your shoulders.

Maybe it’s just been so long that you thought the rules of engagement had changed, time may pass but my vowels cannot be rearranged, for a convenient future … where you upstand in the platinum reign.

D December 2018

Minnow

“I read your poetry so I don’t need to know you.” So a few lines of text have defined my hue, my colour, my essence, wrapped up to be neatly disposed.

Did I toil night after night on those words no, but your lack of interest shows, the world has a shallow end with minnows like you, who would never be impressed by anything I said or do.

It’s a shame but that’s how the world spins, and when I stare at the moon it will be quite easy to forget that you, maybe, are staring at it to.

D December 2018

The moderate

I’m the extremist when I want to be the moderate, before I fall for the benign.

I’m the speed of a jet fighter before the sports car, slowed down till I’m cycling on the line.

I am the dead shot in the heart, before the miss of the shoulder, till I fail to load my quiver.

I’m the raging alcoholic where 100 is never enough, 1s to many and none donates a healthy liver.

I’m the trip head lost in a psychedelic dream, the one who will never try that again, before I fall for reality.

I’m the hesitation marks on my arm, before the thought that pain would numb it all, till I fall to the crying in the corner with dark voices in my head who threatened such fatality.

I ride up, I ride down, I’m the moderate that rides around.

D December 2018