Mothers of Mope

The marvellous mendicant mothers of Mope
worry about weaning their kids off dope.
Haplessly harried they hardly hold hope
of finding an answer that isn’t looped rope!

Round here the rising sun breaks slow the cloud
which builds through the night
– from the fags dark allows,
yet, none of Mopes mistresses notice,
through rows,
that newly a day is born
– sweet, fresh and proud.

Surely some sapient soul serves to sate
the confusion of questions one’s sure to negate,
in diurnal dialogue done direct and to date…
or so you’d suppose, in most all other states.

Here though, in Mope, the mothers are clear:
we’ll have no free thinking ta! None of that here!
Perish the thought of fresh views or ideas
and hold your big books from coming too near!

The plan goes so simple (it has to it’s true) –
the brideless of Mope know all that they do;
that learning from lessons is theirs to eschew!
Our proliferate pups truly think this their due.

So work on you earners, as hard as you can
Build coin for your country to feed the taxman.
His pennies and coffers are spent
– the grand plan:
Dished out to the mothers
who need what they can!

vicky_2371818b

Polisylum

Standby…
Standby.
Standby you!
Can’t get enough of that magic you do!
Stocks are broke
Oil’s all down the drain
you too get the feeling you’re here once again?
Standby – hold tight –
We’ll shoot when it’s time
wait for the clamour of bangs on the line.

Here’s the latest
broken news
We’ve forgiven Iran
The Soviets too.
Out of their madness and out of their heads
Our greatest have failed
to lead us to death.

Standby anxious
You’re not due yet
There’s time to drop bombs
Our gods hedging his bets
Stately you wait on
The pride of good taste
Please be in no hurry
to rush with the race.

Lautro

gods

The Gods have awoken
and they are smiling!
Not at you
but – for sakes scream – with you!
Your hearty laugh,
for now is the real time
of recompense.

106

Writers Block 1 by Drew Coffman

Image: Writer’s Block 1 by Drew Coffman, https://www.flickr.com/photos/drewcoffman/4815205632/in/photostream/. Words: Bujonswords

Inside

Groan
Pain seeks to find a source
Caught
In the process no one ever thought
Shunned
Left in the dark to find the self inside
Corrupt
So much self inside – better to hide

Inside

Glorious

Ramble, ramble, rumble
In her thighs in succulent thighs
ramble, humble, mumble
Thick in lies
Luscious lies.

As all we wait for something
we can never realise
and burn this twinkling life you hate
and start so many fires…
The answers we may never grasp
while reasons turn to lies
Even as the moths of death
circle nightly skies

A self-wrapped life is meaningless
and pocketed with lies
Just as sorrow for our selfish ways
shows up your mortal eyes.

412

Sulking in old boots and smoking dry tobacco into ringlets of fug there is a beautiful untouchable riding my memory like slow waves. Free to ramble through all my day-to-day wonderings this wisp of a witch leaves hints of her passing arse and brushing breast but refuses to shed light on any corner or artifice?! She chooses instead to skulk around corners and tease from the dark hollows of her once incandescent beauty. I am weak and willing and glad of her smokey company. This mirage of memory kindles warmth in my cold dark thoughts. She is far removed from reality by time in my head and far more intimate with me now, even thru her clouds and footprints… evaporating each time I try to get close.