burn, baby, burn

busted thoughts
and scathing pen
daring me
to write
again

I fight with
every syllable
punching every
pit of
bull

my musty brain
begins to crank
pulverising
banter’s
bank

grinding words
to cobblestones
that skip the path
to future
poems

that’s all I’m of
these words internal
scorching me
until
inferno

burn, baby, burn

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Floating On You

do you want me to care
do you notice i’m there
running up your street
knowing we might meet

i’ve been yearning so long
can this feeling be wrong
i don’t want to say
in case you turn away

’cause i am floating on you
yes i am floating on you

what will happen to me
will these words set me free
from this lover’s curse
scenes that i rehearse

round and round in my head
driving me from my bed
sanity you call
but you’re no help at all

for i am floating on you
yes i am floating on you

the weekend

Siorse held the bag of Saturdays and Sundays tightly
She was now Supreme Monarch of the weekend!
She looked neither left nor right when she crossed the roads..
Who would dare demolish an institution?

It had proved more difficult than expected
to collect them
Once they had been so isolated from the week days
now there was much less distinction
Still, she had been able to supplant them
successfully with
a button

A skilfull and swift interchange

From now on she would use all her patience and wit,
buoyed by her new social status
to monitor their occasional
day release

First published in Crannog