After Armageddon

After Armageddon
Everything a poet loves
Will be gone

If he loves to complain
About the government
It will be gone

If he write songs
For commercial success
It will be gone

If he dreams
Of a published book of his poems
It will be pointless

If he dreams
Of writing great things
That would be loved by people
It will never happen

He may as well
Pick up a staple gun
And staple ants to the floor
Than write another poem

What will become of us?

Will breasts
Return to the heart
Will blood
Become milk

Will trees
Become animals
Will animals become
The children of the moon?

What will become of us?

Will life become grafted
One creature into another
A herbal woodland soup
With little faces floating in the broth?

What will become of us?

Will trees have feet
Will men have roots
Will women become boats
With wings used like oars

Will eggs from the sun
Roll down
Into little furry mouths
Like pills?

What will become of us?

Will mirrors Become books
Will reflections Become dreams?
Carried by a parade of clouds
Across the hammock of the skies?

What will become of us?

Will you wake up
With the snout of a horse?
Will you be able
To gallop across the fields?

Will our arms Become vines
That birds will come To feast on?

What will happen to us?

One day
Will you wake up
With golden skin
And stars in your eyes?

What will happen to us?

There’s a big glitch

There’s a big glitch in the air today
Very poisonous some might say
As it drinks the blood of the Milky Way
Keeping the glitter but excreting the clay

There’s a big glitch in the earth today
Like a glass snake, that swallows its prey
As everyone looks at the LCD screen
They are eaten up, you can hear them scream

The taste of time on my tongue

The taste of time on my tongue
Is a bitter old penny coin,
Then the menstrual cycle begins
The moon melts in the sky like cheese through a grater.

My heart a mere torn bag of dust
That she dragged down a neglected city street;
It feels like sliced ham now,
It feels like stopping for good.

The key in the fir tree forests dust
Each fir tree pinnacle is a face or a clock
I need an old racing car to take me to the congregation
Before the drip even drops into the bottle.

Time is played with like a guessing game
Tension cracks the clock like an egg
The chick inside explodes like a clockwork spring
A page of the Bible sails into the sky like a magic carpet.


Teacher who are you?
Amongst the turnstiles of mouths
Driving in my wooden car
The wind filling out her blouse

Teacher who are you?
Why do you not appear?
Amongst the stones of the galaxy clock
An ant sized man walking around the ear

Teacher are you really there
Behind the busy black betting board
Striding like a giant amongst the forest firs

Teacher what I mean is
Your old iron hat is made of rust
Do you think you can ever teach
The angels in the dust

Teacher I can see now
The iron in the mould
A newly created word
Is liquid and too hot to hold/speak

Oh the teacher in me
Is slower than the book
That rages history like a fire
Into which I look

Oh teacher are you scared then
The real you has been lost
Does anyone really see you there?
Covered in leaves and frost

Oh teacher why can’t you teach me
Teach me some common sense
“It’s because I am challenged by
A hated woman holding a fence

And in that fence the gate of life
Always seems to be closed
How can I teach you anything?
About where that pathway goes


A woman’s love is needed
I cannot teach alone
A woman’s love is needed
And a happy home

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