Month: April 2012

Borrowed Time [sonnet]

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borrowed_time

Like Autumn leaves I live on borrowed time
before the parched and brownly breeze-dried branch
becomes a lifeless dusty paradigm
and all my sparks dissolve in avalanche.
Four times a taste of death has struck with force;
yet every watershed in which I swam —
despite the piercing nature of the course —
has shaped my world and made me who I am.
But whether this has been for good or ill
can only be determined by the wise
for my own judgement’s wet and tender eyes
were early clouded by a bitter pill.
One thing I know: my life hangs by a strand
and soon I’ll know what lies beyond first-hand.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

The Way you Do [poem]

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the_way_you_do

No one ever loved me in the way you do, my love.
Your presence almost blinds me with its pristine
thereness while all the while my acute awareness
haunts itself to see I’ve always given far more
than I ever got and all the whirly-burning needs
which filled my soul were left outside to rot like
afterbirthful bleeds as wound-up uterinal inserts
swirled around my spermicidal polka-dotted
disenchanted slow-garrotted thunderous desire.

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No Single Flower’s Scent [sonnet]

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no_single_flowers_scent

Your beauty does not rest in your body
or in your face or any other place
or in the manner of your hot embrace
(although they are its part-epitome).
Neither does it lie in your clothing schemes:
sweet floral printed dresses, clogs in black,
Doc Martin lookalike lace-ups (thick-track)
nor sleek long evening dresses made of dreams.
Such things are tokens of your beauty’s art —
some facets of a diamond’s surface scan
or lesser details from a painting’s span —
warm showers (not a deluge) on my heart.
For though your beauty bursts like buds through earth
no single flower’s scent tells its full worth.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

Teething Brain [sonnet]

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teething_brain

I know I said I give my all to you
(and you said I am yours and you are mine)
but what I said was not completely true;
for one square centimetre I decline
to send across the empty frozen waste
which fills the space between my shape and yours
and hope it doesn’t leave an aftertaste
of unfulfilled and misplaced metaphors.
The reticence you sense within my heart
(a temporary teething state of brain)
is so I will adjust to taking part
in soaring altitudes without the pain.
I never flew this high or far before;
so please forgive me while we both explore.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

Dildo-Generated Slime [poem]

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dildo_generated_slmie

When countless little clownettes spin around
on their own axes with ruthless self-centred
spirals of vanity you know that so-called
civilisation is in countdown mode to some
sort of zero point, whereby all such conceits
will be washed away with their poorly-done
make-up [manufactured or self-generated
masks of hate], borderlineful break-ups
[just about as much as men can take].
Their orgasms they don’t even bother to
fake for — not wanting to give their pseudo
other-half the satisfaction of some come —
they even make him beg for any well-deserved
fun {though games are always on the cards to
mess with your head like dirty shooting stars
which are designed to bring concussion on your
deprecated mind so that at a disadvantage you
will soonly be while they gaudily undermine your
manly prime with their dildo-generated slime
which (once upon an antiquated though so nowly
liquidated time) was laughingly styled as love-juice
[such a taste sublime is now without a solitary
doubt almost (but not quite) impossible to find]}.

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