The Naked Troubadour

A hairless hand
(unusual in those parts)
engraved a penny-patterned
wholly grown-up bridal gown
as if full hoping waves would
come and quickly drown
the cusp of matrimonial ties
so slenderly extolled with
e m p t y smiles
unmeant words
futile gestures
meaningless as
ancient fossilised
powdered turds

I seize a human by her shoulders
my eyes fixed on hers
and mutter greatly
Is there anything you feel
which hasn’t been decided for you
by your flashing screen your ersatz hormones
your angry heroines who set themselves
to be your chaperones and rule you
from their plastic thrones of academia?

next I turn to him
and grab his grubby tie
within my tight ferocious fist
a scream emerging from my
wide expresstrain mouth
And as for you you wimp you cowardy
custard yellow-hearted so afraid
you never even farted in the face
of cruelty’s cavernous
cold licentiousness
when will you take a truly stand
and not betray the hand which
(if you only knew it)
feeds your every second’s saving
from the grave
for this sprained and weary globe
keeps spinning on its axis
solely through the presence
(thus the intercession to the heavens)
of the few whose entrails
smear your pristine path
an inconvenient cabaret
(and hellishly to your dismay)

This I said to both those human shapes
one more curved and round
though both were cringing at the sound of
where on earth have your hearts been
so lacking in red blood and spleen
your ideas fixed to match your
[blind deaf dumbly never count the cost
but only see the sumly]
|cul-de-sac|

Because I hung there upside down
my tears fell not upon my cheeks
but on my furrowed forehead’s frown
on their flood journey to the ground

© Alan Morrison, 2013