Month: Apr 2016

Demolition Man [poem]

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Strip me!” said she.
“Oh I will,” said he.
“Rip them off me!” said she.
“Oh, the thrill!” said he.
But it wasn’t to be as she thought.

Then he gave her a look
which she couldn’t understand.
She was waiting for his hands
to start to rob her of her clothes.
And then he dropped the bomb:
“I’m Demolition Man
It’s not what you suppose.”
“But you told me that you love me.”
came the puzzled voice
“And indeed I do,” said he.
“So why,” said she, “will you not start
now with our time of debauchery?”

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My Endless Time-Machine [sonnet]

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By beauty do not let yourself be fooled.
I mean the outward sort (not from within),
upon which many foolish men have drooled;
for glamour’s not the way love should begin.

Even demons make themselves seem charming
and will impersonate a shiny coat
to their advantage (so, then, disarming).
For over human weaknesses they gloat.

Thus now whenever beauty comes my way
in human form, I smile and check my heart.
My X-ray vision then comes into play
to pierce through skin into a deeper part.

When beauty comes from somewhere that’s unseen,
then love flows in my endless time-machine.


© Alan Morrison, 2016

Stroboscopic Alchemy [poem]

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If words were flags and metaphors were flashing lights
then all you’d see would be a mass of semaphore and
stroboscopes from little me (now situated on the edge
of what is euphemistically known as Crusoe’s Galaxy).
So far am i from anchors in the sea or other elements
of what would usually be regarded as stability, I float
with wings which came from Icarus [but suit me more].
Those things which are regarded by the iceful hoardly
maidens of today as being of worth, I have none at all.
For gallantry and wordplay are not valued in the main
and all i have is journeys to the moon and salty tears
& sweetsome meadow mattresses for lazy afternoons
in summer rain of tantric love — electric fingers search
in lovejuiced walls which wrap themselves around my
probes as if within a glove (for this is where they true
belong) and all the world (if seen as an agglomeration
or accumulation of its cells & atoms energies unknown)
is one vast throbbing wave which dreamed itself into
some form our puny drownful brains can understand;
and these are just a handful of the things which i can
give to you, if you will walk with me a little way (please
tell your mother that i’ll not be bleeding you astray).
For silver and fool’s gold i do not own, if taken in the
normal mundane sense of 3-D lucre’s ragged paper trail.
But in my heart there lives an alchemy machine which
processes the fountains of my soul into etheric heaps
of wealth which only can be seen then held by hands
of those who’ve bid themselves goodbye — i’ll know
their mindset when I’ve looked them wholly in the eye
& kissed their inner thighs with more than just my lips.
So let me know if off the edge of Crusoe’s Galaxy you
wish to leap. There’s nothing left to lose. And what’s
the worst which could ensue? The partial death of U.
That’s all! For those who seek to save their lives will
lose them anyway. But those who LOVE to sacrifice
themselves upon the altar of abandoned ego’s hope
will never go astray. So have you seen now what my
flags are signalling & stroboscopic lights are flashing
through this frozen aeon’s slender branchlike tendrils?
There’s nothing here to own or grasp within your hands.
But better to have breathed in nectar’s sweet invisibility
than believe that earthly ersatz property will set you free.

© Alan Morrison, 2016

The Waves of a Woman [sonnet]

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A woman’s like a wave you have to ride.
She ebbs and flows — receives you on her swell;
expects you to discern her crimson tide —
to know her stormly undulations well.

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Choose your Crazy [sonnet]

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Two kinds of crazy live here in the main:
“A” doesn’t fit (square peg in a round hole);
Whereas “B” thinks s/he’s normal, straight and sane.
B “belongs”; A has fire in the soul.

At home on the earth in its 3-D form,
all the Bs think it’s cute to be anchored
in flesh — enmeshed in a straitjacket norm,
with their spirits enslaved, quelled and conquered.

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There are no Mismoments

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Nathan receives his Mission from Livinia


IS RAIN MUSIC? Not necessarily. But the sound it makes on everything is more than a symphony. Nathan was listening to the first movement. It started with a largo and soon became an allegro moderato. It was emblematically washing away the dirt (and bruises) which still clung to him from his close encounter with the Police Specials like clumps of cobweb and burrs. So cathartic was the experience that he wandered about in the wetness for what seemed like hours.

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What we Honor [poem]

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Oh, by the way, there’s something I must nowly
say to you: That lovely face of yours on which
you lavish so much slavish concentration — e.g.
mirror-time and paint — will not be here for long.
You’re just a temporary Graphical User Interface
(or GUI) within this world for someone you forgot.
What’s more, no matter how you try, you’ll never
stop that face from being worm-food in the earth.
The beauty which you think you see will surely rot.
It’s coming soon; you’ll then learn life’s true worth.
And with a cheeky smile I say the person who you
think you are’s the one who you are definitely not!
And if that seems too riddlelike for you to handle
at this tender time of day, then crack the code so
you will understand & know yourself without delay.

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Sharpened Soul [poem]

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Last night, in my delirium (avec un peu de fièvre),
delicious though it weaved my swollen words,
I dreamed and saw with calm uncustomary clarity
(according to the winsome voice I swoonly heard)
why I had come to sojourn in this cloistered world
a tiny while (my weeping heart not merely style).

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