Poems

“Are You Shaming Me?” [poem]

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From what I have observed of shame, it has a taste.
Metallic, subtle, sulphurously hiding underneath
one’s gritted teeth, it cloaks itself in sugar-coated
candyflossedish vain houdiniesque derangerous
escapological decay. For people run from shame as if
it was a guillotine or other similarly end-it-all device.
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A Necessary Veil (poem)

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Door in the Dark

Staring longsome at the quietbusy midnight sky,
nostalgia curtseys at the threshold of my soul
as waves of tearful joy unlock what once was
hidden by a necessary veil across my eyes. Read the rest of this entry »

Dispossessed [poem]

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Earthy Forest Floor

Decades of weaving days drove by unnoticed
hobbling slidely through
the unkempt meadow of my brevity.
A fierce uncertain frailness flies in heavenly strands
towards the cracked unmended plate of joy
which earlier in my halcyon days had slipped
out of my tender clumsy hands

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Sonnet 69

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69

So now I reached the age of full consent.
My tongue at last can flutter on some clit —
her mouth a scabbard for my sword (her scent
will make me drunk with love, I must admit).

Until that day, the numbers don’t perform
to make that “three-six-oh” degree design.
But when it comes, there’ll be a thunderstorm
and on each other’s love-juice we will dine.

For cunnilingus is no common word.
Fellatio is equally obtuse.
Now, one year short of seven-oh, I’m stirred
to find some willing darling to seduce.

The time to make those body-parts align
is surely at the age of sixty-nine!

 

© Alan Morrison, 2018

Cloud Cuckoo Land [poem]

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Cloud Cuckoo Land

As I dreamed me through the wilderness of this broken world
I came upon a country where they claim that only milk and
honey flow through fulsome flowing rivers in which molten
lava changed from gold alchemically swirls & writhes & rolls.

And in that strangeful dream of mine, with wide eyes I had
soon observed that every forehead of the herd of humans
(walking in a row) had ‘Wishful Thinking’ slavishly inscribed
(though maybe more precise to say they were lobotomised).

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Winging It! [sonnet]

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winging

We think that all that’s us should be “in place” —
all neatly stored in boxes on a shelf;
until the day arrives you’re face-to-face
with all the secret layers of your self.

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Why? [sonnet]

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Why

Why should existences exist at all?
Why should eternity not now apply
to physicality [I know… the Fall].
Why is there even need for questions why?

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