“Are You Shaming Me?” [poem]

Posted on Updated on


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.
Read the rest of this entry »

A Necessary Veil (poem)

Posted on Updated on

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]

Posted on Updated on

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

Read the rest of this entry »

Sonnet 69

Posted on Updated on


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]

Posted on

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).

Read the rest of this entry »

Winging It! [sonnet]

Posted on


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.

Read the rest of this entry »

Why? [sonnet]

Posted on Updated on


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?

Read the rest of this entry »