Poems
Inferno’s Archetype [poem]
I think I may just be a closet arsonist.
Although they always try to fit asbestos gloves
around my charred enflamed and probing hands
and make their vain attempts to wash away the
palisade of fire which stands between my brightly
blazing dreams and fortune’s fragile guillotines
I will engulf their crude repressive fearfilled
riot shields with heat-ignited fuel-drenched rags
in bottled cocktails unconcealed. I rain them
down upon their heads until the blanket sound
which marks their vast extinguishing experiment
can be pronounced officially as dead.
For Every Dream which Drowndly Dies [poem]
We turn over the same bit of soil with our clodded shovels
time and time again. Like nodding donkeys on an oilfield’s
dour terrain our motion moves perpetually, verse with no
refrain. Prosaicly [phonetically speaking – note there’s no
mistake] when we’ve finished with our spades we try to
smooth it with a rake! This patterned repetition is embedded
in our psyches as an over-slightly loathesome spikey lump
of worthless writhing superstition. Obsessive-compulsive
behaviour, said the uncredible shrinking man whose lack
of obvious mercy far outweighed the hurting crowd of
interspersed subliminally underversing fountainheads.
If only we could grow some substance to our metaphoric
beards we would find that from then on there would be
no further processes which sanity proclaims as weird
(nessly) charging blame. For every dream which drowndly
dies, ten thousand more will take its place; but only when
some courage makes our unevolving souls begin to grasp
the higher branches with our empty-fingered hands will we
then find our wings to fly and make a stand against the lie.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
This Awkward Art [poem]
This life is a latticework of leftover
drownful dreams which, when painted
with our drainlike thinned-out blood,
leaves desperadoed ebbing stains
of wholly homemade gravy-feigning
pigment wash upon the canvas
brushstrokes’ brave and brackish
left-outsided wilting undergush.
Mosquito Bite [poem]
In the same way that the cowardly
mosquito heatseeks another bloody
victim in its templezone — or indeed
the way that any other parasite
sets up a simulated limpet home
in a place where it does not belong —
those other creatures that I used
to flat revere (but now no longer
even write them in my dreamful
songs) will take the shirt-tails from
your naked arse while all the while
pretending there is no way that they
harbour any interest in your brass
and tell you that they only want
you for your mind (though we know
that they want nothing of the kind).
And thus on goes this stupid strange
unmerry little dance. There’s one
whose tongue is hanging from his
jaw (from which a group of puppet
strings protrude) while the other sees
what she can claw with tooth and nail
from deep within his treasure trove.
And let me tell you now that she with
breathless charm will never fail to
vanquishly disarm the mind behind
that tongue. Carefully using the
attributes which mark her gender out
not only will the tongue be pulled to
full capacity but he, not knowing any
better, will donate his whole entire
savery so long as she will freely give
to him her scraggy loins — he sucks
her flaccid tit, she sucks his limply cock;
it won’t be long before he has a hyper
nasty shock now grasping that it never
was his fire that she sought but every
little thing which glitters, everything he’s
ever bought. And so the dance goes
vainly on. At one time it would be that
she was seeking someone who would
give her safety when, with child, she’d
need protection in the wild; but now
it’s just a pale reflection of that primal
primitive desire. For sure it’s not to make
the offspring safe (for she is far too
selfish to with him create another life;
she doesn’t even want to be a loving
wife!) but solely to accumulate the
gleaming wealth that someone else has
earned. Eventually he will then be soundly
spurned when — with all his stuff long
gone — she, like the mosquito in that
stagnant swamp, has found another skin
to prick (another prick to skin) though
neither dancer taking part, unless they
have a change of heart, can ever truly win.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
e Acute [poem]
Why did you even bother? she said,
her voice a shrill and questioning siren
smiting him right upon his crinkled brow
like a smoothful stone hurled from the sling
of some crazy catapult’s foolish frightened
introverted now but outer hebridean
drowning lowly browness (yes the colour
and the dreaded level too). Although
it matters not a bloody jot if the ship sinks
slightly into view. Again and so she rankled
with that temple-beating bleating tone:
Why did you even bother? [He groaned]
Unformed Dreams [poem]
doors
open
slowly
when we will not dream
(if they can come ajar at all).
With arbitrary molten glaze
my veined unfickle hand
plucks verdant schemes
for substance cannot
stand [or fall] unless a
loose pituitary gland is
basking in a daystar’s
earthy radiant core for
when we cannot gleam
with streams of lunarticly
lava flow then evolutionary
calmic levels cannot grow and
even all our raw and unformed
dreams
wilt
wanely
© 2012 Alan Morrison
Dildo-Generated Slime [poem]
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]}.
I Loved you Long Before [poem]
I loved you so before I’d even seen you in your nowly flesh.
Something in your picture softly spoke to me of centuries
of enmeshed complex close relations needing now no
further complications but the thrust of straight simplicity
and gentle searing scald of love which, although already
having bloomed and blossomed down those many years,
is still in need of modernising (most of all of harmonising)
if no further detrimental influence of history interferes.
The Unclosed Door [new poem]
I thought the door was loudly closed
forever with the tightest slam; but,
forgetful-minded man that I often am,
I did not see the gap beneath that
fatefully swinging slice of wood;
for the door, not being as sealed
and clickened as it should, could not
shut out the light from suns in far-off
friendly worlds which stole their way
below the barrier clench of bitter
fences stradling stenches wrenching
me away from where The Plan would
have me be (in tune with every word
in all my heaving hearting poetry).
She’s a Thoroughbred [poem]
I’m going to steal your broken heart, I said;
but not by force for that would be beyond
the dovetailed frame of love and peace.
If I could have your unmuted consent I’ll carry
it away and in my funfurred lair we’ll play.
Love makes me nervous, said she; her
coolness startled by my earthy brevity.
And from her glazed expression I can see
I made a strange impression on her
lifelong gathered concentricity.
The Naked Troubadour 