Poems
Tricorne [poem]
I wear a three-cornered hat.
Not by choice
for on my head it has been thrust
like a prickly crown of thorns;
never before has such a cap
by my sore head been worn.
But on my skull sits
this stereotype
a swashbuckling symbol
of piratonic fantasy
of 1700s military
colonial or pilgrim mode
take your pick
as you wander down the road
in that strange triangulation
into which I softly strode.
Quietly Wonderful [poem]
You are quietly wonderful;
I tell you so you know.
You have no need of accolades
praising fake parades with fanfares
blazing on a stage with prizes
given or a coach by well-groomed
horses driven
eyamsotyred [poem]
eyamsotyred
sotyredofstrugling
struglingtofyndthereel
tofyndsumshellturdlee
sumrelivuns
2maisituayshun
(maibondidgesounfree)
wichecsplaynzwye
evrithyngterndfromm
litetoodarc
wenyungfreshmeewuzbitraid
withowtaneeconshunce
withautevunreelizing
sheewerdooinganeethingrong
hazthewurldreelichaynged
sowmuchthatniytiznaudai
eyamsotyred
tyredofthyngsgoingbump
inntheday
bumpingawaiwithther
wontuninflayshun
andhooammeyeeniwai
toocomplanesezduhvois
inmyehedthinkeyed
rarthuhbeeded
thereyeveseditt
thewurdswichhav
allwaizebeanonmaimind
andinnit
wurdzwoshing
arowndelikemowthwosh
forthebraynethaylthink
eyaminsanebutteyamknot(ted)
insydelykeabaskitov
snaykesandeyamsoverislayked
sotyredsoslaykedeyecarnt
fitethisnomooreforeym
toobattelsoarandbrokt
sochowktinmyesole
nowunnreelikeres
itzorlwunnbiggayme
uvchesstoothemm
eyamaniteandallwaizhavbean
butteyethinkthearisnoplayce
leftforusonthechessbord
coztherooleshaveorlchaynged
owtovallrekognishun
thatizmyestanding
andendgaymepozishun
eyamsotyred
sotyred
ovevreething
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Narcissist [poem]
if he/she/it is a narcissist…
p a u s e…
(can a mere “it” be
a narcissist
for an “it” has no need
to dwell upon itself
for an “it” just isn’t human
so is free from every wretched form
of navel-gazing
ego-blazing
hellfire-razing)
so…
Road Works [poem]
I am lost but strangely calm and unpointed
like liquid mercury on a slopey surface
reflecting the slightness of being and seeing
and reeling and feeling with secondhand
dealing I fill with unrealised urges
I am wound but weirdly free from all harming
like sprigs of lichen on a barkless tree
expecting a dewfall of sighing and highing
while wining and dining on sunaround
shining I feel like a heart amputee
One Huge We [poem]
Sometimes questions come into my head
for which I have no easy answer and
from which I cannot run (though feet
move fast and life is like a blur of
clouds [sky overcast] they loom like
darkened shrouds of knowledge that
I’d rather never know [although to
dreaded places lately I must ghostly go]).
Can a leopard really change its
well-defined identifying antiquated
intricated spots for unicoated uniformly
single-coloured sully-free non-dots?
Love Should Be [poem/sonnet]
Love
[I mean the full real thing
not some bland and pale
embellishment
with little mutual
relishment or one
wherein there is no heat
or where blood runs
through cold blue veins
or where unequal
treatment reigns
or where somehow
with clanking chains
such fetters mean that
passion wanes or where
there is deceit and guile
so naïve hearts are
crudely wiled away
like wood is whittled
knifely deeply down
to pieces on the floor
so separately they lay
togetherness no more]
Love I say
should
be
1
l
o
n
g
orgasm
of
everything
[by which I mean that there can be no trace
of compromise in any words or deeds;
no turncoat treason acts of ‘about face’ —
its garden sown with flowers (pluck out the weeds).
Full truth transparent is my battlecry
against all dull concession trade-off pacts
with all the forces massed to sell the lie
which from our fervent destiny distracts.
For how can heights which we profess to know
become a less-than-blissful dream fulfilled?
To go to higher peaks will mean to grow
if on our frail foundation we will build.
I will not have my love served up lukewarm:
To ecstasy alone will I conform!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Gymnasium [poem]
I’m not a gymnasium, she said,
as my body moved with litheness
round her icy rigid form
on that well-sprung soya bed;
her hoity-toity voiceness
making echoes in my head
(And then the bridge
between the wetness
withered down
in shock(ness)
as my brain sent
vibes of mourning to
my sorry little cock).
The Law of Burdens [poem]
Every burden not picked up
at this stage on the road
if picked up later down the track
becomes a heavier load.
That’s a basic rule of life
which many do ignore;
and I myself have walked away
from weighty loads galore.
I Never Loved Like this Before [poem]
I never loved like this before.
Never been
first
a shooting star
and then
a globule on the floor.
Feelings all mixed up
and blackened and
wrapped around
barbed wire and
flattened and trampled
and strung out and
stretched into break point
with bounteous ardour
(but yet I confess that
I can’t live without her)
The Naked Troubadour 