Poems
The Love Police [poem]
“Were you looking in your rearview mirror
when the crash took place?”
“No, officer. In point of fact my weariness
from all the disappointments of the race
had deflected my attention
so the driver in the dark
took advantage of my state
and she sneaked up on me
from behind. Thus, I’m truly guilty
of whatever charges you can find”.
Ghostword Graveyard [poem]
[Dedicated to the memory of all the poems that
I thought of in the night which I didn’t record]
if the brain is space infinity
and I owned an endless spaceship
then I could float
and thus rip free
that verse
which I dreamed
in my half-sleep’s
amnesiac sea
My Little Sieve [poem]
I’ve got a little sieve
and it’s sitting on a shelf
in my mezzaninal mind
where it works its sieving ways
keeping fruitlessness at bay —
interference left behind
It’s an automatic sieve
so I never have to force
such a little sieve to work.
In fact the sieved-out parts
make it function with their hearts —
their sievedoutness well-deserved
I am of the Street [poem]
[Dedicated to Mike Robinson, poet & philosopher]
“I am of the street”, said he,
excusing what he thought to be
his uncouth background’s
strain of dark vulgarity.
“Vulgar” was the term he
(over)used, esteeming his fine
self to be devoid of lakeside
views and tender music’s
much-refining me-defining
ever-shining undersea.
The Turning Coat [poem]
I never knew what turncoat meant until I met you r alterego other half posing proudly like a stained old scarf draped around my stranded neckline bent out of shape by treacherous plotlines your face (like your coat) a looming warcrime That ability to turn yourself with gusto into someone else that others want to see even at the expense of trust between you and me is bowdlerisingly bruised and blessingfree The way you become someone altogether other when you feel under threat or imagine that you're vertically smothered is kissofdeathingly drownful for lovers The reversibleelbisrever lining on your coat has, I see, shiny-textured brittle buttons beautifully turnéd out wardly in order to mask so cloakingly the seams which should have gone in wardly Some years were spent in deskbound dread in case that lining would be spread through such indelicate weaveless ease with freezeful woes through polyester's painful loveless undertows across my sizely shoulders broad and burdened ever-ready to receive but all I saw were Autumn leaves and limestone boulders not a stitch to which a searchful man could rightly cleave in time to save a lonesome one nevermind a nonesome nine O how I longed to see that garment lining-free as it should be with you and me just running free bedecked in sequins nothing hidden undersea it's train behind us flowingly while growingly we learn to venture nakedly our skin for coats and all the while ensconced by love without debris © 2011, Alan Morrison
Attitude [poem]
The other day you asked me what I meant
when (distinctly feeling somewhat spent)
I said that we could never be as one
because — to put it bluntly —
you have some thing running through your soul
right across the longtitude and latitude
(the breadth of our derisory domain)
which flies into the fleeting fading face of me:
your Attitude, to coin its proper name
The Cuckoo’s Strut [poem]
Loneliness increases exponentially
according to the vastness of the crowd
which is surrounding me.
A cast of thousands
sends me underground
while being with a carefully chosen few
still means that I just graciously withdrew
to lick my wounds
(which were extensive
notwithstanding
it may seem like nought to you
but my threshold for withstanding
seepage not appropriate to
[as it may well be judged by you]
the social situation’s light demands
is lower than my friends can understand).
Escape Artist [poem]
squeeeeeeezing my way
down this slimy tube no
doubt about it it needs
no lube happening so
fast voices I hear two
of them I’ve heard
before the rest I
do not know I
figured that
the way to
be was
just go
with
the
Snow in May [poem]
Snow
in May!
In the fullness of the day!
I could forgive
a violent vigorous squall
or a wind which bent all
the slowly budding trees;
but a frostful freeze
in May?
I See no Ship! [poem]
You can lead a steed to water
but you cannot make it drink —
a testament to nonconformist beasts!
How strange it is that
(horses notwithstanding)
you can steer a human being
to the hugest pile of bullshit
and
regardless of the stench
the whole decaying heap
whatever the expense
will be by her devoured
The Naked Troubadour 