Poems
“Are You Shaming Me?” [poem]
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)
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]
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
Sonnet 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
Winging It! [sonnet]
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.
Why? [sonnet]
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?
When Troubadours were Bolder [poem]
Seeking ways to free myself from limitations,
I’ve considered all the options still available,
now that this zeal within me has awoken.
& it’s clear that if it cannot be accomplished
through some means which, in a basic sense,
could be described as “physical” (for it’s only
in the fleshly sense that limitations can apply)
then I must think beyond the flesh to find the
things I need — such as a home which doesn’t
crumble or decay (Oh, and some wings to fly!)
A new diagrammatic poem
A new diagrammatic poem for you to “chew” on 😉It started as a dream which woke me in the night then, bleary-eyed, it turned into some words which, in my later waking state, seemed to be strangely right…
© Alan Morrison, 2017
I will not wear a Poppy [poem]
I will not wear a poppy on that celebrated day;
though many others then will feel obliged,
as if by some strange law, to wear that flower
commemorating war. Each year it is revived.
Then one who claims to be offended by the
lack of paper flower pinned upon my clothes
and thinks that all should be like him or her
will be red-faced and full of rage and sternly say:
“How could you scorn the freedoms won by
those who fought so you could see another day?”
Then will I swift reply: What freedoms do you mean?
The “freedom” to be overseen in every little way
and spied on by your disingenuously “democratic”,
pederast-permitting, plastic, gymnastic government?
The “freedom” to live every day enslaved by
drudgeful work, extorted mortgages and rents
and subsequently have no unspent time to play?
To what freedoms could you possibly refer?
The “freedom” to inscribe your X upon a form,
when several years have passed since last you
X’ed that form before (to no avail, of course)
and take part in another manufactured war they
call “election-time”? (You think this is the norm?)
Architect and Arsonist [poem]
Indulging in this new-found pastime
causes an infernal end to many
now no longer worthful stories —
generates incendiary glory —
casting them into a memory-hole
forgettery (or better still déchèterie).
For here I speak of bridges being burned.
“Do not look back!” intoned the voice,
as slowly round I turned my head
but stopped myself instead from
staring at the fiery flameful scene
behind, beyond the chasm of my past,
which now no longer must be brought to
mind, for fire to the rear means ice ahead
which will be melted into something
called the present — an imaginary trick
inside your head which comes up fast
and just as quickly melts into the past.
The Naked Troubadour 