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]
Sting in the Tail [sonnet]
He opened the box, carefully looked inside
then sniffed the air which seemed to have no scent
of any former mouldy calcified
unedifying, ossified event.
He climbed into the darkness which he knew
from many other boxes of this kind.
Believing he could trust his overview
he danced with joy — but soon was undermined.
Just when he thought that all was light and clear
some pointed thing swept through the air above
and struck his bare unguarded fearless rear
(it didn’t feel like friendship or like love).
So from now on he has no more excuse.
Such nicely-packaged scorpions won’t seduce.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Out of this World [sonnet]
There’s only one sole place I want to be;
it isn’t on a map or on this earth.
It can’t be found through using geography
Not even if you look for all you’re worth.
You will not guess it using logic’s brain
nor with a compass will you this spot find.
If you should search too much you’ll go insane
(unless you see it’s just a state of mind).
For even though I’ve longed to have this dream
fulfilled for longer than I can recall;
there’s something dark about its central theme
which from all sense of comradeship does crawl.
The place of which I speak cannot be named
The answer’s in the fish which was proclaimed.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
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
No Single Flower’s Scent [sonnet]
Your beauty does not rest in your body
or in your face or any other place
or in the manner of your hot embrace
(although they are its part-epitome).
Neither does it lie in your clothing schemes:
sweet floral printed dresses, clogs in black,
Doc Martin lookalike lace-ups (thick-track)
nor sleek long evening dresses made of dreams.
Such things are tokens of your beauty’s art —
some facets of a diamond’s surface scan
or lesser details from a painting’s span —
warm showers (not a deluge) on my heart.
For though your beauty bursts like buds through earth
no single flower’s scent tells its full worth.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
Teething Brain [sonnet]
I know I said I give my all to you
(and you said I am yours and you are mine)
but what I said was not completely true;
for one square centimetre I decline
to send across the empty frozen waste
which fills the space between my shape and yours
and hope it doesn’t leave an aftertaste
of unfulfilled and misplaced metaphors.
The reticence you sense within my heart
(a temporary teething state of brain)
is so I will adjust to taking part
in soaring altitudes without the pain.
I never flew this high or far before;
so please forgive me while we both explore.
© 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).
Fuck “Lagom”!
Fuck “Lagom”! That’s what I say. Let’s feel everything as much as is possible – experience everything hotly without rage or bitterness. Let’s express our passion and joy to the highest degree – no holding back – no defence systems – no walls – no barriers – no games. Weep with the suffering. Grieve with the griefstricken. Stand up boldly for the oppressed and all victims of injustice. Never cross the road to avoid defending/supporting a fellow human being on your own side of the road. Love with all lovers. Sing with all songsmiths. Laugh every laugh there is to be laughed. Treat convention as if it was a dinosaur – extinct and alien. Let conformity drown in its own vomit. Let mediocrity choke on the dregs. Let’s follow our hearts if we know they are true to the spirit of life and love. Then, at least, we can die with a clear conscience…
The Naked Troubadour 