Prose and Poetry 2009

watching the porridge

Category: Writing and Poetry

she called him bloke and he called her sheila
they were two flies in the bowl of porridge
a fat dollop of raspberry jam sat between them seemed a vast distance
they struggled through the goo
met half way
"do you think this could use more salt, a quintessential pinch?"
"oh, def more sugar than salt would tune it up a cinch"
"oh, I see, I thought salt for tang"
"yeah, that'd be right, just like a man"
"tomato"
"potato"
rolling her eyes, rolling onto her wings, she back-stroked around him
treading porridge, swirling jam, he yelled "alright, alright, have more sugar..."
and with that they parted ways and both sank into their nirvanas
he called her sheila, she called him bloke
a coupla flies in porridge
how nice

(c) joules april fools day 09​

~

...as each note is played the singer refuses to sing
obstinance to the song of life, however, does not stop life......
Was there green wallpaper? I don't recall.
Was there a purpose? Or, none at all?
Into the maze, sometimes, I feel as dirty as a rat
running through reeds,
riverbank pilgrimages where, when deep enough,
another boat shall race pass and soak me

(c) joules
~
inside the black balloon the one I blew into yesterday and then fell inside, stumbling on the rubber, head over heels like a baffoon getting sea-sick.... fearing the pinprick
a thunderous roar
the light comes screaming in
totally surrounded
breathing fresh air
filling the lungs
unsquinting my eyes
I go home and paint the walls white
c joules 160209 for Sana​

if god gave me permission

there is a man I do not hate
there is a man I hate
there is a woman I do not know
there is a woman I love
there is a hurt that I do not mend
there is a hurt that shames me no end
there is a man who hurt you
I am the man that wants to hurt him
If god gave me permission
I am a man of compassion, thinking head, hurting heart
if god gave me permission
I would use my head. That man would be dead.
I would use my my heart. That man would be dead.
There is a woman I love. That man is dead.
Soon, golden sunflowers adorn her pillow.
There is a woman. God gave her permission to be free.

(c) joules​

Walking to the sky

The planes sky high they stare,
No more can i bare,
walking from East to West
while the world flys in total rest.
Why cannot i be like superman?

My goals hang in the sky,
but i cannot fly,
Unreachable, unattainable,
i start to try.
Jump, run, jump.
No closer to my goals,
up there so high in the sky,
but i just cannot fly.

Gravity weighs me down,
my feet plod making sound,
reminding me that i must walk,
another average human bloke.

Today i die in suicide,
I've failed to fly, i mustn't lie, for i, by God, have been denied.​

The average life

I wake up and wonder
Another pointless day
Big Brother is on, Yipee-****ing-kiyay.

The days when i was young and happy,
Do they exist? Only in memory
a fragment, unreliable, idealisation; pure bliss.
Them days are gone, ****, give me my bong.

I wanted to be something, someone,
when i was young;
And people would ask,
What do you want to be, my son?,
A lawyer, a doctor, No! Not me,
I want to be on TV...

If only then i had understood,
life is not about achieving your dreams
So sure i would be on TV i wrote my own show,
building disappointment, ****, i'm so low.

With such hope as a youth,
Why then am i stuck, lonely in bed,
They said. They ****ing said,
But Here i am. Crying slowly in thy bed.

Its 8am, i'm off to nothing,
to eat, to sleep, to feel alone.

The past is gone and the future begins,
full of 'hope' and 'success' my mother beams.
The university welcomes me, the music next door is making me ill
i sit in my lecture, dreaming away, what use is learning policy i say -
To work and die the rest of my day.

Not me, i say, Not me.
Adventure will be me, my game.
I run and jump on a plane, i wonder if dieing will give me my fame.

My rifle shoots, i try to kill, Iraq, this country its such a thrill.
The people complain there is no purpose in this,
While i have a great time aiming at their heads, its brill.
to see them dead is such a kill, addrenaline like drugs, i feel,
This beats football and learning Sundays score, the sound of explosions however is making me ill,
I feel alive, but still my life unclear.

My life was broken, boring and burnt,
Now content i lie, dead.
The grenade just had to hit my head.​

Cyclicity Plods

Heavily, i plod through the drowning earth,
the cracks beneath me becomming like land mines.
The flowers birth;
Short lived
as i trample carefully while the sun still shines.

Dehydration surrounds me,
more weight, additional weight,
i cannot carry on much longer,
the heat and weight is unbareable.

I stop to breath,
'smash',
a pick axe hits my head,
the patch hit has become hollow
through the repetitive actions of my master.

Dehydrated, depressed and abused,
i fall on my side,
i can hear the screams of those behind,
the owner of this site will be sued.

Darkness surrounds me,
the lashings hard, harder, painful.

Morning dawns and Jim opens the elephant cage,
old Ellie is dead, she is lieing lifeless in her bed.
Laughing, Jim calls his dad and tells him the 'bad news'

Another dead from cruelty,
a truck arrives with an eager to impress beast,
plodding proudly the elephant smiles...

The cycle continues month after month,
old Ellie wasn't important, was she?​

beam


meter, metronome
lite metronome, light meter

solaris resind
luna concubines

beating beams, in sevenths

perfect timing

(c) joules sep 3 09​

ties on the sun

she ties the sun with her shoelace
rapscallion cheek, throws her head back at grey coats
curt in passion, hurry for affection
nothing comes fast enough

liquids, dots and leaves
plastic passports
and the return of McCarthy
a rise in the poets, too

kneeling into shards
elbowing someones god
I'm cultivating your point of view
the world wants to control the world
......yes, empty isnt it?

upright, whaling stations rust
flangers hail history
swirling ignorant dust
citric arrows fly

she ignores the theft
with a smile
a temporary set-back
a bruise on the thigh
orange tea, maybe peppermint?

Oh, there's a seminar beginning at Yellow Stone
the bears glisten
sweeping with opulent brooms
flossing after steak diane

ideas, just ideas.....

your soul, seated in your tongue

(c) joules 190409​

spindles of watchwords
trickle through her
eyes dancing ink,
dreams in decagon whisper

Cardamon dust, pepper-corn seared passage
orange cotton plumage
tendrils, soft, snap sandstone base

Sumerian, Canaanite, Ugarit
pin-head notions shadowed

sandles on the dock
brass buckled daggers gaze on
(an arrogance into Carthage)
they too surrender

everyone surrenders

dragon fingers
turtle patient fluidity
water monitor stealth
techniques to Shaolin

disrobing grey sack-cloth
lubrication for the left
vibrance for Manchester mills

ensconsed sculptures
palmed in wonder
fanfare to Musée Guimet

eternal

India

(c) joules 13 april 09 words and edit

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