Poems

 

We Don't Have Cucks In Ireland

We don’t have cucks in Ireland It’s the tourists that wear the green hats As it is, words fight for a place here In the noisy desperation hall Where...
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Gold cherry
Poem of the week

The Treetops

The treetops never wait for you And fields are incorrigible when You finally notice them That’s when they call you ‘Featherbrain’ After when the...
2 likes

I've Seen Exit Signs

I’ve seen exit signs everywhere From San Francisco to Shanghai And they all blaze the same way Sometimes red like that blood you see In Italian...
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Cherry

Marshes

Take it easy wind wind You’re blowing echoes of Hannah’s boots in the mud The words we used for love were dust Blackened in these fields by whispered...
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Cherry

Nodding Like You're Listening

Nodding like you’re listening When the redundancy’s announced And the checks have bounced And the substances emerge for abuse And nodding like you’re...
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I Suggested Iceland

I suggested Iceland and you smiled But said you’d been there before And it was very expensive. I can afford, I said, and we had another round Of...
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Cherry

The Storm Of A Thousand Years

Cultural differences notwithstanding We’re good at standing in the rain Eating chicken on a stick together and Laughing when a joke transmogrifies...

By The River Where I Often Walk Angrily

By the river where I often walk angrily Birds lined up on the spokes of an old bicycle wheel Have to me the cunning of co-workers on the first day...
Cherry

Jackrussell

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Factory Setting

Love is: A studio at Santa Monica Boulevard Three soundstages and twenty-acre backlot Purpose-built to dream-pump. ‘Grand and pompous, rightly doomed...
Cherry

Desperate Bastard

'Presuming' sophistry of me You turned and walked Confidently away And I yelled About mediocrity Until bailiffs and morning birds. There will never...
Cherry

Lunar New Year Evening

After untold glasses of baijiu , the emphatic ganbei s, and gift of a blood-red envelope – licked I guessed by golden dragons and issued by high...
Cherry

Winter Poem 19

Eighteen winter poems ago, Snow. I admit now to lying however. What winter poem would sell without that sort of weather. Here now at ten and nine, No...