Category Archives: Realism

The calculus celery celsius poster boy for a sun dance decade

they raised the draw bridge up

its a cowboy western gone wrong

the old directors dead

now Billy goat gruff wants credit

For another mans showreel

the poster boys come to life

jumping from the hoardings  by the trains left to be stripped

like carcuses

the callous hands of an angry man

she dances a decade away with the glitter ball parade

the mind is a miraculous thing tempered by

the swift birds flying in unison on a breeze

the old country cottage

the swallows

the remains of this long held fear of empty nest syndrome

that brought her to her knees

if only time or these seasons could stand still

the egg sand timer filled with multi directional grains

of yellows pinks and greens

the pause for the whistle for a minutes silence

probably not respected anymore than a headstone

in that cemetery the magic markers dividing a cross country

the old distances as of yet made metric

This is a marathon the Greeks have a pantheon

there are just crows fighting here over the scarecrows

tattered ripped up oiled jeans of a mechanic

his jacket ripped his hat twisted the top popped open for

cuckoos nest

the Dance that they had,

the rings left in a old pint glass whilst doing the  washing up

the toast now burning like incendiary  fireworks

the sun going down the clouds fickle like nature

the nurture instinct only reeled  out for the old tv shows

those lines in the field those cross hares fighting in parallel field

This Unison, the mistakes, the empty sorrow

the same tired worn out excuses the remorse of the morrow

the letters of last week stacked waiting for response

the in out tray left for another day

rise and shine sleepy heads

 

 

 

 

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Television towns salted popcorn

Popcorn alley mop up the floor

the split drinks your ideas

like a cutting room floor

those bad dreams you grew

like dead house plants

the rope you wish to climb like

sweet peas on the vine

for the  fence your sat on late at night

lying like the story teller

you used to have a talking dog

your the star of your own film now

in a late night showing

another anchor movie

for your pogo  stick ego

your self styled mute mannequin

that your with in a basement

across the road

the fortune cookie break in

the rack the ruin is the rat hiding

somewhere nearby

down the alley riding

by the seat of it’s pants

this is not a new town

unless your name changed

is that a mouse

in that oh dears house ?

the headless horseman

the towns treated like a film set