Shocking Poetry – Delicate Balance

Inspired by wild lavender bloom and washing up

Delicate Balance

Four flighty faeries dancing deliciously on my draining board.
Tiny creatures with features almost too small to make out.
Clinging lilac and purple gossamer chemises hint
Of vixens with innocent smiles.

Curious place to swirl and skip
Amidst the crusty pans and greasy plates.
Their graceful, imperceptible movements hypnotise me.
I stand transfixed, until one waves… I think.
I wave back, forgetting the bottle in my hand.

A green jet blasts their delicate frames from the board.
And, drenched like protesting Parisian students,
My friendly faeries slide down the plughole.
Their dance abruptly over.

Mortified, I stare accusingly at the plastic bottle in my hand
As though it had acted with malicious intent,
Independently, destructively.
The label reads Fairy Liquid

…well it had to be really.

Truly Shocking Poetry – The Hot Smoothie

It’s been a while since I’ve added any poetry (don’t anyone mention trades description act at this point) to this blog. When you read this one, you might be wishing I left it that way.

The Hot Smoothie

He’s steaming again, back to his old ways
Right off the wagon after being dry for days
He lurches left and right with a sigh and a puff
A voracious drinker, he never has enough

Don’t stray too close to his erratic sway
Or be foolish enough to stand in his way,
He has only one all consuming desire
He’ll burn baby burn, don’t mess with his fire.

Still he sticks to his job, solid as a brick
So I aint bothered if my iron’s an alcoholic

The Tropical House Centipede

I though I’d be scared the first time I saw you
Your name conjured images of a creature to be feared
Slithering along on too many legs for my liking
Each one threatening a poisonous touch
A thought I couldn’t erase from my head
That an encounter with you and I could end up dead.

A bloated bladder forced me awake in the wee small hours
And I saw you, with your silky coat and feathery legs
You glided across my bathroom floor, not a creepy crawly at all
An elegant insect instead, almost pretty I felt
The internet says that you’re shy; a creature of the night
The worst damage you can do is deliver a painful bite.

From that point it seemed kind of nice
To be sharing a house with something exotic
But you clearly didn’t feel the same and went to ground
Retreating to dark corners, way out of sight
Have you gone forever? It would be nice to know?
For then I could stop worrying about being bitten on the toe.

Shake Rattle and Droll

I don’t have skeletons in my closet
I have skeletons on my closet.
Two of them and they won’t leave
Keeping me awake at night
Calling me names
I’ve thrown sticks and stones at them
But oddly that didn’t work.
“What do you want? I cry.
“We want our pound of flesh,” they answer.

I bet they do

The Romany Girl

Obsidian eyes

That dragged me into their depths and trapped me.

The Romany girl

She took me to the graveyard

She took me in the graveyard

She took me, she took me, she took me.

The Romany girl devoured my heart and shredded my soul

A curse or a gift?

I guess I’ll never know.

The Tourists’ Lament

“What’s the weather like? What’s the weather like?”
That’s all they want to know.
“Will it be sunny? Will it be hot?
Please tell me before I go.”

They don’t care that if it always stays dry,
It’ll soon be a desert and the crops will all die.
Livelihoods lost; no food, water, or grain.
“What’s the weather like? What’s the weather like?
Please don’t tell me it’ll rain.”

The Creative Cocktail

Three beers, two bottles of red
And a stomach full of gin.
The Doors at full blast
And I’m ready to begin.

Inside my head words, images, ideas
Explode like literary bombs.
The greatest stories never told,
It’s a creative maelstrom.

My imagination is singing,
But my limbs have become lead.
The last shred of lucidity,
Sends me staggering to bed.

Morning rouses me from my coma,
In pain and bereft.
With a million brain cells in tow,
All the fantastical tales have left.

What a Hell Party it was

The ghosts loved to boast while the witch liked to bitch.
And grumbling in the kitchen was a bad-tempered
Spook,
Simply because he’d been chosen
To be the party’s cook.

On a skeletal plate bound for Frankenstein,
Some cockroach nibbles and a glass of blood wine.
Followed by a recently removed, freshly roasted spleen
All of which turned the ogre a peculiar shade of green.

This went unnoticed by the wise old wizard,
Munching with relish on a marinated gizzard.
A dish which didn’t appeal to the mummy,
Who dashed for the bathroom holding his tummy.

In the games room there was trouble with the troll,
Who stubbornly refused to bowl.
He wanted the soul sacked as games umpire,
To be replaced with the bloodsucking vampire.

Around the punch-ed bowl in the darkened saloon,
Three sirens made eyes at the creature from the Black Lagoon.
The creature was unaware that he had another fan,
Watching him from his closet was the bogeyman.

Only one monster remained completely aloof,
The wolfman sat alone, howling on the roof.
As midnight struck, Satan took centre stage,
It has to be said he looked good for his age.

“Gather one and all, pop the champagne cork,”
Join claws, hooves and talons…it’s time for ‘New York, New York’”.
But he was rudely ignored by that rumbustious ape Kong,
Who was too busy flashing his enormous…

Well, you know how he gets at parties!

 

Happy Halloween

Bad Bovines

Haiku or low coo,
During a Scottish winter,
They’re both Friesian.