SYstEM SYphoN

Without a skinned nose,
ostriches – the lucky
ones,
that reliance has not graced
upon staggered
lines of feet,
the worm-like
growing
by
the warehouse
road front
where the humble waits,
and fear
becomes the heavenly home
you leave.

Go on and roll the tints up
in the window, block the embers
losing glow
for unforeseen
misfortune.

There’s oblivion
for comfort, hope, for not yet
zero self esteem.
Even after
it is
5 O’clock
there is no dream,
and there is
never
enough.

© A2Kdavis (K Davis) 2017

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sum

sum

the sum
of love
is never
lost
though
death tears
the page
across
burns
the simple
symbols of
its gathering
tear kiss
and hand
the heart’s
forms to
ash

the sum
of love
is never
subtracted
from

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You Are Not My Entire Audience

That music is turning my brain to mincemeat,
That Japanese chick screaming those lyrics,
“Bee bop around you”
Too much longer I can’t handle,
Vomit from the eyeballs at her sound,
It was going cool until she took the stage,
She’s lost the concept,
She was there once but not tonight,
She’s lost the moon whilst counting the stars,

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The Last Bridge Home -draft

She thought she had better race home beat the incoming storm
The lightening struck her a bolt from nowhere
Knocked her from her bicycle
Jolted as a bucking horse does its wrangler
She bounced into a car coming in the oncoming traffic
Slammed in to a brick wall leading on to the bridge she had to cross home
The bicycle twisted spokes impaled her spine
She lay paralysed by sciatica in the gales of wind and oncoming rain
Her feet felt cold
Broken spokes impaled into her spine paralysing her everytime she tried to move
Even to lift her head piercing agony
The mangled bicycle lay a strewn
She lay starring blankly at the people over top consoling her
Deaf to their words
Her head bleeding profusely
She was never afraid of his darkness
She saw the demons dance round his eyes
Momentarily she believed he was still alive
Slaps to her face she made out an ambulance was called for
She lay on the road beside a stream beneath the overhanging willow trees
Gustily bracken trees
The cold crept from her feet into her torso now
All she could do was lie and wait
Breathing and exhaling gulps of blood and crucifying pain
Slipping away
She now understood her fate
She knew it was moments left to live…..

11th Feb 2016

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The Bunkern

Sometimes you have to lead the way
Way back they went
West Auckland friends best off they lived
But the “funky fruit fly” and the musican go back further
250 years tunneled underneath deep deep deep
He’s trapped inside a bunker
Driving fruitless projects labeled a lost cause
Stuck in an underground cell
He is an independent cell
When you are trained as a terrorist
You become one
He missed the panther
Painting sessions the type of long lost souls
Am empty poet who slipped away
Her conversation now aloof
She bounced the jukebox
Unintentionally
It had set free to his mind
But…….
Where it goes down a rabbit hole staircase even further
deep deep deep
She would be Queen if she had wanted
He knows it wont
He is a loner but he laments so what?
Tell him you know loyalty and respect
Tell him you hold the keys to these passages
He”ll pick those who earn it and the ones who think they have it
The people like him dead the those dying.

 

3rd March 2017

 

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Dead Rabbits

The past is the torch that lights our way,
Where our fathers have shown us the path,
We shall follow.
Our faith is the weapon most feared by our enemies.
For there by shall we lift our people up against those who will destroy us?
Our name is called the dead rabbits dead rabbits dead rabbits dead rabbits.
To remind all of our suffering is a call to those who suffer still to join our ranks.
However so far they may have strayed from our compound across the sea.
Both great numbers must come great strength and the salvation of our people.

 

~ Stolen

 

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Silver Teapot

Were it not for the silver-plate teapot,

the sky reflected on its creased flank,

you would not know the grave was there.

It is just a bed of pale dirt, seed striking

among the scratchings of a little bird.

This, though, is a fine place to lie;

where any wind makes the trees shout,

where you can hear the river’s swell

and feel the rust on wrought iron.

He lived here all his life –

just across the road.

His was a little house with a tiny porch.

It had no frills, and neither he.

He sought nothing more than sun and food,

a place to lie old his head.

He walked the square section,

thought a garden would be nice.

Not that he bothered.

He did make tea, though.

It was always his hand on the pot.

 

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hail king malcolm

Who cares when I’m dead 50 years?

I leave you nothing but

benevolence. Stable government.

 

I’m born again – this man

who holds the pen is me

& doesn’t even speak

my lingo.

 

Lingo?

WTF!

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Free base free verse

What a lot of people forget

Is the left wing and the right wing come from the same bird

Dinner is shared

The blood of our brothers and sisters come from all of us

In the distance a telephone is ringing unanswered

Panthers punctures with their fangs

It’s what draws the blood

Feed kitty

Feed.

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sleight of hand

sleight of hand

at high school
with an upward
sweep of the arm
the boy would rake
his hand back through
his wiry hair
look a moment
to the side
fold his arms
even tighter
shoulders hunched forward
before carrying on to
tell the story
fourty years on
the man does
exactly the same
that gesture
suggesting
those same
fourty years
mere illusion
gone with a
sleight of
hand

december 2014

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ode to winter

I stop the gaps between the silences and the murmurs of another room – a baritone

talks to himself or a sleeping partner stirred between the sheets. Outside, the crystal street tree-

lined birds discuss the seasons So long to spring.

 

Since I started to think this, a man with nothing else to do is out with his chainsaw and the whole                                                                                                                                               fucking thing’s gone.

 

Let me just say this:

Fuck suburbia. Fuck America’s Cup. And fuck odes to winter.

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The Politician

God, the elections.

The empty promises.

It’s an auction – for the gullible.

Who will believe me?

Anyone ?

We’ve seen it all before.

We’ve felt the fiscal screw.

The numbers never add up.

I saw a politician in action.

He was all arms and long boots.

He was at the airport,

looking for a flight and approval.

He found the first.

Everyone ignored him.

Everyone knew him.

It was awful – for his pride.

We read and looked up over pages.

It’s was hurtful, mean.

He stood, and his tan boots pressed into the carpet – blue.

Not even his colour.

Then he got into a line of five and looked ahead.

There was just a plane –

and a resignation to prepare

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