Sod it all

There's no more
Gators in the gazebos
we're all destined to collapse

in sludge and slurry;
all talk is sod

just as my cigars
won't unwind

Ode to silent Sundays

Laydown your plastic poppies,

wreathes of sage, 

mandrake, mangrove & juniper

Lead the procession

this is our only religion,

the only excuse left 

for silence

have a wet lunch after 

in the Commonwealth club.

Paschendale

almost smacks like a sheeshy 

boulevard of cocktails

We love the empire of the dead

Rember real poppies ?   Not too worry, this is one tradition thats more popular than ever

 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-24909889

Ishtar

By the laws of physics
 it is the ultimate destroyer of worlds

it is the female aspect of the universe
whence things come into creation,
and where things go unto destruction.

Her name's McClaine but
she likes only straight bourbon

Life is a beaut

but it wouldn't be if we
weren't destined to die
ergo, it is ugly
when

we think of only the
material as immortal
As if the Americans
put these highways between us
only to illustrate the fall of man

when we value

the veil, matter
over mind

Old Trams with Orangatangs

The myths and orders of progress
Orange juice and hamburgers,
Edificed for the initiated
no destruction of which
America's false swill

shan't sanction

The bones are

breaking out of their epidermi -

kerry looks like washington
and vice versa, regardless of
respective perukes
and they are both boned
worse than jockeys

and its wearing through and thin

doner days
are here again
the triumphs of slavery
and other gems
for sons of trailblazers
at the end of raised brows

Bitten by visions of Virgil

Bit by bit, don't
bite into my influenza,
scrape and turn your shawl -
does it bring work to your heart ?
trenchant fear, subjective and near -
flax and twine,
aphid nectar, walnuts and Syrian wine
while next it tastes tenderly as 
sawdust and lime

Content with the morrow, 
which is wearier than old ale
crushed grapes of matchless sorrows,
the myth on evening's horizon
(of horizon's menu)
Could you give any figs as you sit here,
blooming rooms, hearths sputtering all hours
In unison minds 
married to the hereafter

Quickly, and plaintive through
churlishly lithe, 
I find your swines swimming
on the riverside with my swans
But do not let us quarrel any more

Hysterical Triumphs of the Supine

Working in a candy store

in untailored dummy clothes

of cardboard blue

'tis no recipe for a tastefull dalliance

When Knox bought cadavers

from Burke and Hare

The junk always assembles
at the end of the pier

I've been biased toward my right hand

Hagiography and rot,

inability to feather-line the cot

All is as brittle as Bulgarian shacks 

in Dumont

Let the tardy parvenus

drown in detergent, formica