The Booty of Poetry

The Booty of Poetry

The booty of poetry
for him
was always girls.

Laurels were secondary.
He enjoyed the taste of words. He enjoyed mouthing them.
He enjoyed the intimate touch that came with their transmission.
When the coffee break arrived
the sweet taste of enticement was still in his mouth,
like the sugar around a donut.
There was no stopping it.

The booty of poetry
for him
was always girls.

It worked of course.
That was the beauty of it.

Dead Instruments and the Scent of Flowers

A blind man jumped over a cliff towards the scent of flowers.
Is this retirement?

Only half blind
I felt the weaker pull.
I put up my fiddle
and pushed my harp into a corner.
It looks good there.
Its polished black walnut skin
displays my dust collection to a T.

I am often woken in the night
as yet another string snaps angrily in its sad redundancy
and gives up the ghost with a crack.
Gutless harp.

Although not quite.

During the day if I pass by absentmindedly close
the viper teeth of string ends nip playfully at my flesh
hoping I will catch tetanus.

Like the blind man I jumped over a cliff.

As I fall
the scent of flowers is not getting any stronger.

The Whitby Dracula 1977 (Halloween Nostalgia)

Dracula Whitbyiensis (The Whitby Dracula)

By the light
Of the silvery moon

I importune
Pretty maidens, who swoon at what I'm doin'.

Then off I zoom

to my room with a tomb.
Just popped out for a bite.

Did I give you a fright?

I'll be back again soon,
By the light of the moon.

By the light
Of the silvery stars

Outside the graveyard I pause

With someone's throat in my jaws.
(Oh! Let my dentures dent yours!)

Singing this refrain

In a jocular vein:

A drop or two of you will see me through;

Can you lend me a spoon?

By the light of the moon.

In my cloak and hat
With my little pet bat

What an aristocrat!
Who can guess what I'm at?
(Assault and battery that's what! )
As I flit

Across the moon I'm well lit:

I had a little haemorrhage

I've been keeping in the fridge!

I'm going to croon

By the light of the moon.

c. Mike Absalom 1977

Works in Progress 2

Skeleton Pods

In the garden
the scrag ends of lupins
with skeleton pods rattling all around me
remind that
the tumble towards something awful
never stops.

However,
strapped to a chair
in this garden,
on this lawn,
among these flowers,
under this bottomless sky,
I will probably fall
for ever,
and avoid it.

Works in Progress 1

Woman Unfinished Under Water

Sometimes
I would like to know
if I have a swimming disability
or if I am simply
drowning.

Intermission Waiting

Intermission Waiting for Words

I've been away writing and drawing. Back soon.