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Empty tax-free envelope
Coloring page of Jesus Christ
Pamphlet from a cancer walk
Plumb nickel
“Vogue” magazine subscription
Paper piglet mask
£100 cash, in Monopoly Land
Copy of Richard Dawkins
Half-used packet of rubbers
Newspaper clipping of clock
Dirty napkin, soiled with coffee
Another, soiled with rum
Tampon wrapped up in a bow
London Map, soggy on the left corner
Twopence.

Holy Communion might be bare,
Few souls for Eucharist –
But though St. Paul’s lacks daily fare,
Donations give much less.

---

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Today I wasted
My day away.
I read a book
Of higher thought,
Watched a movie
Of social critique,
Lost a game
Of Shogi, to myself,
Sketched a sketch
For my novels,
Listened to music
Composed by Tchaikovsky,
Wrote this poem
In the coffee line –
These things I do are not a waste
Of time as I seem to say,
But might have just been better off
Postponed to a different day…
In truth, much was accomplished
And much I’ve put behind me,
But tomorrow’s test has earned my night
Since all day I neglected study.

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Verily, this sonnet be a moron
That cannot think twice upon its head
Since ev’ry bit o’ sense within it, gone!
All poetic tastes, stone dead.
Readily I degrade this sonnet
For saying nothing worthwhile in the least;
Beneath pretty wordy bonnet
Hast driven purpose simply ceased?
Truly, I wish for greater drive
Behind this pathetic cluster of lines,
So my insults are meant to force it shrive –
To confess shortcomings, accept the fines.
Yet, perhaps these failings from the start
Are due to some small failure on my part?

---

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Thank you for buying this here book
Of beloved poetry
Which I sold for the cheap price
Of seven dollars fifty
Because this is the kind of work
That places bread on table
Since the public’s less demanding
Than Hollywood’s unstable.
And so I thank you once again
For your patronage,
Especially since a poem’s easier
Than a screenplay ever was.

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Egg and Ramen every day
Be the only way to go
When you haven’t got the dough
For fancy à la Modes
Egg come morn, Ramen come night,
Has been my rule for years;
A far more addictive fast
Than it might first appear.
I tried to break this pattern
With a feast fit for a king,
But wound up chucking all my guts
And rupturing my spleen.
So egg and ramen every day
For as long as I can tell,
Since when my menu shrunk to that
My stomach shrunk as well.

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# this

#that

You’re such a saint to # that!

Oh why, oh why, can’t I #?

I don’t have time to do it, see –

#standfor…Golly me!

I feel I could do so much more

Except I work from six to four

(got a family to provide for).

But how I wish I could do more!

Yet, what more can one do except #?

The pinnacle of action

The strongest of signs

Why…if you can’t find the time to #

You might as well do nothing at all.

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Brighton
Britain’s bleakest beach
Steeped in chilly rocky waves
Swarmed by raving gulls that
Poop and peck and plunder
Along narrow streets of mouldy shops
And unfitted quarters
Surrounding Oriental Palace
That sticks out like a cruise liner
On a flat and murky sea
The one white spot
Amidst the blues
Save the dock connecting sea to sea.
The Pavilion – an offering to history.
The Pier – an offering to frivolity
And accessible to all, escapable to all
Extending from sea to sea
Until it is worn, seas become one,
And sailors wait for summer come.

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Glasgow, oh Glasgow,
What shall I say to thee?
Thy industrialized splendor
Is faded memory!
While I lurked in the Necropolis,
Taking photos of the Church,
My phone malfunctioned, and I was left
With more city left to search.
Thy smokestacks and thy mountains,
Like a Victorian Petersburg,
Will remain uncaptured, and soon forgot –
Though this fate, thou might prefer.
Thy bitter cold has left me nothing
But that drawing mental-screen
Over the stage that’s set for Glasgow –
I’ll grasp out for what I’ve seen.

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I stand upon a balcony
tranquil and at ease
when a scuffle on the iron rail
prompts head raise.
I spy a little gecko
spying back at me –
a tiny cutesy baby gecko
staring back.
To see fragility
in that scaly frown
reminds me of my giantness,
the power it implies.
The gecko doesn’t move
as I stroke its skull
but watches me with wary eye,
for I must seem terrible.
I don’t know what it is
about the smaller things:
the gecko, relaxed and trusting –
I bend my fingers
and finger-punch it hard
square in the ribs;
flying through the sky it goes,
instantly dead.
To three floors below
the bitty corpse plummets
with a silent splat –
it’s the little things
like this
that reassure me
just how all-right life is now,
when I’m alone.
For you don’t know
when you’ll be
the gecko on the rail –
flicked harshly off,
falling down fast, hoping for death
before you hit the ground,
because someone above you
just couldn’t help it.

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Every time I see the sea I 
Stop
and think of her;
A problem when your destiny’s
to be a Captain of the free.
All the while 
You are bound
To vessels made of wood and flesh.
Provisions?
Depleted.
Desire and duty always thresh;
Once the wheat
Once the scythe
And sometimes both the same at night
When nothing’s seen but stars and dreams
and sea, stuck in-between
is where I lost the one I love
amid plundered ports of nothing more
than faulty hearts not fit to
Sail.
Still I sail.
Sailing on through darkest dawn,
the kind of dawn for every morn
left for those who’re left by those
once in command.
But not no more.
So on I go, a Privateer
aboard my faithless frigate grim
until the Tempest catches up
finally
and drowns me once for all.

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