The Tasting

The fruit dropped all but two,
Killed all but three.
A dangerous gift, too much for you,
A wonderous gift, so much for me,
And he who took wands from that tree.

(Still) No Ratiocination

In Fallen leaves, I am simply not capable of ratiocination, or Autumn trees.
With Hands muffling, No matter how much I employ determination or Feet shuffling
Or Hearts racing, I can never maintain a train of thought with Eyes facing
For Warming days: However hard the battle is fought for Changing ways.
Never faking, Always flitting from one thing to the next, Always shaking,
I Fear rules: From films to pictures to music to text, I’m Never nude,
A Born Worrier, I cannot stay focused, A Brow furrower,
I Show concern as My mind’s too footloose, I Never learn.

The Dark Warrior will rise but thrice,
The Dark Warrior will takeover twice.
The Dark Warrior will attack from every angle,
The Dark Warrior will rise through dark triangles.

From chocolate hits, to cream that is whipped,
I’m Scatological to the extreme,
Cake and all things sweet:
Cola, caramel and sugar beet
Means Thinking about it is a constant stream.
Veg and meats for Sunday roast,
Hot, buttered and jammy toast:
I’m worrying always about its state,
About the toilet bowl’s sorry fate.
Muffins, crumpets, scones and cheese:
What actions will bring which reactions,
Crisps, crackers, sausage please!
While eating, it’s a constant distraction:
Thoughts of food I do desire,
Set my stomach’s lust on fire.
Yet Thoughts of what will follow haunt me,
Focusing my mind, they often daunt me.

The Dark Warrior will not exist,
The Dark Warrior will of mist consist.
The Dark Warrior may still power retain,
The Dark Warrior’s future is uncertain.

You see
My Mind snaps, (Bodies writhing),
Eternally.
My Mind cracks, (Sweat sliding),
Infernally.
Synapse strain: (Interlocking)
Head in pain,
This compulsion: (Freely fucking)
My propulsion.

---

Originally written for this blog, re-written for entry in The Bridport Prize, 2013.

Tweet Repeat 71

So many thought that Hilfenschwein were sequacious to wizards: 
Lokmani showed that knowledge was kept precious in their gizzards,
Locked away safe from harm until the time came to use safely as arms.

Fauns (Don't they know?)

Always they fawn to him:
Don’t they know
They’re just pawns to him?

They bow and kowtow:
Don’t they realise
He marks them lowbrow?

They lap up his words:
Don’t they know
They’re all tapeworms?

They seek power and mirth:
Don’t they realise
He’s taking them to the Underearth?

Of course not ,
They are fawntastic fools,
Who do not know that
They’re their master’s tools.

And yet..

With this dissenting voice:
Don’t I know
I gave him no choice?

That with it I sealed my fate:
Don’t I realise 
My head’s on a plate?

The Truth Speaker (unfinished)

The Truth Speaker, also known as The Prison Keeper, 
Was kept away for safety's sake, 
For the words that he spake
Would incarcerate rather than liberate.

A mind fried, it's future denied
By an overloading of information
That replaced a lack of notions
An ignorance in realisation

That sought to discover, not to need to recover
All the sanity that created a self
Becoming little more than a shelf
Stocked with all bits of knowledge./With nothing but knowledge.

But all the same
despite this shame

Beware of The Truth Speaker
Also known as The Prison Keeper
How much do you want to know?

Be careful of The Truth Speaker
Be careful with those two peepers
The future can cover you in snow.

Mind out for The Truth Speaker
Watch out for this havoc wreaker
He is dangerous as a swords’s blow.

A problem for a pilot before the Battle for Gray’s Inn and West Smyth Fields

I tried to placate him with food,

I tried to placate him with words:

I tried desperately to alter his mood

And go out to face Underearth birds.

But it’s hard to be in charge,

Of a creature so incredibly large.

It is one almighty feat

To get his wings to beat

And take on the incoming hordes,

Taking one big piece from the board.

So when a giant mead-filled flagon

Won’t do it, you just have to say,

In a downtrodden, sigh-ridden way:

“That’s the risk when using dragons”.

The Accoutrements of Wonder

The Accoutrements of Wonder

Got lost in a terrible blunder,
Which was sad because they were the key
To defeating a dreaded enemy.

So secret not even the guards were to know

What they looked like, what they even were:

If they were dull or gave off a magical glow

Like that of the grand mystical rabbit‘s fur.

And hidden so incredibly well

That no one could truly tell,
Who it was to blame-

Who should be red with shame

For the loss of the greatest tool,

The surefire slayer of the menace-

So who was it, the greatest of fools:

Who let the net down in war tennis?

*

Peter was sure he hadn't left them on the ground
Upon the first stop atop the magic mound.
David believed they'd not been lost during revelries
Of a drunken nature over special festivities.

While Ian was sure no baggage hadn't gone,
Not even after fighting the Giant Beast of Lyons,
Nor after the strange episode of the angry cat
That took place within the Valley of the Gnats.

And Graham, who'd never left the train,
Not even for cover in the heaviest rain,
Who kept over all an ever watchful eye
Went mad trying to understand why

And where they had lost this toy,
The disappearing bringer of joy:
How who when had they been lost
And should the guards pay the cost?

But then none knew exactly what they were protecting,
So how could anyone go about detecting
If the accoutrements were here or if they were there:
It was enough to make anyone tear out their hair.

Yet the wizards were totally sure
That they had been there before,
And now were nowhere to find,
Allowing everyone's fears to unwind

And uncoil at an horrific rate-
Now too much trouble was on their plate
And, as the wonders were nowhere to see,
They were left only with pants to pee.

*

In these times blame must be given,
Like a cursed stake it must be driven
Into the heart of one poor soul
To protect the King's important role.

And so it was the maiden Lizzie,
So oft accused of being dizzy,
Who found herself being given the coat
Of the appointed sacrificial scapegoat.

Lizzie was a kitchen servant girl
Who, under pressure, flew into whirls
And often dropped the pots and pans,
Much to the chagrin of the head man.

Lizzie never went near the accoutrements,
Never even close to the super elements,
But the nasty head man saw a chance
To rid himself of she who nervously danced.

But not due to her slippery fingers,
But because of that day he lingered
Behind inside the kitchens,
His body all over itching

For a piece of Lizzie
Whom he found somewhat more than pretty.
His advances, though, were met with rejection
Leaving him to seek revenge from dejection,

And so he made up a story untrue,
And as his was a trusted point of view-
It became a point of fact
And Lizzie found herself upon the wrack.

*

And poor Lizzie just had to take it
But deep within she knew the secret,
Even as the King did meanly berate her,
Of the all-seeing evil bastard narrator:

"Such a poor and lowly poet
But that git surely knows it-
He made this dumb story up
Can't he save my sorry butt?

"No, he just sits there typing,
Not his life that's ripe for wiping.
But will he ever tell yer
That he knows the perpetrator?

"Nah, he'll just sit and watch me burn-
The horrid stinking little worm,
Even thinks up a worse way for me to die
Why not hang quickly 'steada slowly fry?

"What happened to "Poor Lizzie"?
I thought I had your sympathy?
No, omiscient creators like to sit back
And let their creations take the flack.

"Four stanzas and still he does nothing
But leave me at the mouth a-frothing-
Guess I'll just have to wait to expire
While he doesn't even perspire."

*

"I'm guessing now that I'm done for:
No use now in feeling sore.
At least he let me stand up to that prick,
Just a shame about the sexist tricks

"That will take me to my fiery end,
Such penile worlds we must forfend
Where women can be flushed away
To keep men's blushes at bay

"Or is there more (or less) to it all
Than a perverted man's crying bawl:
Perhaps I've come to my end of time
Simply to create a pleasing rhyme.

"So calmly I wait for the fire
Stood upon the waiting pyre,
To finish what the author started:
A man with conscience long departed."

*

The Accoutrements of Wonder

Got lost in a terrible blunder,
Which was bad because they were the key
To defeating a dreaded enemy.

Poor Lizzie was ever given the blame,
Innocent, she was set in flames.
While the real thief, the guilty culprit,
Planned to make the world his pulpit.