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TICK TOCK…TICK TOCK

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PRISONER

The ticking clock is silent

Articulating emptiness

Mainspring not busted

Just not required.

Time gulling it over the horizon

Speckled in the distance

The residue left behind

Not worth a light

Over some visionary hill

Virtual reality is real enough

More and more scream the worms

Turning every which way but one

More length, more depth

More leisure, more pleasure

More love, more life

Bur mostly more coin

Nothing prepares us for this

The hand that held the answers

Trembling now before new idols

Knowledge bootless as experience

New waves have old beginnings

But tired dogs own no snap

It’s the rut we’re stuck in, see?

Slow going forward but no going back

Sitting by time’s window

Waiting for the daily rebuff

To come winging by

Sifting little crumbs of comfort

From the embers

Screaming all the way……

 

THE STARGAZER

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FLASH FICTION

My stars had  predicted it. ‘Go for maximum growth and opportunity, late in the afternoon’, said the Sun’s Stargazer. Well, it was late afternoon and here I was in firm’s stationary cupboard. The maximum growth had already taken place, and the opportunity was about to present itself. Just as soon as Jackie managed to free the stubborn zip on her skirt!

WITNESS

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wave_tourist

WITNESS

If I bear witness of myself

That witness is not true83

There is another who bears witness

And that witness is you.

You are a burning and shining light

My only reason to rejoice

You gave me hope where there was none

You brought sanity to my voice.

If now you should wish to leave me

Where is there another who will believe me?

When I shout out to the heavens up above

That what saved me then, and will do so again

Is nothing other than unconditional love.

THE WAY WE WERE

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THE WAY WE WERE

The picture house is full of it tonight;

‘A TEAR JERKER…THE WAY WE WERE.

See that old woman?

She has three carrier bags of it

To comfort her in her doorway.

Belfast Johnny has two bottles

Of it in his greatcoat pocket

And eight shiny photos of it

Bridging the gaps in his shoes.

The preacher ladles out doses of it

With hot soup. Georgie Best,

Rock-n-Roll, wedding vows,

They are all part of it.

The past follows you around:

Like a faithful old dog

It never leaves your side.

MY BOOK TITLES NOW AVAILABLE

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All available on amazon           #amwriting 

26-01-2014 12;51;0251dZvCktoZL16-03-2014 11;15;1419-01-2014 11;22;1767_Plus_Cover_for_KindleLetters_To_Mother_An_Cover_for_Kindle

BUNKER ON PORTLAND BILL

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BUNKER ON PORTLAND BILL

This windowed concrete slab

Touching the hedgerows

Bunkered in leaf-strewn soil

Chivvies me

Muskets were reddened here

By shorter men than I

Defenders of a long-gone realm

Stooped between fissured ceiling and creviced floor

What mayhem bedlamed this rocky causeway?

Its cannons foddering the deep

The stun of steel slamming granite

The stench of gunfire turning stomachs

Loose limbs cluttering pathways

Death hovering

All quiet now on this promontory;

Sheep nibbling, tea and scones in the old armoury

Picture postcards of battles fought and won

Day-trippers picnicking

In the shadows cast by the big guns

GOING ROUND THE SUN AGAIN

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GOING ROUND THE SUN AGAIN

Going round the sun sixty eight times

Takes some doing

Even if you are merely a passenger.

The first time round was really a blur

No sense at all that we were

Doing almost seventy thousand miles an hour.

Mother said I screeched most of the way

And that the snow piled high

For months every day.

Even the tenth spin;

I don’t recall a lot of that

Except that it was the year mother got fat

For a while, anyway

And then she was thin again.

The years stretched to decades

Still round and round we went

Sometimes I travelled in the company of steel bars

And sometimes I journeyed with the stars.

And there were times when writers came to say

Becket, Behan, Millar, Hemingway

Of course the children came too.

But for many years I have tripped with you.

My father got to number sixty nine;

I wonder how many rounds will be mine?

 

 taken from my poetry collection ’67 PLUS’

available @  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

GOING, GOING, GONE

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GWYNETH STEAM-CLEANS IT

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GWYNETH STEAM-CLEANS IT

Gwyneth steam-cleans it

A powerful internal cleanse

That balances the hormonal levels.

This boil-in-the-bag kind of technology,

Brought by your Guru to you,

Where you sit on some kind of apparatus

And absorb a combination

Of infrared and mugwort,

Is all the rage

In this gadget-filled age.

Methinks this vaginal steaming

Gives ‘getting all steamed up ‘

A rather eye-watering meaning!

DEFRAGGING THE SCANDISK

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tube-roehre3

DEFRAGGING THE SCANDISK

All this talk about the mathematical concept of infinity
As if it was a numbers game
Real numbers, that is
Not those sets of integers
Or Cardinalities
Favoured by the current crop of God-botherers
Lemniscate my arse
Stop going on and on and on
Infinity is not a number
When you’re gone, you’re fucking gone