SILENCE AT THE BAR

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SILENCE AT THE BAR

The old man grimaced and silently imbibed his pint
His withered wife glared her whole life at him
And pointedly moved to a seat
At the far end of the joint

Two sons, forty and finicky,
Silently contemplated the following day’s races
While the daughter and son-in-law,
Long run out of things to say,
Blew smoke in each other’s faces.

Only the children were living;
The girl was chandelier-swinging
And the boy was table-top walking.
“Shhh!” said the mother,
“be quiet you two rascals,
We can’t seem to hear ourselves talking”

from my collection of poetry – ’67’, now available @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/67-Poetry-Tom-OBriem-Book-ebook/dp/B00JVBLM9C/ref=la_B0034OIGOQ_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1412338420&sr=1-8
and http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/product/67-2/

GONZO MOMMA

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GONZO MOMMA
Too weird to live, too rare to die
I guess that’s a creed
Old Hunter would swear by
Though he would have a drink first
Or maybe three
Then try to figure out where
The action might be
Before smoking some ‘stuff’
‘Cos he knew plain whiskey and gin
Would never be enough.
Then, perhaps like you, he would
Upheave everything and pack
Screaming all the while;
You can kiss my ass
I ain’t never coming back

SEVEN A.M. IN THE SMOKE

SEVEN A.M. IN THE SMOKE

 

‘No surrender’

The motorists’ battle-cry

Echoing through the smog and fumes;

Furiously-pedalling cyclists

Sinisterly masked

Towing technology in their slipstreams

            Legions of static transporters slowly going nowhere

Human perambulators

Reeling them in one by one

Phantom headlines flashing before my eyes;

FOUR PEDESTRIANS MAIMED

BUT HE GAINED TWO CAR-LENGTHS

 

Onwards to the asylum!