Duct Tape & Daffodyls by Ven (e ink epub reader .txt) 📖

error they said.
Until people began to fall in the streets,
at their desks,
in playgrounds,
parks, and supermarket isles.

They said it had to be done so as not to cause a panic and they were right.
It's all quiet now !


The Accidental Mystic

Sheer luck, pure serendipity, lead to the discovery;
provided the ability to see into infinity.
She awoke with this anomaly
and thought it a catastrophe
not knowing the activity would be in actuality,
not seen as abnormality, or sign of some insanity
so she smiled at the absurdity
and changed her plans accordingly.


They made me Crazy !

Drenched, soaked and dripping enthusiasm,
I walked in like the queen of the planet.
Flat, deflated, brought down with a bump,
I walked out, Beaten ... God damn it !

Drove home, sad and rejected.
I drank tea and considered my choices.
Kill 'em all ! ~ That would make me feel better.
Then plead insanity on account of the voices.


A Damned Fine Place

They trickle by,treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Five hundred walk,
ashen faced,
right through the congregation
who do not see, or sense or smell
that something is awry.
They sit, in calm oblivion,
as five hundred souls walk by.
Displaced,
expelled,
evicted
from their place of final rest.
Unearthed,
exhumed,
discarded
so the land can then be blessed,
reclaimed,
re-used,
re-classified,
no more this hallowed ground,
42
shall be the bed where sleep the dead, a new use has been found.
A housing estate for families,
with a school,
a shop,
a Church.
A fine place for the living
while the dead, they roam and search
and trickle past,
treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Condemned to walk, forever more,
right through the congregation.


Re; Solution

For my New Year Revolution
I will take the politicians
and line them up against the nearest wall.
I'll make them ... ... Oh, hang on,
Did you say "Resolution" ?
Nah, ! … sorry, I don't do them.


The Last Kiss

She drinks a pint of vodka.
Sniffs a little powder.
Slips into the bucket seat
and turns the music louder.
Puts the pedal to the metal,
leaves the seatbelt to the side,
turns the music even louder !
This is really getting wild.
She takes it to the limit,
cos there's no more tears to cry
and she blows a kiss to mother,
as she hits the wall
Goodbye.


A House Well Hidden

Alexander Davey lived in a contemporary world.
Most of which existed in the confines of his mind. Reality (a house well hidden) was rarely now unfurled for drugs and booze had twisted him,
leaving him resigned
to the fact that other people
often viewed him with derision,
as he'd sit, grotesque, in his grubby recliner, watching television.
His only plans to guzzle beer,
steep his life in whiskey
and shoot more crap into his arm,
he knew that it was risky
but he'd passed the point of caring
swapped the lobster and champagne
for a cheque from social security
and junk in every vein.

A premature westerly sunset was all he had to show. That, and a modest concrete stone his epitaph:
"Made in Glasgow".


White Bread Sucks !

Brown bread tastes of malt and grain.
White bread tastes of nothing.
It's just a thing to wrap things in,
like cheese or pork and stuffing.


The Greatest Loss

Age is such a subtle, creeping death,
She stalks her chosen victim slow and sure.
Inflicting wounds that do not weep or bleed,
yet leaving lines the wearer must endure
by furrowing a brow that once was smooth
and casting shades of grey upon a mane
She strips the youthful arrogance of looks
and humbles that which once was smug and vain.
She tenders gifts of dotage and senility
in a blow that's not as harsh as it appears,
for the softening of sight and lack of clarity
is sometimes welcome in ones latter years.
Yet at the exit hope to be coherent.
Pray for one last lucid moment and
ask a million questions of your maker
for the greatest loss is not to understand.


Teetering on the Brink

You wriggle, twist, hog the quilt
and snore like a pug nosed pig.
I roll you across to your own side again
and give your ribs a dig.
You grizzle, snuffle, moan, grumble ~
and mutter "OK, I'm awake !"
I stuff my ears with big cotton balls
and go foetal (for sanity's sake).
I lie there, alert, playing games in my mind
in an attempt to alleviate the boredom
and cling to my allotted eight inches of mattress ~ teetering on the brink of floordom.


Who Put Peas in the Whipping Cream ?

Axym Yaz,
High Priestess of the Numptyscrumper Tribe
and her second in command, the Gliemun Elf
are setting up the tables for the feast of Nantsyclaps when a bowl of squid just flies right off the shelf and before they can react
... or even utter BLIMEY !
( which should be followed by a flabergasterix ),
a cake tray hurtles upwards
and sticks to the ceiling
and suddenly it's raining chocolate grapzy mix.

Axym says "we're banjaxed"
but the Elf, she disagrees
She thinks that there's a catsbreadth of a chance, which is better than a whisker,
or indeed a hope in hell
so she spins round thrice and slips into a trace, consults her spirit guide,
who goes by the name of Debra
a creature known for wisdom and resource.
A totem; a rare mix twixt a flamingo and a Zebra:
A chicken headed, pink and stripy horse.

Debra says,“the culprit is much closer than you think Just ask who put the peas in the whipping cream.
Make a codswallop cocktail
and encourage her to drink
and I promise you will foil her little scheme”.

The Gliemun Elf awakes and grins a cheesy grin concocts the special cocktail in a shaker
and passes it to Axym, who throws it in the bin
and proceeds to blame the whole thing
on the Baker.
The Baker throws a fit at the unforeseen accusal
calls the Elf a shifty, twisted sprite.
Pulls a piece of paper
from the pocket of her apron
and marks the difference between left and write
takes four and twenty paces left of centre
and implodes - leaving nothing but her shoes. Nantsyclaps continues undisrupted
and my tale is thus concluded.
Thank you Muse.


ABCDerian

Meditate the Winter Away

As summer dies
Before my eyes
Colour fades from greenness sprung.
Depressing cloud accumulates as
Evensong is in darkness sung.
Frosted mornings
Granite chill
Held etched on glass its crispness apes
Infant odes and tales of
Jack ~ (the painter of the frosted shapes).
Knuckle down
Lest sloth succeed in
Making staunch its discontent.
Nought as fast as apathy can
Over-ride my good intent.
Perish the darkness,
Quell the shiver,
Re-set my mind to thoughts of May.
Sunny morn and birdsong season.
Truncated night and lengthy day.
Uncultivated daffodyls
(Valiant National flower of Wales)
Wield a soothing visualization of
Xyris shaded Cymru Vales and
Yellow glows my meditation,
Zen ?


The Dead End of The Road

Bare foot and bedraggled,
Lonely, tired and cold.
She huddled in the corner
near the dead end of the road.
At the entrance to the station,
where she knew that she could find,
the commuters and the shoppers.
She hoped they would be kind
and spare some change, through pity,
concern or maybe guilt.
Hoping they would swallow
this facade that she has built.
This picture of downtrodden,
mistreated and abused.
Yet she is not the victim,
it's they who are being used.
and this cunning little waif
isn't begging for a feed
She's begging for a fix,
~ the brown's her only need.
It turned her from a student
with a future looking bright.
To a whore that sells her virtue
to strangers in the night.
A liar and a cheat !
No conscience, ~ no respect.
Stripped of all emotion
with not even a regret,
as bare foot and bedraggled,
lonely tired and cold, she wallows in the gutter,
at the dead end of the road.


Bending

I'd paint this living canvas vibrant orange
if I thought that you could stand to stare
at such a lively shade
but I think, perhaps, you couldn't,
I'll water it down.
I'll mute it to sunset pink
with gentle undertones of mellow yellow
and
if it works
if your reaction is a nod and a smile
I'll pretend that I've succeeded
When in fact
I've simply compromised ~ Again.


Slips and Fades to Grey

Not just dogs and cats,
but beetles, ants and rats
came down with that black nights
met-amphetamine and morphine rain.
No blessings there when God turned its back
leaving nothing but an insatiable itch
that every Devil had a scratch for.

No angels in this fairy story
our heroine loves only heroin
A drug for life ? ~ What Fuckin' Life ?
All I see is the decay that precedes the inevitable
As another mothers much loved child
becomes the gouching waif
that slips away
and slowly
fades to grey.


I Danced with Diablo

Last night I ran through hell !
Chased by a rag-tag bare arsed bastard
and razor cut deep and hard,
I bled for my sins.

Chased by a rag-tag bare arsed bastard
and sweating fear I ran
through corridors of "yes I can"
and rooms of who I am.

And sweating fear I ran
over shards of broken dreams.
To the tune of wails and screams
I danced . . . with Diablo.

Over shards of broken dreams
'til the coming of the morn
and as light of dawn was born
it scorched my bloody halo.


Just Following orders

Think us not warlords, nor torturers,
nor leash masters
but merely as servants bound by our orders.
Think us not cruel, inhuman, sadistic.
Discount what you see on your image recorders.
Ignore the perversions executed in fun
We were just busting stress man.
No real harm done
Close off your minds to the sick degradation.
We're busy as Hell mate, DEFENDING YOUR NATION !
(By hitting the defenceless with the butt of a gun).
God sure must be proud to see how far we've come.


M'Lady death

When nightmares seep into the day,
when gooseflesh never goes away
when terror thrives and fear abounds
Your heartbeat makes the loudest sound.

When everything is shades of black
when Lucifer has got your back
when evil eyes are all around
Shadows make the loudest sound

When Lady Death comes bid you dance
beguiles you with morose romance
and slips you swift, beneath the ground
Silence is the loudest sound.


In shining Armour ?

On a clear and starry night just