Die-hard Flat-earther

I’d rather fall over 
Backwards, my senseless 
Ass lying blithely supine 

On the ground of a stable 
Earthen floor than land flat 
On my face, kissing 

The abominable 
Shifty-looking threshold 
Of a revolting, revolving door.

Revolutionary Pre-Text

Put down one bloody 
Revolting word 
At a time in the body, 
And the rest busy killing 

Time in the margins 
Of the pedestrian 
Mind will turn round 
Squarely and finish you 

Off in no time. 

Out Of The Dark Spaces Where

intricately

bunched 
together 
crammed 

with- 
in thin 
slits be- 
tween white- 
washed stones, 

cyclamen now 
poke baby pale pink 
faces through, craning 
their fragile necks 
to get a sneak 

preview of whatever 
else is blooming 
out there simply

plain in view. 

Blues In The Night (Dispossessed American Troubadour)

Oh my love was like 
A red, red shaggy coat, 
A shroud that kept me 
Warm and rosy— 
Now I’m alone, down 
And out and blue, blue 
As a body can be, 
A corpse in the cold 
White wraps of winter. 

Vocational Training: What's My Line?

Ok, let’s say we’re 
Three crows all

Cawing on 
A lone telephone line— 

Carrion spotted.
Two leave, one’s left

To continue 
Calling all maws 

Up and down
This lonely calling

Of a line, now doesn't
That sound fine?