Beware the wine-sodden brain flailing on,

kidding itself in the darker hours,

paying homage to could-a-been.

Beware the anger trotted out,

dusted off and laid bare to reflections in a bloodshot eye,

to spring a self-laid trap.

Let there be a new start,

urged on by a body daily less vertical

and thoughts of eternity horizontal.

Stay away from old ground,

where every night is New Year’s Eve and nothing is resolved,

or risk seeing past comrades on distant hills,

their torch-dreams kindled by motion,

pausing less and less often to look back

at your immobile figure.

Standing still,

the grubby sticks of history are consumed quickly

in those parodies of hell,

the warmthless braziers of bitter reminiscence.

Forsake all wretchedness,

for you are not plundered.

Beneath your public rags lie priceless jewels,

secreted and perversely forgotten,

whose re-discovery waits on nakedness.

Choose not to wear sackcloth

and arise from your meal of ashes,

hungry for the flesh of the world

and the hard beauty of your diamond self.

This is my response to the weekly Terrible Poetry contest prompt of ‘a humorous end to a useful object’.

Boris, as we called him,
made short work of our lawn in
no time at all for many a year,
his whirling dervishing music to my ear.

But one fateful day
his brain faded away
and chaos reigned on our green parade
as anything but lawn was flayed.

Boris charged and snapped dragons at full pelt,
(all the while how his innards smelt)
and mounted kerbs uncurbed
as he rose to the occasion so recently suburbed.

Just when I thought his madness was expended
and his carnationage had ended,
he climbed the bean poles, snicker-snack,
and gave the peas no chance, alas, alack.

There was nothing for it but the mortal blow
as my axe cleaved poor Boris’s fevered brow
and he shuddered and turned turtle
‘midst the burgeoning lemon myrtle.

This week’s challenge on the world of Terrible Poetry is to parody a popular song on the the theme of Covid-19. I’ve chosen ‘Macarthur Park’ with some reluctance, having been a roadie for Jeff Duff in the distant past and was always thrilled to hear him sing this. Ah, well, anything for art.

The bus was never waiting for us, girl

It always left when the driver said

We stayed too late at the dance

It departed and we were depressed

In the closet, hot and stuffy,

Along with Dad’s old army pants.

We barfed there in the dark

All the Coke and pizza flowing down.

Then I had to walk home in the rain

Caught a cold, I can’t shake it,

so next week I can’t make it

Cos I’m locked down with the Covid once again.

Oh, no!
Oh, no
No, no
Oh no!!

This piece was written for the Terrible Poetry challenge centred on the Bard of Australia, Ern Malley . Can’t think who could have alerted the charming Ms Chelsea Owens to Ern’s stellar career.

‘Now is the winter of our wet cement’

quoth Lucy in her sty with diamonds in her silk-purse ears.

Meanwhile, in a battlefield far, far, away, Dicky Three hunched his back,

despairing at the sward strewn with sordid, sworded bodies in his path

and cried ‘A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse’.

Hearing nothing but the sounds of silence he bellowed

‘Unleash the dogs of war. Out, damn-ed Spot and yes, you, Fido,

and you, frumious Bandersnatch.

And let no-one ask who let the dogs out.’

But alas, alack, the dud plan of attack now needed a patsy stone.

He roared so all could hear,

“Cry ‘Harry (and Meghan), England and Boy George’ ”

and hied himself to the tintantabulation of the belfry of Notre Dame.

Thus it was left to the immoral bard, TS (George) Eliot to record,

on a cold, bright day whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

and the clock was striking thirteen,

“This is the way the world ends,

not with a banger but a Wimpy burger.”