– Poetry

 

.The Beast of Deepest Peru

.

In the shifting sands of the deepest east
lies a very peculiar and unfathomable beast,
who stalks victims with a glint in his eye,
and a gentleman’s gait in his muted stride.

At first you may be fooled by such a courteous gaze,
but know that ’tis as insubstantial as the desert haze
and wouldn’t hesitate a second before taking your life
in a manner much more deadly than any hunting knife.

The common monsters of the world are hideous and warped,
sporting foul unpleasant features, with lumps and eyes that gawp.
This particular individual bears no unsightly demeanour
yet in this world you’re sure to find that there is no fiend meaner.

And dwelleth not in dark cave this most ancient of perils,
nor in a gothic cathedral flanked by coarse demonic heralds
(For such is the force of habit of the very foolish ghoul –
It is a white picket fence that surrounds the evil most cruel).

So as you venture down the busy market streets
perusing oh so gaily the fine selection of meats
remember the tale of the beast of Peru,
who strolls behind, and is looking at you…

.

*                                  *                                  *

.

The Niggle

.

There was a new student at Leicester

About to start his first semester

But it quickly became clear

As the beginning drew near

That something was starting to fester

.

It was not in his stomach, this niggling new doubt

Nor in his sock pile – which was starting to sprout

Rather it happened to be

(just between you and me)

in his mind, the thing making him pout

.

Now I’m sure you’ll concur

Both madams, and sirs

That pouting can never be handsome

“But it couldn’t be helped!”

The young man would have yelped

if the issue had been brought to ransom

.

And it may well be, that the gentleman here

Was unable to alter his manner

But the point to be made

As blunt as a spade

Is the fellow’s just being a spanner

.

“So why is it,” you’re entitled to ask

“that you mention this dull metaphor?”

“Because,” I’d sigh, in weary reply,

“there are things he’d be much better for.”

.

*                                  *                                  *

.

 

Writing Poetry

.

Seatbelt on, buckle up for the ride

Remember to keep all limbs inside

You’re embarking on a journey of gibberish,

And who knows where or when you’ll finish

.

Abstract nouns and writer’s frowns

Random combinations, pushing new grounds

For thinking of words, thesauruses are handy

Or a spare half bottle of potent brandy

.

I remember a phrase I read in the paper

I’ll stick it in the middle bit…

.

.

Too much hassle, I don’t have time

No-one will notice if it doesn’t rhyme

.

Poetry about poetry, hey, how clever

But don’t think I can keep this up forever

Emotive language that sizzles the senses

Like close encounters with electric fences

.

Now I’m running out of steam, lost my inspiration

It’s the end of the line, slide into the station

Feeling queasy doesn’t matter, everyone’s the same

And I’ll queue up just like all of them, to start the ride again

.

*                                  *                                  *

.

Corpse’s Lament

.

To life I feel dead

Probably because I am

I lie useless in my coffin

Like a baby in a pram

.

Sometimes worms visit

And it’s always nice to chat

But they wriggle in my hair

Should have brought a hat

.

Family never call

Damned ungrateful wretches

See, there’s nothing to do down here

Except my daily stretches

.

I like to think I’m a spaceman

Travelling to the stars

But at the rate I’m going

I won’t get very far

.

*                                  *                                  *

.

Tsunami

.

Crystal sparkles and cool breeze whispers

Away from hurricanes, floods and twisters

The tide giggles, stretching along the surf

Not a worry, not a soul on earth

.

Christmas cheer, laughter and champagne swigs

Matchsticks and paper, silly little twigs

The ocean shrugs, tired of this game

Now we’ll never see him again

.

A bit of water never hurt anyone, or so they say

It forgot itself that afternoon, on Boxing Day

A momentary lapse, but critical nonetheless

Exploding into panic, fear and stress

.

Humans helpless, but what could they do?

When death and destruction jumped out of the blue

And of miracles? I guess there were a few

At least, thank God, we still have those two.

.

(In honour of my uncle, Steve Magson, and his wife and daughter.)

.

.

Now then; the cages further down are getting a bit worse for wear, which ain’t good.. they’re going to need patching up before I let the next lot of beasties out. There has to be something to put them back in to after all; I dread to think what would happen if they were skittering loose all over the internet.

.Fffff

(All works © Alex Masterson 2009, All Rights Reserved.)

Tentacular cropped 4

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2 Responses to “– Poetry”

  1. Ken K. Says:

    So is the Monkey in the Tree a reference to an old Eddie Izzard skit?

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