Poems

ALL IS SILENCE

© Dot Allison 2004

 

War

 

Artless, lost, thrice the cost
Boys soft, goaded, tough, jelly-like
Spiked under frills and royally iced.
Boot-shining while massacres simmer in vintage wine
Trill radio voices, the lying divine
Laughter-drenched, youth's fearless shroud
Hormonally scared and witlessly proud.
Vain glorified honour to trade in for snipe,
Then your fantastic ossicles blown and bloody
Like all your dreams now duped and cancered,

 

All is silence...

 

Duped like the vicar's dawning on meths,
The stellar sarcasm of all beckoning tombs
Invite with glee the messy, mortal fray
Doing turns like tops for patriotic slops
Medal lost in the ridges of the tractor tyre.
Fudged into the copper mud,
You join the conned, cold lifeless slain.

 

Where docile, gardened, vacuumed pride
Does momentously grace our virtuous, pompous tides
While the reaper forgiving the great whores
Who snigger,
As swag wipes it's muddy, bath-time feet on your

Core and the trigger.

 

BEFORE HIM

© Dot Allison 2005

 

The essence of him,
Scent of pine oil.

 

Fir, firm,
..firmament.

 

Hardwood solves all,
Take a bough.

 

Evergreen,
Yet
Tawny on request,
In winter.

 

Him,
He is a win

 

Like wings,
Always there in the wings.

 

And rough,
When smooth nauseates.

 

Texture
Of such a man,

 

Ladies weaken or strengthen?
Before him.

 

They kneel
Before his alter,

 

They kneel
Before his holy oil.

 

BITTERSWEET SIXTEEN BEAT

© Dot Allison 2005

 

Bittersweet sixteen,
I’m beat.
Sitting
At my desk,
I gaze
Out the window
Divorced
From lessons..
Unteachable.

 

Behind the eyes,
Still hopping
On the good leg
Which is bad
Along the curb
Of desolation.

 

My last splint
Sightly rotten
From old mist
Keeps me upright
Another half hour.

 

Shimmy
Your memory
Over here,
Bring a little class..
To class.
My most unlikely
Counterpart
Where two
Could equal one
Defying this logic..

 

Arithmetic
Of trust
Calculus
Of desire
Matrices
Of,
Well more
Teach me
Til I know
What I don't.

 

HIS MUSKET, PIPE AND GUN

© Dot Allison 2005

 

His musket, pipe and gun
Becomes composed of blood.
Symphony of unforgiveness
Played alongside
Another's 'march funebre'.
Harmonic jarring
Of epochal dimension,
But the boy did well
He died for his country.

 

Unacceptable like otherness,
Venom to the defended,
Or pox to the small minded.
White knuckled, like infantile rage
Still reeling in sweat.
Rank like chum turfed off the boat
For a trillion miles or so,
All for some mythical shark-fin.
But the boy died well,
He did for his country.

 

Swathes of peeling bells, tear-rusted,
Creak pendulous throughout heaven.
Amidst the sigh of all gods
At such a sodden human brew.
Made of hair and teeth in knots,
Gravel and limb-sockets
Or an eyebrow in a box.
Bits of some bloody poor sod
A bloody poor sod

Like me or you.

 

MADE MORE OF HYMNS

© Dot Allison 2005


The rodent's tongue made more of hymns  
Stays silent in the vestry  
Which is full,  
Ghastly of fat ill-bets and bids
Working hard on human faith.
  
*
  
Heaven, where few men
Would ever glumly-dwell,  
Is within earshot of the ravings
Housing many serene trees
That take great note.
  
*
  
Is not a human
upon this worldly cloth..
wise as even the road there
or a gravel bit?
  
*
  
Homesick for heaven  
In the face of life?
A mouse, ignorant
Of it's innocence
The mightiest of merchants

Settles for paradise.

 

MY OBVIOUS SUNSET

© Dot Allison 2005

 

I could wrap  
My arms  
Around the whole world  
Minus you
And be empty-handed.
 

I could gather  
Abundant rain  
From every known leaf,  
Wring out  
The furious clouds,
Then scoop  
All oceans dumb
But die from thirst
For you.
 

Your presence,  
Total majesty  
Of mountains
Grasses up  
The dummy gravity  
Of solitude. 
 

Moved,  
By the paralysis
Of desire..
I faint  
From the realisation
Of you...

Your skin,  
My obvious sunset

 

ALCOHOL; MY WIDOW

© Dot Allison 2004

 

Alcohol; my widow watches
As the wiley sin,
Still with mirth
Beneath their skin
Upon my window sill

 

Crystal breath
Still scolds my ear,
10 orchid fingers
Evil steer
Towards the
Murdering lurid moon
That swept my
Boat to kingdom come.

 

Italic print
My waking dreams
And forfeit
All my should have beens
Melt from the blaze
Some unkempt shame
And pin with poppies to my name..

 

My tragic mirror,
Bottle grazed
The brazen teeth
Of lonely days,
Still sink in breathless
To my haze
And dusky light my memories.