Zombie and Son
The Ghoulag Archipelago
The Two Noble Pumpkinsmen
An Inspectre Calls
Be careful out there.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.and it involves, basically, triplets whose last lines repeat alternately the first and last lines of the opening triplet, and a concluding quatrain which repeats both, while the middle lines of each triplet all share the rhyme of the original second line. When executed well, the effect is mesmerising, often very moving and paradoxically natural in an almost casual way. Handled badly, however, it sounds contrived and inane.
If I could wait for the slightest changein you, then each day hurt you in a dozendifferent ways, bite heart-shaped chunksof flesh from your thighs to test if you flinchor if you could be trusted to endure,if I could rub my scent along your shins to makeyou mine, if a mistake could be followedby instant retribution and end with yourolling over to expose the stubble and graceof your throat, if it could be forgottenthe moment the wind changed, if my eyescould sharpen to yellow, if we journeyedeach night for miles, taking it in turnsto lead, if we could know by smellwhat we are born to, if before we metwe sent our lonely howls across the estuarywhere in the fading light wader birds stiffenand take to the air, then we could agreea role for each of us, more complicatedthan alpha, more simple than marriage.
He will speak these words of wisdom
Like a sage, a man of vision
Though he knows he’s really nothing
But the brief elaboration of a tube.
And while he talks his dreams to sleep
You notice there's a highway
That is curling up like smoke above his shoulder
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
But climb on your tears and be silent
Like the rose on its ladder of thorns
I fought against the bottle
But I had to do it drunk
Everybody knows you've been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes.
The deeply relaxing effect of Sea of Ink
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last,
Nurses to their graves are gone,
But the prams go rolling on
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
The summer's almost gone
The winter's tuning up.