Last of the dropped stuff

Recollecting past emotive feelings

How could I have conceit to deceive myself
How can I a man
Imagine how a woman would feel
Not made of steel, not mechanistic
An individual
With one's own thoughts and feelings

How could I have deceit to conceive myself
That I a man
Cannot imagine a woman
Should steal herself not to feel
The receipt of a flower
With a smile


this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

more of the dropped stuff

I stare at the blank piece of paper
My thoughts all over the place
At work, at play, at rest
Melancholy could be allowed to enter
Saturday night in bed by ten all alone long way from home
But more than this would be needed for the basis of despair

Imagine one gene from where their is energy
Imagine more than one, a cellarfull of cells
Where is energy
Meditation calms, relaxes, releases minds energy
Where is energy
Lucozade gives glucose gives body energy
Where is energy
Alcohol stimulates, inebriates, eventually suffocates energy
Where
Nicotine infiltrates to create headache energy
Why
Passion rouses bodies warm fluids flow in a flood a burst of energy
Wow

this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

More dropped stuff

And so we go our own way
A path not trod before
Each bracken broke
A breaking new

We know this way to be our own way
Our own not known before
Each thought awoke
A thinking new

With light and might we walk our own way
Stealth of stride alone no more
Each slice of slight
Incite light new

this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

Dropped

that same old inconsistency
always the same
old inconsistency
continues always
along that same old
road to incredulity
segregated - why
you like to write
egress outward
like to words
release unleash
forgotten depths


this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

Bosh

With an impersonators skill
Complete with arm movements
& pointed finger
We are given another chapter
In the latest saga
Of the destructive monologues
Through fizzling gritted teeth
& pursed lips
We hear the detritus
Of the old man’s worldly thoughts
& guidance for youths to follow

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