It's all that subconcious dread on a Sunday

closing credits inside eyelids
toothbrush makes a cameo
sleepy zombie into duvet
tomorrow is the Monday show

For your reading pleasure, two poems about the weather. It's not like I really have nothing to talk about anymore (as meteorological events are what you should be conversing about during a literary dry spell) but recent skyward pondering as left me with these blabberings.

Wet

The rain, The Rain!
How we hail it! When
we've blamed, the sun
in all it's glory. How we like it
now it's pouring!

Almost There

In half-light I am cycling home
beneath the wings
of bats
who rush through clouds so
dark they've become
dangerous.

Quick, the thunder's coming!

Lullaby

Not immune then,
devil's trick.
Unravel me then,
stitch by stitch.
Façade cracking,
yawn concedes
to drowning in
this downy sea.
Now sleep.

Boreas and all his friends (Not including Buffy)

It's been windy lately. Winter in The Netherlands is just an impersonation of Fall.

Outside

The wind is what remains of God after taxes.
Irrefutable proof of the intangible
yes so solid in my head, under my chin
and inside my ears.

Invisible hands for an instant
Rearranging what's left of the cobwebs of liquor
Smacking me around in its wake

In it I can sense but not feel
I hold and then fall
Am always bested by
the remnants of God.

If James Joyce were an ordinary man.

Every morning he flings his two large feet out of his single bed and into his worn-out slippers. A wiggle of the toes begins a new day. On his way to work he whistles the melody to the Irish National Anthem which slowly changes into tuneless scales. His dark moustache rustles and reverberates on reaching the higher notes. His brisk steps leave imprints in the fresh snow. He loves to smoke his pipe in the early evening, when the hustle and bustle of the day is done and his sister makes him sausages and mash. Not incidentally his favourite dish. The dark scent of tobacco merges with the fibres of the curtains blocking the moonlight, it lingers all night. James Joyce falls asleep in his father’s old chair while listening to the indistinctly sung psalms his neighbour practises every Saturday night.

Religion and other bed time stories

Dear God

I hope you’re not mad I don’t believe in you anymore

I can imagine you’re a little disgruntled

But surely you must have noticed you’re getting a whole lot less emails

You see, there are now pubs in churches and churches on television

Angels on motorbikes and bibles for sex

Also there is Stephen Hawking

Who tries to prove you, or destroy you

Does the world disappoint you?

If I peek outside the window will it look like rain?

Perhaps you can send down a daughter this time

Teach us a lesson

Or was the other one not sent by you but by

The voices in his head?

And Today, for Stupidity

Found this somewhere. Obviously too good to be my own. No one knows who it's by though.

The famous speaker who no one had heard of said:

Ladies and jellyspoons, hobos and tramps,

cross-eyed mosquitos and bow-legged ants,

I stand before you to sit behind you

to tell you something I know nothing about.

Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,

there's a Mother's Day meeting for fathers only,

to decide what color to whitewash the church;

wear your best clothes if you haven't any.

Please come if you can't; if you can, stay at home.

Admission is free, pay at the door;

pull up a chair and sit on the floor.

It makes no difference where you sit,

the man in the gallery's sure to spit.

The show is over, but before you go,

let me tell you a story I don't really know.

One bright day in the middle of the night,

two dead boys got up to fight.

The blind man went to see fair play;

the mute man went to shout "hooray"

Back to back they faced each other,

drew their swords and shot each other.

A deaf policeman heard the noise,

and came and killed the two dead boys.

A paralysed donkey passing by

kicked the blind man in the eye;

knocked him through a nine-inch wall,

into a dry ditch and drowned them all.

If you don't believe this lie is true,

ask the blind man; he saw it too,

through a knothole in a wooden brick wall.