The Long Grin is finally avaialble on Kindle and Smash and contains the best of my 10 years of poetry. I've even begun live readings at poetry festivals in sept 2011. It is a head mix of styles - some traditional, some humorous but there are no plans as yet to do a hard copy but I have put them on the net for a mere 99 cents as I am an unknown poet - and touch wood - it seems to be selling slowly but steadily. The cover is a real cat with jelly-fish genes in its DNA that makes it glow a sinister green in UV light. Huzzah for science!
Sonnet 43 - Feeder
How do I feed thee? Let me count Milk Trays
The curry cartons stacked the breadth and height
My arms can reach, the ceiling out of sight
For the bones of wish, chicken, cod and plaice
I feed thee to the level of everday’s
Unquiet greed, by sun and dim bulb-light.
I feed thee freely, as chefs strive all night;
I make thee need me, as their dough doth raise.
I bring thee pizzas, passion put to use
In my old briefs, and with thy childish faith.
I feed thee with a love I’m doomed to lose
To flesh constraints, I feed thy garlic breath,
With all my menu’d heart and thus I choose;
I shall but feed thee fully unto death.
(apologies to Elizabeth Browning!)
Reaper Stealing
I gaze into her mirror
on the razor edge of darkness
my face illumated from below
by the glittering of her tears
faces shadowed, features flow
from theatres of the absurd
so I wave my hand magician
back and forth
across my tragi-comic masks
happy, sad
happy...
sad...
Before she slept detached
with cold good reason
she said she loved me like a brother
but then she tried to mother me
and smother me with incest kisses
made of the brightest candle flame
burning on her lips.
And in these mirrored coma-depths
I hear her breathe her sleeping airs
music from the valleys of the unborn
echoes from the ridges of the dead
life sighing lost in exhalation.
Before she slept I played my tune testoterone
I ran my fingers along the instrument of her body until...
carried away by our carrion harmonies
argon-arcing, we welded crescendos
our backs cadence-arching
we found our perfect melody
we deserved our standing ovation.
And now, beneath my silent mime
above my sheets of sleepless fire
my love does not awake
but breathes on serenely
the Reaper stealing a little death.
All poems and lyrics
(c) 2011 Paul D.E. Mitchell
Religion
Time is standing frozen
by the ever-open door
it squeezes through the cracks
it cascades down to the floor
black robes are flowing
the black flags of faith
the wind is no redeemer
and heaven no escape.
Collection coins are rolling
like tank-tracks through the night
stained-glass Jesus-windows
only crucify the light
chaplains blessing sabres
the unknown soldier's grave
white feathers line the coffins
the cradles to the brave.
See mullahs blessing martyrs
ploughboys from the farms
who are beaten into heroes
sent to die in Allah's arms
blood pigments the icons
and illuminates the Word
with palettes made of napalm
the artists shall be heard.
The bankers' sons are spitting
down at press-gangs in the street
the multi-medalled generals
taste the opium defeat
harvesting the poppies
with Saint Elmo's holy fire
they sacrifice on altars
all the things that men desire.
Fists crash down on bibles
hiding reason with the noise
the jackboots in the bedroom
sees your innocence destroyed
priests blockade your hallway
and bless the hangman's rope
like lawyers in their black robes
they're prosecuting
hope....