| FOUL PLAY Sorry stitches saving nine & a half dames & nits from a fate more dull than dire Blonde hairs found in clothes, in the carpet in sheets, on the keyboard even if I knew Better I'd say it was black magic driving down something, something salt or snow? An illusion Of promise & torture surfeit to say nothing remembers my mind. The language decided To have enough be the root of sad all the live long day cousin Buttercup & Aunt Amanda party it up on the verandah & no-one is ever the wiser. Home for the Disenchanted; read poets. Home for Ribald & Abusive Personages; read skald Read poet. As Sanctioned By Language. don't ask for anything we'll give you What we can, here's my number as if he forsees I will need It, a freshly-bit victim when the Thirst starts In the bulges of the brain an oyster irritated produces A barroco. I produce this, this, this ; Reade und Weepe All this time a conspiracy it amazes to conceal good poetry uncovered & there's me thinking it didn't exist. (Previously published in The Grimoire of Grimalkin, November 2007) ©Sascha Akhtar 2007-2008 |
| VALHALLA I Sufferin' jehosaphats jumpin' snakeskin jambalaya & the crow leapt over the wickets, shake a leg & miss the boat anyway curses! De bread she is de spoiled again, gotta cut off the green bits to make toast for tea & dare say we something as passé as je ne sais quois & it's off wid her head just for sport like the Norman who hunts peacocks. Bad business this, I tell you clean out of my head it's gone now where was I? Ah yes horticulture & torture together again like old enemies who have kissed & made up, that rings a bell Won't catch me potting a goddamn thing & what of a person with no thumbs at all neither green nor black, just void & the world becomes your mussel except you loathe mussels With the same grand passion that you long for that bloody man tenaciously but somehow, somehow it always seems wrong. There is not a scratch of purity in the emotion, not a thimble’s worth & for the life of you you just can't figure it out like most things, in the middle of the night when figuring outings are made. II Sufferance, a fine line that shiver me timbre, miss or hit a glistening dangerous chit circa through the ages of gall & gumption, not lacking in the least bit. Sie ist meine Schwester & I think she's ugly. Better you than me on occasion is felt joie in a safely guarded, controlled environment they like to tell us how the water's running out. What did they think? That it wouldn't? & the bijli that is in short supply apparently this comes as no shock Hephaestus is no human ally Ra signed no contract to provide power to Earth Mammy Nature is way past a woman’s prime, at this juncture The sea is going to become one cataclysmic cesspool we do away with anyone who knows the ways of the land right off the bat. Creatures doomed to state the obvious what a plight for pillocks! III Bedknobs & bromide on the nightstand is the Grimoire a sweet dream for the glazed-eyed. I long for the lekjas to appear again in all his vainglory so I can pull at his robes & denounce him for the imposter that he is, like a scream in an anechoic chamber suspended, I pretend to sleep with Odin. (Previously published in The Grimoire of Grimalkin, November 2007) ©Sascha Akhtar 2007-2008 |
| ABACUS On the most exalted throne in the world, nothing but your arse - Montaigne A whole lot of prattle & beef, the suckling it were let to reign terror on the supper table it were. The funniest little black ting you ever sat eyes on & what a howlin' & what a moanin' cooms from the deaf dalmatian not a dog but a right cow it were A-twirlin' thats tail till we's be right dizzy plenty of work to go a-roamin' in the streets for idle hands there be, no use pretendin' to be afeard mawther curly hair be the death of virtue the time is gettin' oover for you If you hain't guessed by now oo yer fader is then ya ne'er will it right lies in his eyes, melancholia in his spleen, frail fancy he's a-ridin' his hobby towards ya that as gonned you life, me pale wee iele Kred-dhe put you them there corsets on & bustle Queen Mab & the laidley worm will come a-knockin' eft soons for the St.Vitus' dance of the crow moon. Mind your humours now, be pure & clean don't want no mud-bloods just the phrenzied the mad & mean. Silly puss sluts are loathesome to fairies (Previously published in The Grimoire of Grimalkin, November 2007) ©Sascha Akhtar 2007-2008 |