Author: Mike Crowl

TABBY or not tabby. After
SIXTY years on this planet do I have the
NERVE to travel further
NORTH, or will I stay at home?        

CRAFT fair. Baubles without substance.
GAUDY trinkets, trifles, whatnots, and
PRISMs: imitation rainbows. I sneer,
SCORN the tinsel tawdry.     

GAUNT the aged pianist sat,
(SMELL of soap, once standard in all homes);
SHONE the sounds from fingers wracked, of
FLAILed keys fiercely struck.

GRIND my baggage into my cabin and

HOARD all available space. Full steam

AHEAD, the Captain cries, leaving my

WOOER with egg on his face.          

The

PIPER who played on the Isle of

WIGHT played with such a Celtic

VIGOR I had no choice but to give him

CHEEK. He blew a bagpipe raspberry at me.

My

GHOUL-friend’s a bit of an alternative

ALBUM, she’s a long-playing record looping

LOOPY when the blunted needle hits a

STUMP in the track…and jumps.     

BEGAT’s a word full-full of life, a

SEIZE-the-day squeezing word, a sharp-in-your-face

GEESE-pecking kind of word, rising-from-the-pit

MINER, black-sooted, grin-shining, the-work-is-over sort of word.

SPARK of dawn reveals the
DROSS of dew over the grass. I
CHOKE at the thought that the day will be
SUNNY: death met my friend yesterday.

‘He’s a
GONER, you can tell by the crack in his
SKULL, the slit in his throat, and the
TYING of his neck to the ceiling. Want to make a proper
AUDIT?’

My first attempt today was a GONER.
Violent, and a nasty piece to come out of my SKULL.
Plainly my imagination needs an AUDIT,
Fingers need control when I’m TYING (er, typing).