Poem

Theatre

“All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players” So wrote the great Bard. Humankind want to build utopias where God seems not to care, so we lie to each other, spend thousands on medical insurance trying to avoid deaths honesty. Chemical smoke, mushroom clouds tangled in the folly of trust,

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The Room

Old room where ghosts play in the dust corners of a council house front room. Loud silence superimposed on torn wallpaper. Madness movements, ‘Trick or treat’ redundancies play out to nothing as the Thirteenth disciple maps the timeless rendezvous. Inaudible lonely commands are voiced as faces peer out from frozen curtains. There was such life

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Dry Leaves

Dry leaves on a bed of memories, the way through the woods, footpathsunknown only to us, in dense winding ways of wonder. Vast adrenalin kingdoms were ours, young lives strangely blessed by the writer with the mask, powered naïve non- awareness, before we knew even the shadow of evil. The Trickster’s footsteps echoed even then,

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