What the atom-bomb shall I do?

"What the atom-bomb shall I do"?
When I can't control my bowel
Or bladder to urinate or do,
That all important number 1 or number 2.

Of course you can blow the world
To smithereens for all I care.
If I'm wheeled into that nursing home
There'll be no airs or graces, I swear.

I be better off in the sanatorium,
Blazing-mad, about the ECT chair.
Than saddled in an orderly routine.
"Wondering who the hells washing my hair".

To be fair there's not much difference
In-here-or-out-there! There's no control…
When-all's-said-and-done, I'm a nuisance!
A-has-been, never will be again, tadpole!

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Crying for her first emperor…

Her tears mingle wearing his crossed-collar
Blue silk blouse in bed
And, when there dried, she's interned in clay.
With her terracotta army,
With her terracotta, stalwart, horse.

Oh she's crying for her first emperor…
For her first loves dynasty,
Oh she'll excavate - all those undeserving,
Others and weep, whilst!
Her stalwart horse pulls… at the bit.

And until her - jade-black hair!
Turns grey and falls from its pine-cone-braids.
And, rest on her moon, washed, collarbones.
She'll remain resolute! Warm in his robes…

In his crossed-collar blue silk blouse
In his crossed-collar blue silk blouse
Until one day, she'll be rapt - naked

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Gods Garden Of Sunshine

Our way-would calling?
Star pulsed, lover.
'Who's hearts a purple emperor?
Teased-out of a milk-white flower'
Churned into curds and whey,
Whose rosy, nothingness…
In conclave, owlets flicker.
Does intern, lead us away…?

Shouldn't I who am lassoed plunge talons?
Like a dandelions root.
Shouldn't I blow with these waxing-suns?
Shouldn't I beak-split tear—apart
Her gossamer: She; whom hemps a moon.
Shouldn't I be the one—who?
With tapper alights her inert womb.

Simply put: Shouldn't I dive for pearls?
Or pan loves untold-gold: No, I just won't
Or can't be led 'foolhardy' downstream.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Hallelujah for a women's love

Once when I cried for freedom
For freedoms ancient sleep
I lay on my bed in my kingdom
Feeling sad so sad and bleak.

Once when I laughed the world laughed too
And so my one true love did you;
Once when my heart was a ball and chain,
Love—saved my soul from the pain.

Once when the sun was cold,
And the moon was warm.
"I listened to those thoughts..? "
Echoing in my soul!

And sang: Hallelujah...
Hey, hey, hallelujah...
Hey, hey, hallelujah...

Once when all hope seemed a pitiless dream

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Don't worry it's all been planned

Change is brought about by erosion!
Look around, and you will all come to see.
Change is brought about by erosion!
Want something privatized that's easy.

Cut all funding till the wheels fall off…
And say here's what'll fix it; for not a lot.
You can even buy shares, but, here's the tipoff…
'We'll never invest; bonuses are our mascot'.
Even going greener makes them all richer
I've now a blue bin a brown and a black
And one for indoors and if I'm a lucky chap!
I can have a green one for only £20 a year.

Change is brought about by erosion!
My dear! Don't worry it's all been planned
Everything has a cycle that requires action!
'Just don't tell them, about the quicksand'.

See it's all happening again boom and bust

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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So What Has Become Of The Yard Bird?

The wind and the rain gather you.
Like petals on a rain storm
So what has become of the yard bird?
That stirred the captive rainbows
To your and my finger tips

What has become of the rose?
That danced off her dew wet shadows
And sang adjacent the jasmine stars
Sweetly scented at the first cut of hay

That lay in sobrieties corn circles
That lay in bed on this coarse way
A filly jumping over any such hurdles
Whatever happened to us…?

When did you slip through my fingers?
Like a broken rainbow
Like a rose long cut
No fresh water can ever save anymore…

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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You nailed me

You nailed me
To the garden fence with a kiss,
Translucent-blood then wet my lids
Like sunlight after a heavy-shower.
Apple-fresh the goblet-cup opened
Its olive pores of greenwood.

I held you, too tightly at first limb for limb.
Then o'er the oil and water mixed, before parting?
"Virginity is a yellow bruise that grapples
Like a naked swimmer" inherently drowning…
Expounding: for some forbidden fruit.

It's now then you gaze at me as though
Your Eden had already over grown…
Chopping backward at some underpass
Your eyes droop like summer scorched nettles…
That reveals me as an unremitting, wilderness.

Even now the air!

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Our way-would calling?

Our way-would calling?
Star pulsed, lover.
"Who's hearts a purple emperor?
Teased-out of a milk-white flower"
Churned into curds and whey,
Whose rosy, nothingness…
In conclave, owlets flicker.
Does intern, lead us away…?

Shouldn't I who am lassoed plunge talons?
Like a dandelions root.
Shouldn't I blow with these waxing-suns?
Shouldn't I beak-split tear—apart
Her gossamer: She; whom hemps a moon.
Shouldn't I be the one—who?
With tapper alights her inert womb.

Simply put: Shouldn't I dive for pearls?
Or pan loves untold-gold: No, I just won't
Or can't be led "foolhardy" downstream.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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Fagan or scrooge

Oh lord; I'm a dragon on prescription
With fire waters too tame.
Oh don't get scared, babe
There are no ice waters in my veins.

But, oh babe I'm counting on you
Oh I've been counting on your tears…
On those long eyelashes trying not to cry
-Abed of rain, the way they've done for years…

Babe, pass me a chilled long beer
And sit on the sofa right over here
Woman you're just a drinking, amateur
And, oh babe I'm not fooling around…

Oh lord; I'm a dragon on prescription
With fire waters too tame.
Oh don't get scared, babe
There are no ice waters in my veins.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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The path of a six year old believer!

The path of a six year old believer!
Love, in absence
Where did “He” go?
Out for a pack of Marlboro cigarettes
Or to join the latest cabaret, pantomime show.
Who amongst us would know?
Didn’t “He” say his love?
Would be eternal, “Sister”

Isn’t that just a tinselled, cover-up?
Another green Cyanide-pill
A vitamin for the heart and soul (Banal)
Take your medicine. Ask no questions.
Nothing, meaningful or maternal (Here)
Just another missing Christmas… (Gift) (Wish)
That melted with the first snow.

Of course were all missing, you, Father?
Of course were all shallow children, and Father…
Of course we’ll swallow any old-lie whole.

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poem by Mark Heathcote
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