Richmond upon Thames
I read my poem
about the maroon fairy
to a goose with orange legs
maybe it was the clash of colours
or the aroma of a varnish- flavoured sorbet
that caused him to stand stock-still
in front of the boat-house milk-bar
who's Oberon?
king of the fairies
I like the bit about
a cowslip-bell of dew he said
and
with a backward glance
his head turned one hundred and eighty degrees
does he have orange legs?
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Star Treck
approaching dawn
Captain Kirk
seated at the kitchen-table
spaced-out
faced the double-glazing
steering planet earth
feeling it's mass
slowly turn to face the sun
somewhere people hanging on
and the noise they made
and there with buttered toast
a knife a spoon
and marmalade
the small room
flooded now with light
he held tight
leaned into it's flight
master of it all
to boldly go
thrillingly fast
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poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Autumn Fayre
at the Arts and Crafts Fayre
one stall stripped bare
had nothing on at all
across the hall from the refreshments room
it could be seen
inbetween the hanging- quilts and raffia mats
and there he sat
tea-cup rattling on plate
an octodegenerate
eyes fixed on those long smooth legs
he lingered at the dregs
then from his pursed lips
the semblance of a sigh
there was that taste now bitter-sweet
and he can't remember why
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Soul
soul of opalescent glass
who's outside stares in
sing another sarabasse
for this starry spin
soul of some forgotten taste
tiger in the grass
unfurl your wings in this cluttered place
and the puppeteer rides past
soul who's somewhere over the hill
W dot ice-cream
Barbie's made it in the queue
and Polly lies styrene
cobbler cobbler there's a shoe
knows just how he feels
he sings Hallelujah
'cos his soul's been heeled
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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The Universe Is Flat
a pint of real ale
the Angel who'd been holding aloft a screen
beyond the furthest galaxies
or just about as far as man could dream
in the pub car-park
had rolled it up
and stood it against the wall
is that all it is
pinpricks of light
half a pint still in his glass
the Angel let pass
more tiresome questions about unfathomable things
just sat
framed by an arched window
making slight quivery movements with his wings
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Love
what is that thing called
that music is the food of
just a mirage, a fantasy, a dream
a candyfloss of thistledown
a melt-too-quick ice-cream
they caught it in a net
a butterfly still fluttering
so delicate
and yet
that was not love
it's what people are in
fall out of
can't find
it's completely contradictory to how we've been designed
so whoever's pulling strings
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poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Hotel Olympic Plage
the moon across his shoulders
listening to the silence of cicadas
in the darkness of Aleppo Pines
and the murmurings of shadows
ascending the steps from the beach
there stands Apollo
at the entrance to the cocktail-bar
how could it have come to this
even the you know what
has lost it's fizz
yet there's magic on this terrace
civilisation's furthest reach
at the tips of Barbie's fingers
it's rouge laque
coral
fuchsia
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poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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A Talent-Competition
Hotel des Lices St. Tropez
poolside on the evening of a languid day
hot and sweet and cloying St. Tropez
the girl from Ecuador
one of the final four
realized she'd lost her way
a seagull
the hotel-dog
and a chromium-plated bar-stool
comprised the other three
and we
reclining on brown and pink cushions
flushed with vin rose
were disinclined to pander to the obvious
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poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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The Snake-God St. Tropez
early morning Place des Lices
at breakfast my coiled croissannt tells me
beware the Snake-God
he had not been placated
the vagrant's forward roll had skewed to the left
at lunch
out from the shade cicadas screech
as they identify
one of their own kind
protruding from the cheese-topping on my pizza
at dinner
I consume slivers of raw flesh
possibly the wine-waiters arm
it is July in St.Tropez
in the year of
the serpent
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poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Coat - Hanger Spring
in Spring
on the rail
it's that love thing
the white plastics pale
a little
as they contemplate
the newcomer
smooth-shouldered
nicely curved at the throat
pedigree a blazer
not an anorak
or coat
at the far side of the room
the contents of the dressing-table drawers
long-term residents
know
that hanging around
with nothing on
can only lead to one thing
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poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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