Bomb In C Minor
There's a minefield set inside my head
Any little push and I think we're all dead
The barrel is loaded through my twisted neurology
Which social miasmas set in motion the trigger
Leading tainted endearments that lead me to linger
A hyacinth aborted, in the killing fields bloomed
caution were you tread, or this roman candle will yield
There's a bomb playing c minor, it's my schizoid sonata
Cracked coronets pick away my head with an axe
The violins scratch impressions on mahogany lines
While the Spanish guitar paints me to a far away time
And nobody hears the pressure point crescendo to the drums
as the bomb goes off for session number 1
Everyday is navigated combating a barbed wire planet
For eyes and subtle sneers, firing the shot penetrating fear
Wounds fragrant the body and make a casualty worn
Without notice to recoil the shrapnel lodges your thoughts
And every scar to the insults engineers a damaged mind
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Bambi's Revenge
canopy of evergreens
a slaughterhouse again
Creeping through bramble
are the body taxman
Black-market peddlers
from Orion’s savage arts
Scoping Winchesters and Remington’s
for easy prey to lay
A loon skywards blue
and a marten on the earth
No Valley or thickets
will curtail these assassins
In buckskin jackets
and Wellingtons well drafted
Freely soaking an emerald
chapel into a bloody supermarket
Assaulted to the massacre
preoccupying his vision
Is the prince of the woods,
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Hangman with the teacher
R_ T_ _E_
It was a Tuesday painted Friday
by wanton act of tragedy
When punctual Mr. Miller, laconically sat
Looking on his wards he silently wept
He sighed with contempt
of a lifetime of regret
Meditating sorrow in his morning Earl Grey tea
Looking through the window
at tears of rain rang from the pang
And the sky was mourning grey
A middle age man he was tall and rather fair
Angular face, with drawn pink cheeks
The formal decorum of accountant attire
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Little Miss Misery
A scion marked from Old Lizzies Hand
Collar trim, with an axe potent grand
Butcher sister, to Mrs Kotche’s intellect
Calculate the sums of the souls she collects,
Dear misery, your charade is an annulled
Vacate to the dirt, from the dump where you crawled
I tried to be negotiable but you never let me in
No pacifist’s consideration for your reptilian skin
There’s no smile for that girl,
Troubled Lizard with hair fizzled
Wears T-shirts and sweat pants
To show that she’s not that
Reclines in her chair, with an esteemed heir
Corpulent paranoid, when her retina’s not there
Charades equality for camaraderie
Though it’s full of bull diplomacy
Liberalisms Pravda shoes
to keep her fascist soles clean
Plays the punk chick with finesse
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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