Chocolate Liqueurs

Irresistible

in their tiny bottle forms.

We kept insisting

on biting, drawn

to the thin chocolate outside,

trying to avoid 

the gushing liqueur inside

that made us recoil.

Mam got the remains;

messy sludgy fingerprints

on chocolate casings maimed

by tiny teeth imprints.

Hakai No Coup

Audience in Seoul,

Martial Law is overthrown.

Yoon and who's army?

Party

Outside,
day drinking.

Plastic wine 

glasses clinking.

A festive meet,

restricted access,

wellied feet,

in camera praxis.

Food: Optional,

dress code: Old,

and nothing better

than house clothes.

Party of two,

no plus-ones,

a who's-who

when all is said and done.

Glasses clinking,

plastic wine.

Day drinking,

outside.

Life Nepps

Mounds of unseen
by-product, shavings
of our moving

forward, through, rings

and hoops and jumps,

also invisible.

Clear as day all of a sudden

routes imperceptible 

accessible, almost begging for believers.

Behind, no trace of derivatives,

only echoes of seekers.

Life nepps set to a beautiful finish.

Taliban

Armed with guns, armed with tanks,

Armed extremists in their ranks,

Armed to govern, armed to oppress,

Armed to police how women dress.

Toyota trucks, and mobile phones

did not exist when the Quran was told.

Neither men, nor whipping boys,

should need to control a woman's voice.

Back in time, or so they claim,

to live a seventh-century game

of make-believe fairyland.

No women, just the Taliban.

Dumb Luck

Polio in a nation

that's a selvedge 

of civilisation,

while we all live

normal lives.

Convection currents

and seams colliding;

dumb luck not meant

in any mockery.

Just a bias of geography.

Foxgloves High

Hopping, skipping, and self-seeding,

the gardener's prize for not weeding.

Commitment-phobes, they move at will,

form a rosette, and settle in.

They take their time, 

then retire.

Foxgloves high

and mighty spire.

Fort Worth

An unfiltered brightness

blinds me, in Fort Worth.

To East Chase, on a bicycle,

shouts from pick-up trucks,

like, "lady, don't die."

The grass sounds and scents

the journey, and I stop half way.

I stand, aware of the movements,

and make sure to stay away

from the vegetation's inhabitants.

In the house, I don't realise 

that cats and air-con

live hermetically-sealed lives,

and will be long gone

if an opening is even implied.

Bottles For Crushing

The civilised entries,

of bottled-water empties,

are sobering sights

for the cola-prone. 

Not one machine working

once I'm done returning

my bottles for crushing,

Diet Pepsi and Coke.

If she were stronger

she'd mainline no longer,

but she's weak and addicted,

and she's very old.

She's got vouchers profuse

that she forgets to use,

from her bottles for crushing,

Diet Pepsi and Coke.

In the Covid pandemic

she stocked up incessant,

but not one sliced pan

or pack of toilet rolls.

Her husband despaired,

and her children went spare,

but she had bottles for crushing,

Diet Pepsi and Coke.

(To the tune of Molly Malone).

No Bells

Maytrees flowering,

like nothing is wrong.

Rain still showering

all spring long.

Age is devouring 

youth and song.

No bells left to ring,

that time is gone.