a choice of hats (after ghost poet)
July 30, 2012
1. A garden full of tall sunflowers.
17 starry nights. possibly an urn
in the corner.
2. A charming fez
3. Quote from Wittgenstein,
“Are you reading this page voluntarily”
4. Patio furniture neatly askew,
my mother with a pair of secateurs.
5. With orangutan horses and purple girraffes.
6. A bed sheet with holes cut out for eyes.
7. A backwards somersault
8. sunflowers again, this time a bouquet
with long stems of spikey marmalade
we can’t identify.
9. This one has loving gazes at new carpet,
Indian rug obtained at flee-market
otherwise known as
Fenwicks of Leicester
Half Price Sale.
10. a – number after 9
10. by – a place in South Wales.
11. All good children go to heaven
12. Sunflowers, flowering in December,
somewhere in the world.
13. Last supper,
jelly and ice cream and canned pilchards.
14. le singe, la scimmia.
15. This sentence
16. has no meaning.
a choice of hats (after mark.s aka the ghost poet)
July 29, 2012
1. A garden full of tall sunflowers.
17 starry nights.
2. A charming fez
3. Lime green teaspoon
originating from the Mediterranean ocean
also a bottle green (nosed)
plastic dolphin
4. A quote from Wittkenstein,
“are you reading this page voluntarily”
5. Patio furniture neatly askew,
my mother with a pair of secutears.
6. With orangutan horses and purple girraffes.
7. A bed sheet with holes cut out for eyes.
8. Sunflowers again, this time a bouquet
with long stems of spikey marmalade
we can’t identify.
9. This one has loving gazes at new carpet,
Indian rug obtained at flee-market
otherwise known as
Fenwicks of Leicester
Half Price Sale.
10. a – number after 9
10. by – a place in South Wales.
11. All good children go to heaven
12. A backwards somersault in farsi or brail
13. Last supper,
jelly and ice cream and canned pilchards.
14. This sentence has no meaning.
‘according to monki’, ’17 sun-flowers, pictures and haiku by ghost-monki’ (book one, page two)
July 27, 2012
‘according to monki’, ’17 sun-flowers, pictures and haiku by ghost-monki’ (book one)
An exploration of my roots
July 16, 2012
There’s Peroxide bleach,
and potential for blindness
and the smell,
and the itching,
poisoned dress,
Medea’s shower-cap.
Then the complementary tea
and the forced entertainment;
holidays, relationships,
hair care maintenance
and the actual burning
the sensation of depilation
the ready supply of Vanity Fair
New Woman, Cosmopolitan.
Then there’s the taking of
blow dried brilliance
for blow job-tastic:
“Hey Pinky, Hey Pinky”
called from a car
“I’ve seen you on the internet”
and the promiscuous,
girly,
child like,
deviant,
dangerous,
drug addicted
political
vegan
the beaureaucratic noting
of communistic tendencies,
at the quarterly review
woven in hairpins.
From my Uncle in Dachau
to my white haired Barbie.
From Hungary to Switziland.
Auschwitz to Acid.
Platinum Bomb shells
to Great Aunt Barishka.
From Russia with love
to Ursula Andres.
From toner to silver.
From cracked to Catwomen
Through my hair
I am exploring my roots.
It’s taken me hours
to paint them sienna.
And I’m not splitting ends but
Delilah, Madonna,
Marilyn Monroe,
Mother Teresa.
Frieda Carlo
meets Lady Gaga,
Simone de Beauvoir,
women are not born
they are made.
I’m sending letters
to Uncle Zoltan
from icy tips
down darkened paths.
I’m sending postcards
to Grandma Ily, Edith Piaf,
I’m posting reports from the other side.
Peroxide Bleach and X men Heroines,
Polar Bears and razing follicles.
First wave, second wave
Perm mutation,
Feminist, Post Feminist,
Lap dance, Prom Queen,
I’m so confused
I’ve turned into snow
in a vain attempt
to exit the show.
Third wave, new wave
Perm mutation
Post, Post Feminist
Prom Queen Fascist
I’m dying my hair
while I still have the leisure.
One day soon
I’ll be old and grey.
I’ll die my hair
a shade of fuchsia.
An exploration of my roots.
July 16, 2012
There’s Peroxide bleach,
and potential for blindness
and the smell,
and the itching,
poisoned dress,
Medea’s shower-cap.
Then the complementary tea
and the forced entertainment;
holidays, relationships,
hair care maintenance
and the actual burning
the sensation of depilation
the ready supply of Vanity Fair
New Woman, Cosmopolitan.
Then there’s the taking of
blow dried brilliance
for blow job-tastic:
“Hey Pinky, Hey Pinky”
called from a car
“I’ve seen you on the internet”
and the promiscuous,
girly,
child like,
deviant,
dangerous,
drug addicted
political
vegan
the beaureaucratic noting
of communistic tendencies,
at the quarterly review
woven in hairpins.
From my Uncle in Dachau
to my white haired Barbie.
From Hungary to Switziland.
Auschwitz to Acid.
Platinum Bomb shells
to Great Aunt Barishka.
From Russia with love
to Ursula Andres.
From toner to silver.
From cracked to Cat-Women
Through my hair
I am exploring my roots.
It’s taken me hours
to paint them sienna.
And I’m not splitting ends but
Delilah, Madonna,
Marilyn Monroe,
Mother Teresa.
Frieda Carlo
meets Lady Gaga,
Simone de Beauvoir,
women are not born
they are made.
I’m sending letters
to Uncle Zoltan
from icy tips
down darkened paths.
I’m sending postcards
to Grandma Ily,
Hepburn, Piaf,
I’m posting reports from the other side.
Peroxide Bleach and X men Heroines,
Polar Bears and razing follicles.
First wave, second wave
Perm mutation,
Feminist, Post Feminist,
Lap dance, Prom Queen,
I’m so confused
I’ve turned into snow
in a vain attempt
to exit the show.
First wave, second wave
Perm mutation
Post, Post Feminist
Lap dance Prom Queen.
I’m dying my hair
while I still have the leisure.
One day soon
I’ll be old and grey.
I’ll die my hair purple.
British Summer Haiku
July 14, 2012
Here in the garden
in my coat, listening to the
wind in the trees.
Lydia Towsey 