From Landscapes to Portraits

Posted on July 12, 2021 by clawfish

22

Posted on August 27, 2016 by clawfish

they told me about the garden of love

which I knew never existed

just like the dew settles

a feeling came over me

reaching touching feathery leaves

someone lurked in the darkness

a glimpse a furtive shadow

i needed to draw out of the gloom

no fee to be paid

as wallet forgotten

my fingers picked a rose

holding it aloft to the sun

shadow emerged reaching also

for the rose

sunlit face exquisite beauty

naked radiance for me to see

entranced entwined enthralled

in a boiling swell of passion

i was consumed

infused with the flowers and trees

the garden in this garden

i would remain

many stories can be untold

but this one cannot

i belong to that once furtive figure

no more in the density of foliage

but with me

together as one

Together always

22 years of marriage to be celebrated

In The Scheme Of Things

Posted on April 21, 2016 by clawfish

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans

laundry

in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few

copyyright Chris Lawrence

erection day

Posted on March 27, 2015 by clawfish

pricks modelled in clay
stout phalluses
to be glazed and painted
with words of policy,
many tongues will lick
thinking of some turbulent heart
that some powers will be given
in a seminal dream
like acid secreted
it burns,
those who believe
and have believed,
that we all can’t thrive
on stolen sleep
it is someone elses
pillow where early a.m
through a struggle of dream
we drool and wait expectantly,
overbaked clay shatters
prick pieces fall
wild men
brought to the fold
herded in clusters
by the rich vanity of the absolute,
it is an end
those birthed in soil
not in the womb of privilege
will take up the hope
and unfurl a phallus of flesh

203

appropriate senses

Posted on February 26, 2015 by clawfish

one day the paint becomes too heavy for the wall
and as it falls
i snarl at the wooden frame window,
going beyond
the being drunk for days on end,
curled flakes green paint
like that of a psychiatric unit
even smelled of it,
my body grey
not creased by laughter,
ceiling fan
juddering illusion blades
imagined tugging away flesh
from my bioluminescent bones,
bareback
once ridden by the sun
penetrated by raw illumination,
walls began to shift
i am to be released
as a lost savage
in a wet city

http://dversepoets.com/

suction into vacuum

Posted on February 11, 2015 by clawfish

stairs cluttered with toys
piled to be removed,
except one
that discreetly coiled
it’s own way down,
suction brush
to that clattering canister,
a sound
disturbing to child and cat,
drowning calls
of the need to suckle
partake in natures feast,
goddess did not yield
flowing locks
size fourteen
barefoot
not pregnant anymore,
prepared her strength
as he in den,
stressed oblique
took their life up his nose
snorting and breathing,
saying he had control,
yet so far from shore
he was unable to wave,
her way
inhaling only air
with bare soul
loaded the car with kids
and left,
leaving vacuum writhing
a headless cobra
on the hall floor

Action Figures by Edith Vonnegut

home

Posted on February 2, 2015 by clawfish

mersey moonlight and shine
across the hills
to river dee,
wind whispers
in the trees and grass,
of park
and shipyard sinew,
bricks of sweat and toil,
urban sprawl,
where smugglers coins
fell to sand,
lighthouse flickers
seen by little eye,
sandstone tremors
and gentle veil of mist,
i feel home
cradled by the lake
and shivering masts
of a yachting few