GENES OF THE BOURGEOIS TART

I do battle with them daily
Not on a grandiose scale.

They are in my way constantly
Those damned bourgeois genes
Their voices grind into my ears
Dust the furniture
Make the bed
Vacuum the. carpet
Ivfake cake for my friends
Here comes Aunt brenda
Who every day wipes the
window sills and venetians
Here comes Aunt Mildred
Who preserves and fills bottles
with fruit and vegetables
And Uncle Fred with his secateurs
And Uncle Arthur with his mower
I let out a scream
And shout to them to go
Back to the cemetery
And leave me to my writing
And my solitude
But no those genes have their way
as I smooth the cover on the bed
And mop the floors
I am the servant to myself
And yet I am an artist too
Those writing genes come from somewhere
I am a bourgeois tart

CLOWN'S MOON

In the quiet stillness of the night
Comes the thought to go
To the entrance of the moonscape
That jiggers in the mind
Like the clown's frown.

Painted face symbology
Where the unreal ugly
Becomes the very real beautiful
And the heart gladdens:
Beating harder
Thumping out in physical tones
Music from the metaphysical moon.

Cool as the gloss of twilight.
Warm as the softest fleece
And the c1own removes the face
And laughs at the gleam
Streaming to the farthest reaches

Of the emerging now.

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