The whimbrel whines

The whimbrel whines in the gale gnarled gorse
A curlew rises piping feebly
Silhouetted above the ancient drizzle stained edge of moor’s blunt blade
This piffling avian is blown away,
Like a drug addled scribbler
Tatters of scudding cloud
A wind howling through time has blown
All vacuous vapour away eastwards
Away from old hills
To piddle on flat midlands
In this wereweather three men stalk across eons
Rising dripping from peat hags like polished bog-oak
Three men from Porlock some say
Although the place that they come from
Has had other names
Some once uttered in long lost langues
They were even once alluded to
By the ice people who some now call
Neanderthal
With brow ridged grunt and crude gesture of flint adze
Hirsute the mammoths trumpeted mournfully
And avoided their gaze
The three haul huge monolithic concepts in our time
Heavy and absolute as any henge pillar
The three brought the ideas that inspired the antler pick miners
And the hewers and haulers of
Massive granite shards and blocks
With fire water rope and slave
But mound and ancient Temple are
Only passing representations sketched in stone
Of infallible inevitable and immutable rectitude
Ponderous super heavy weight thoughts
That pulverize all other ideas
And pointless poetic drivel
Like an tank track crushing
A poppy into paste
This then is their mission
They did not choose it
But being the determined determinators of determination
They must enact their duty.

squid pic

THE KRAKEN HAS INSOMNIA!

in an

Incredible tentacular spectacular

P.R.Murry’s artwork:

“The Big Squid”

has re-emerged from

the Dollis Hill Abyss

to display itself in the
Brent Artists Register Spring Show 2008
at Willesden Library Gallery
(Willesden Green Library Centre,
95 High Rd, Willesden,
London NW10 2SF
tel:8298 1421,
email info@brentartistsresource.org.uk).
The show will be open to the public
from 13th May until 5th June 2008.
X
Private View 22nd May 6.00-8.30 pm.

A ROTTEN POEM

I am the compost
I rot in a heap
I rot when you wake
I rot when you sleep

I have no body
Nor brain instead
I am the living
That lives on the dead

Potato peelings
Garden cuttings and teabags
Or a philosopher’s head
Wrapped up in a sack

It all came from compost
I bring it back

All organic transformed
That’s what I do
I am the compost
Soon you’ll be too