Your body tells your story
( but I’m not sure what it is)
I know you have a mother
And a friend called Kiss

But what’s the meaning of
The spider on your shoulder?
The ivy on your belly’s nice
And lower? (Can’t be bolder!)

The eagle on your back is big!
The dragon’s face is bigger
Why have you tattooed a pig
Upon your little finger?

I’m sure you’ve had a pleasant life
I’d really rather listen
Than watch you oil your hunting knife
And see your blood-lust glisten

©shilyot 24/10/14

I can

sea lifeI use my voice
About the office
To motivate and cajole

I’ve orated
To a thousand folks

Explained my work
And had to talk
About its way and purpose

But I can’t bear
To listen or hear
Myself on a recording

©shilyot 21/10/2014

Chasing my tail

Today: best forgotten?
It has been rather rotten
Alarmed awake
For goodness sake
It can’t be time for work!

It seemed an uneventful day
I’ve had a lovely holiday
But then a hole deigned to appear
(In my front tyre, not the rear)
At least I didn’t crash

After that I had to rush
My diary dates had formed a crush
Around the time of Noon
A lunch-break would be such a boon
Perhaps I’ll soon catch-up

So here I am, taking a break
It’s now around half past eight
There’s a pile of work still left to do
But something has got to go
Tomorrow will be soon enough

©shilyot 20/10/2014

Never Six Till Shouting

She’s allowed
You know she is!

One day she will be six
With assistance
She will be a young lass,

Police hunting
August and Django
In a ravine on Thursday

(The clock ticks: he breathes)

Her father said..
Bipolar and a stroke
She couldn’t settle

(The water heater springs to life
He clears his throat)

Our bags were going to end
But there’s no alternative.

Scenes from a breakfast monologue

©shilyot 17/10/14

Once upon a time: stone hewers


A path trod

12th century masons
Hewing mighty glyphs
of Portland Isle.

Plebian pacification:

Cathedrals of stone
Worshipping in abbeys
Statements of oppression
Palaces and castles

Echoing with dole and plain song
Oppressive with incense and tallow smoke
Pomp and ceremony: the stallions lead the way.


I burrow, but bunny, I am not
The tallow: I wear upon my brow
Lighting, guttering as I crawl to set the charge

The seer sings out, his song plain to hear
The doleful blast deafens me
The incense I smell is bitter, gritty

Pasted in concretion, fossilised in time

I wait.

Logs hewn to bear the rolling load
Equine burden chained
I drive them on
For fear drives me.

My life is tolled by the stones
England is told by them still.

@shilyot 16/10/2014


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