Metaphor Riot-A Poets Wish

I am on a road

my life is following this road

into stormy weather

of hurricanes

white out blizzards

of comets striking the earth

and sending up huge clouds of metaphorical dust

So I am blinded I cannot see unless something

is close to me, like metaphor is now and has been before

the tears of a cloud might wash me clean

and free from sin. The beggars ride two by two

and four by four abreast. I jam in my finger in each of their chests

and implore ‘I am innocent, why torment me’ and also say ‘Alright are you pleased

to see me?’ and those on the sidelines join in

and accuse me their voices rising to a crescendo


that I can only mutely resist, despite the twist in my chest and the rising tide

that will one day envelop me and eat me alive.

Then I will give up curious pastimes and instead hedonistic don a beret and drown in a bathful of Pernod paid for out of pockets of bribery, corruption, and greed.

All that will remain is a gram of speed floating in the bathtub

and my epitaph will be ‘breast enlargement. Buy one get one free’

Oh, horror of horrors I plead with thee! Do not lead me unto sanity of

boiler plans and tee-total calorie-free sobriety. Let me taste and lick the spittle

cold on my chin and breast and smear me with devils semen and wash me

in bulls blood and let my alarm clock be a freshly torn out heart from a rapist

or a virgin killer who has barred their way into heaven. I yearn for mist and

colour and sheen and don’t let my fear of a bathtub dream fade like so many leaves.

that every year fall dead and rot. Let me be the juice that flows from them into

the ground where in a medium my seeds will shoot at stars and loop the loop galaxies

while I lie in bed, recharging my alkaline batteries, so I can shoot up trumpets and swans

intravenously via tweeter and bass bar in my bedroom.Let poetry be my guide and savior

in electric blue and neon green let these words be free from gender, society, rules and graces. Let the machinist cut bevels on my wrist that bleed for the many and innocent and cursed. Let the impiety of ghouls tread softly in the  halls from where they are banished and never visit me in vain again. Let ghosts fly between rooms telling secrets and stealing wishes and planting them under strangers pillows. Let vampires feast upon the blood of stones and let fear turn into dusty old bones.

And let the road be wide and varied.

and let me find the words suitable for all so that no one feels left out and nobody feels small. And let those words speak for themselves with no explanation. This is my wish.





Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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