Wednesday, June 29, 2011



THE DRUNK



Whisky is the flame he warms at
while his hemisphere tilts from shadow to sun to shadow.

A tongue of song for his friends
(who are corn to its scythe as quickly!)
sings now by a cold hearth.

Sad schizophrenic.

Street-corner orator,
mocker of the church:  ' all its baubles and beads...   its opiates...'

dancing now to silent music.

Marx, his hero, would shy away from such a sight:
a ‘party-member’ who, with nails of gold,
has manufactured a crucifix.




tin horn blues  -
a drunk vomits
into the litter-bin

1 comment:

Gwil W said...

I remember 'tin horn blues'. If I might suggest you leave the original haiku in a different typeface or colour . . . just an idea.
Good luck with this blog,
Gwilym