Psychopathic Rabbit, Why Not?

Limericks are fun.
Compound syllable rhyming is fun.
Disproportionate imaginary animal revenge is fun.
So enjoy!

There once was a rabbit called Benjamin,
He was cold but the farmer wouldn’t let him in,
So he broke down the door,
Killed the family of four,
And he and farmer were friends again.


Ghosts, Jealousy, Dreaming, More Synonyms

Here’s something else from the archives of the computer, in a folder I don’t often go to. Something of a word dump to get things out of my brain at the time. Usually I’m a stickler for structured poems rather than disjointed images, but those disjointed images slapping you in the face is how emotions happen. This isn’t an attempt to work through something, but a snapshot of something; just an expression in all its rawness. This is jealousy, and “The Ghosts of Who I Want to Be”.

The Ghosts of Who I Want to Be

I feel the ghosts of who I want to be scratching at the back of my eyes,
and my every mistake drifts sidewise through me.

The guilt sits pregnant on my gag reflex, and I’d spill my guts before I swallow another missed opportunity.

My skin pricks in ways only extinct passions create, and I imagine succubi with younger lovers now,
Basking in jealousy that takes me half way to an orgasm of discomfort.

Welcome draughts wander in to whisper bittersweet nothings,
And convince me I’m less alone than I need to be.

My jaw aches from biting my tongue, and I drift off to dreams where I can pretend I was biting hers…

Returning to the Wandering Road

Hello, world!


Doing the science! Climbing trees, trying to find the lemurs.

I have just returned from five months in the wild. Well, five months in Madagascar. It was the furthest I’ve ever been removed from the life I know. Actually off-grid for big chunks, though partly self-imposed. It’s been an experience, a test, and one of my biggest adventures. Anything that wasn’t an amazing experience at the time became a hilarious story once it was over. Many absurd stories.

Also, it was with a bunch of absolute nutters, which is always a huge bonus.

By coincidence, I just found a poem I had written a year ago (53 weeks, to be exact), when I had similarly returned from an adventure and was looking to the future and bigger things to come. I don’t really remember writing it, but it’s certainly a poem that still resonates with my feelings a year on. I’ll share the poems I wrote out in Madagascar, but for now this is one that’s just as relevant.

Every line or couplet holds a significance that captures a certain interpretation of the poem, and using one for a title would possibly divert away from other layers, so I’ll just be using the first line for now.

It’s a Roman road,
Going straight and narrow.
Feels like broken bones,
Flying like an arrow.
If roads lead to Rome,
But it feels like bad aim,
It’s not going home,
Only going insane.

I’ve an altered gait,
Means I’m prone to wander,
Altering the straight,
Heading straight o’er yonder.
Home is where I’ll end,
Though I’ll journey prior,
Making arrows bend,
True enough when fired.

Roads for queens and kings,
Straight and with intention.
Puppets on their strings,
Bound to never question.
Curious as cats,
Driven on by query,
I will hang my hat,
When resolved and weary.