You feel its radiant warmth
You sense its burning pain
You reach out
But
If
You get to close
It will lure you
Into its kindled touch
Leaving you
With its captivated passion
A lucid
Screen

Blacks out the flickering light
From the glowing hearth
Stepping back
From its red-hot embers
You watch
Your reflection
Consume
Itself
Into a mantle of darkness

There are no colored paintings
On the wall
Picture plates emboss the sideboards walled backdrop
Flowered in flight
Circling the wall
In a brass of golden light
Pure delight
If you like two brass plate headlights
Steering at you
In the middle of the night

Shadows

Mantled into darkness
As embers turn to ash
Leaving
A large white tea mug
Alone
A silhouette
Eclipsed into the fading light
Resting on top of a tiled mantle piece
Waiting to be refilled
With starlight
The living room empties its blackness
As light enters

Into the Kitchen

The sash window pulls up its weighted cords
And pushes in the passable air
From the small concrete backyard
The sun
Cements its warmth
Onto the tiling of a linoleum floor
Tarragon in shape
With a Lilliputian

Look

A floury wooden table
Bleached to the bone
White
On white
Sugar granules crystallize
Into a blue bowl of rationed sun
Tarts
Tart-up
Into their tartan jam dress
Filled up with a pregnant swelling of strawberry sweetness
Salivation
Drools
From the marmalade man
As tartly tarts slip out
Of their buttery baking pan
Apple pies
Crusted in gold
Sit in peels
That is growing old
Curled
In cinnamon
Baked in brown
Sugar
Pampered and powdered
With a talcum of flour
Getting browner
Hour by hour

Roast Lamb

Emanates
From its rack of pain
Seethed
In flame
Baste in fat
All roasted
And garnished
Into a sassafras garden of savory
Spice and mint
Floats in a white sauce boat
Berthed
Around a moat
Of a linen white plate

Like a mummified Queen
Ladled
In mint
Glazed like sheen
It lies on an ocean
Of parsley green

On top of the gas cooker
In a wire cradle of melted batter
Chips
Turn to gold
In a deep fry
Of sizzle and chatter
Peas
Pop out of pods
As white broad beans jump
Into a colander of hot water
Carrot heads
Chopped and lopped
Like King James the Fifths

Daughter

My mom would say
Clean up the bloody mess
Were done for the day

The kitchen was a curry of activity
That peppered the season
With sage
And spice
The Lilliputian kitchen was a savory dish
For all things
That was pleasant and nice

Three Strides

And you were out
Into a one stride
Back kitchen
Sink and ringer
Washer
Bare
The brownish-yellow wall
Encased the little back kitchens

Backyard Door

Open

Follow
The clothesline
With its flagging washing
Hoisted up
With my flagging arms
Onto a flag pole
Were white sheets wave
Like a flag of truce
It flies in a windless wind of discontent

Separated

By six feet
Wall
High
And a flagrant next-door neighbor
Who would wish I were
Six feet
Under the
Wall
It
Violet
Had a tongue as fowl and sharp
As a revolutionary guillotine
She was a flageolet
Of flagellated abuse
Walled
In
And enclosed in
A six feet
Wall
Bordered
Bricked
In privacy
So we thought
Except
For the vomiting of my next-door neighbors vicious volubility

Aside

Vignette to Violet the Vixen

A vacuous
Vixen
Volatile and verbose
Hair
Vile red
With a vicious streak of amber grey
Face
Shit brown
Dotted
And spotted
In liver stretched skin
Hooking a venous nose
Long and thin
Virulent and vulgar
A vengeful virago
Who tossed
Virulent bathwater (not Vichy)
Over our backyard
Wall
A volley of verbiage
Poured over our vulnerable barrier
From our neighbor named
Violet

A Vixens Varmint

Beware
Of her vaunted varmint
Pet
Do not
Venture a visit
This violent beast
Is not vulpine
But vapid and vicious
Vexed
With vengeance
A vacuous creature
With a variable mind
No verve
Just vigilant
In it’s haunted
Vigil
A vigilante
With a villainous streak
Violent
And vindictive
If you are an uninvited visitor
It will become volatile
If you enter its vicinity
It will see your visibility
Caught
In its vitality
You may become the victim of its volatility
Filled with vituperation
It listens
To the vociferous commands of its master’s vexed voice
One cannot vouch for your safety
Therefore it will be of ones own volition
To come face to face with this violation
Its vantage point
Is its vulgar bullhead
Exploding
From its volcanic shoulders
It is suited in vulcanized brown skin
It stands astride like an inverted v
This vexations vulture will vanquish you with its voltaic stare
In a veil of vermilion flesh
It squats under a voluminous brown-black fold of vested authority
In a furor this vessel of darkness
Will verge into a furrow of furies
Teeth voltaic
Filled with velocity
This virulent creature
Could rip out your vitals
Trapped in its vortex
Its visceral hatred
Will turn towards its varying neighbor
And with a vitriolic growl
This vile villain will turn on you
Entrapped
In your visitation
You will become its virtual reality

Violent Varmint vs. Visiting Victim

You and your virile
Venture
Has caused you to vanquish the vicious beast
If you are victorious
And being a meritorious victor
You would have merited a Victorian Cross
Because of your vicarious power
You would have become the vicegerent of the hour

If you were the venturesome victim
And having not been victorious
But having died in valor
You will receive your viaticum
Being a valiant visitant
You will cross into Valhalla
And with veneration
The Valkyrie will sing
Your Valedictory
And then a veil of voices
Will vociferate your valediction
Vi-a-vie your victory will become a verso

In History

A vigilance committee will try to veto your notoriety
But with your vision much higher
Your spirit will fly higher
And your soul will be in Valkyri for eternity
With verbatim
And versification

Vote on the Verdict

This case is about V vs. V
Vote for one
The varmint or the victim for victory
Remember this case is built on vanity
Since we don’t have a venerator
To verify the true facts of this vanity case
We are asking you the viewing viewers
To verify the vapid facts
And to use your values to judge
The verities of this ventilating tale

V vs. V

Once the verdict is reached
We will assess and judge its valuation
Vox populi
Will conduct a vote on the vacillated case of
V vs. V
So don’t be vague be in vogue
And visit our website
Email your vote to Venialvengeance@vision.com

You

The validated viewer
Must vote
Your version on V vs. V
To determine who the victor is
Please feel free to volunteer your Varmint or Victim opinion on our show
The Vanishing Point
Of view
In view
Will return with our vivacious moderator
Barbara Valters who will
Tune in with today’s vista
Veda vs. Vulgate
Tomorrows topic will be Does Michael Jackson have Vitiligo
Or vertigo
Viva
Our vigil
Is to wait for your viewpoint
So voice your vote
And vote for V
That’s all from your local channel VPL
The Visa station
Were the viewer is the voyeur who turns on
And controls the volume
While we challenge your vision
With verisimilitude

Good day

Ineligible Voters for V vs. V

Vagrants
Virgins (vibrators not included)
Valets
Vegetarians
Velveteen rabbits
Vampires
Vietnamese (north)
Varlets
Villains
Visionaries
Visitants
Virile males with Vandyke beards
Virgo people

Votes Ineligible due to Conflict of Interest

Vultures
Ventriloquist
VIPS
Vamps
Vice President
Viceroy
Vicars
Vikings
Virgin Mary
Vergers
Vicar of Christ
Votaries
Veterinarians
Vigilante
Voyeurs
Vice Admirals
Vice squad
Vizler
Vishnu
Viscounts
Vivisectionist
Vlf

Viva the Viewer

Out of the Backyard

Into the entry
Down the entry
Into the adjacent entry
Pass
Black bomb debris of vacant death
Once a meadow of life
Now a billboard of death

Pass over

The phantoms of the past
Pause
And pray
The great big bomb
Did not blow your mom away

Over

Hale Road
Once cobbled with silver
Strands of steel
Now tarmacked with obscuration

Change

The tramcar
Had lost its spark
And its umbilical cord had been cut off
It could no longer survive without its lifeline
The Double Decker bus had now arrived
In a fleet of green it swept the city like a vacuum machine

Hale Road

Cornered County Road
With Threllfalls Ale House
Tiled in blue
An icon according to the local patrons

View

The County
A hop
Skip and jump away
From your Dad’s bedroom
The pungent whiff
Of beer wafted its merriment
As laughter brewed
Into salted songs
While darkness weaved
Droned and drowned
Into a drunken drowsiness

Good night Irene
Good night Irene
I’ll see you in my dreams

Around the pub’s corner

The sidewalks gutter was bordered in black
Back to back
Black on black
Rolls and Royce
Line up
A procession of praying prelates
Black
Ravens
Waiting for their corpse
Deaths deliverance
Thompson’s Funeral Home
Had the monopoly on Walton’s dead
Pass on
Bye
Pause
And pray
That the Black Rolls Royce
Does not take your mom away

A hop
Step away
Lay
Thompson’s Sweet Shop
Stop
And linger
Look
And salivate
Into a very large spotless window
Pyramids
Of chocolate
Displayed the window
With milk chocolate of mummified creams
No time to dream
Step away
From here

Lies a Lavatory

Public
Steps steep down from its street entrance
Dropping
It disappears into a dugout of darkness
Into the bowls
It banks its gray granite walls into the railways embankment

Desperate

And your dad had to be
To go
Down into a deep damp dungeon of dung
Where light drudged into a dunk hill of darkness
Down
It descended
Into a daunting dept of dampness
Nostrils
Nauseated with pain
Smells suffocated the sinus with its dribbling drips
Piss
Strangled your throat
With its urinated breath

With one hand on his dick
And one hand on his nose
Ho shook
In the guttered mossy urinal
As the roar of the train rattled the piss out of him
Rushing
Up slime dank steps
He would gasp
For air and light
And with a dicky heart
He would fasten the last button of his open
Fly
From the Public W.C.

Stop

And Look
For the Zebra
Crossing
County Road
With the Lolly Pop man
A very busy main road
And after all
He was only a short

Small Boy

With chubby little cheeky cheeks
His be speckled face popped out of his unruly green school
Tie
Knotted to a rosy-cheek of rotundity
Filled with freshness
His face bottled bold brown
Eyes
Magnified you
With his prismatic smile
He cheered with cheerfulness
His fair hair
Parted
To the left
In a waif of wild straw

Dressed

In a leaf green school blazer
Over
A chunky v-necked gray pullover
Under
A clean white disheveled shirt
Buttons hung on threads
As he battled with the bulge
Nevertheless
His endearing sense of humor peaked
Under a crested cap of Arnot Street green
A little bit scruffy
At times
His gray woolly knee socks
Slung down to his ankles like sluggish slinky
Scraped and scabbed
His knobby knees knuckled
Under his baggy gray short pants

A spirited scallywag
Scrubbed with softness
He strode with boldness
Like a Churchillian lion
He roared with confidence
Principled
But not privileged
He thought his battles
With individuality and independence
Making him very popular
With all his school mates
But
Not
With all his school masters

School Ahead

Arnot Street School
Built in 1884
The red school shaded the street with its sunset
Bricks
Fortified the whole school
With its bastion of learning
It called us
To our class
From its tall turreted bell tower
It rung
Our necks if we were late for school

Since 1884
All the Woods family would line up
At the Boys entrance
At the Girls entrance
Like
Long lines of railway sleepers
We stood outside our school
Wall
Where we waited for the whistle to call
Us to our classes
Barriers
Of bricks separated the little red steam train
From the backside hill of our big red school
Yard
Became a compound
For play

For prison
More like it
Great Auntie muttered
Like Peter Brough
She heaved a sigh
In a muffled voice
She acted like a dummy

In her awakening
She was not a learned scholar
But she did have the innate wisdom of a seasoned sage
Where common sense roosted in the lint of her nest
Laid back
She rolled her eyes
Back to sleep

Across

From the school
Shades of sunlight would shed its shaft onto a sidewalk of soulless shadows
On the school street
Rows of faceless houses
Once terraced the other side of Aronot Street
School
Once rung with the laughter of young children
As they played
A misguided bomb
Blitzed that side of Arnot Street into a rubble of blood red
Bricks