Breakfast at 6am on a Monday Morning

My wife stood in the kitchen,
In her apricot dressing gown,
Backlit by the gentle morning light,
She regarded me
With pensive, sleepy eyes.

Her hair though uncombed,
was improbably sexy,
Somehow appearing styled
By the Mad Hatter himself
In a frisson of manic delight.

For no good reason at all
She spontaneously broke out
Into a big beaming goofy grin
And I melted
Like the butter on my toast.

John Bowers © 2017

Consume Capitalise Destroy

Too much of everything. More&more&more. Relentless.
Throw away & squander,
Shit drivelled hive minds: surfeit of Waste.

First MONEY, then POWER, then WOMEN
Fat Belly full of gold.
Come on//Give it to me//NOW!NOW!NOW!
Big zeroes my business: empty numbers my game.

The tea leaves have spoken.
The end is nigh. The END.
Broken gardens & acid tears,
A tomb for all life beneath red weeping skies.

© John Bowers 2017

Bad Poetry – Undeniable

Monumental metal sheets / twenty metres high / undeniable / they cast shadows across the impermanence of my face / and they cast aspersions as to your very being / your being there / and then your not being there / but those metal slabs are too imposing not to exist / to have not always existed / we laugh through our discomfort / existence is both ephemeral and as hard as steel


© John Bowers 2017

Ping | Pong

Ping | Pong

Sex on sale.
Limited time only.        Not tomorrow,

Ping | Pong

Now 》》》
The pimps have gone to bed /// zzzzz

Leave your seminal fluids
                     >>> in the glove box

This is a frenzy of minds

                     >>> these games we play
♡♡♡this is love♡♡♡

Ping | Pong


© John Bowers 2017

Bad Poetry – Beneath the Neon Eye

The spilling over of garbage;
The blighted malodorous decay,
Of decomposing apples and avocados,
Of corrupted cabbages and carrots.
Like a garish still life, putrid and oozing,
Threatening to bleed across the canvas.

The disassemblage of scrap metal,
A rupture into fragments without purpose,
Human ingenuity sinking like sediment,
settling into a jigsaw puzzle of curious components,
Cryptic abstractions, perplexities and enigmas,
For future anthropologists to ponder.

A cacophony of flesh and machine,
And everything in between,
Piled high into a palimpsest of our lives,
Exposing our impulses and divulging our secrets,
As we huddle beneath the lurid neon light of the blind.

© John Bowers 2017