It’s 3AM

It’s 3AM
In the fucking

And my
Bastard soul,
Wallows in
The stillbirth
Of its

While I
Wryly grin,
Pleased with
My genius,
Much to
My own dismay.

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