Plus ça change
our vexation at expecting change in society
an abortive child preserved
fresh in salt
we press the little ex-hand
and after some time at the office
die of apoplexy
Angry poems
Angry poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Where all the flowers have gone
the ought-to-have-been couple
raw and pretty to see together
gain a year’s distance
he hit her
that former wit
now well married to a war
High-value assets
insipid discourse about suffering
is dangerous
all unprepared heads must be spared
those being the best for war
it will not be safe to expose
the rich to doubt
or the poor to conviction
horrible is the death grin
they escape in fight not laughs and curses
and the things of life
Blowback
in last night’s news
who was taken by war
guns like strange teeth
carry the enemy home with us
Salty
an abundance of salt
for my ordinary table
ugly talk fear and tittle tattle
is all the news now
Disastrous
people sit in the street
begging for dinner money
I used to crave the stir
of a great storm
now I hear the way the dead
fear losing our ‘hood
Roadless
where am I to look for quiet
and not see a road
walking the fields till dark
I rage more than ever in the mist
Gun lover
the certain clock of a gun
the fleet rose of a gun
the plain dish of a gun
the drunk kiss of a gun
Pleasantries
the badness
of our good morning
her long stories out of nothing
an unkind mind
to put in order
but not because of owning it
talking in the room of being
and every part of work
proving a plague
Unwelcome guest
morning warhead
coming in like a moth
my old temper
Carnivalesque
if I make filth and love
from that horse the body
I think myself obliged
to think myself happy
and not forget the winds that come
only to entertain us
a choir of voices buried
in one infinite chapel
a window is better than an absence
which disgraces the stone
awake I was angry
to sleep is to give way
Philistines
who having proved to be challenged
by difficult art
must be against it
or profess that nothing
ever is beautiful
taking themselves for ordinary people
like unpaid money
whispering to me
not to dance
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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