Author: Gail

Dissing Disney: dismal karma sonnet

 

Dissing Disney Dismal Karma Sonnet

(a true story)

“Don’t make me go to Disneyland!” I cried

Fourteen years old with all the angst that brings

They made me go and something in me died

Depressed by all the fake and plastic things

The second time my parents made me go*

Was in my twenties, Paris, lucky me

I sulked; I’m an aesthetic snob, you know

Too selfish to enjoy my children’s glee

The third time was the worst, the fuss I made

At thirty odd, made odder still by drink

I tried to run, got caught in a parade

The final Mickey piss take; now I think

I want to go to Dismaland! Bad luck

For can I get a ticket?  Can I f**k!

by Gail

*without artistic licence, and from the perspective of the present, this sentence would read: “The second time my beloved parents kindly paid for me and my children to go to Disneyland…!”

Banksy’s Joke

Dismal Gnome

I want to go to Dismaland!

I’ll thcweem until I’m thick!*

I have blisters on my fingers

From the endless futile click

There’ll be secretaries on it

Pulling non-existent strings

There’ll be rumours of a con

On social media and things

I want to go to Dismaland

And see the horrid stuff!

How come I can’t buy tickets

And my money’s not enough?

In the shadows Banksy chuckles

He’s got the Art World in his hand

He has turned pretention on itself

As planned

by Gail

The phrase marked with * is a quote from Violet Elizabeth Bott, from the Just William stories, who was a very spoilt footstamping little girl with ringlets and a lisp…

The Gift of Eros

love and bird shit by gail

Aloft flies Eros; mischief fluttered wings

With silent rustle whisper overhead

By arrows pierced; the hearts of knaves and kings

The chilly grave, the restless lover’s bed

Blue London air, red Piccadilly light

Above the shifting crowd and constant noise

In summer heat, in neon and the night

He aims his slender bow with perfect poise

Aloft flies Eros; underneath his feet

As shadows of the Circus slowly shift

I contemplate my own love, bitter, sweet

The wound that Eros wrought in me, the gift

And as I turn my tears up to the sky

A pigeon drops an arrow in my eye

by Gail

Feathered Air

If flame there was ‘tis gone, all passion spent

Men long dead or demented tell no lies

No track or trace remains of where they went

Of whether they were wicked or unwise

If scent there was ‘tis blown, in feathered air

Decaying roses, lilies, ashes, mould

Unburied memories of who was there

A whisper on the wind, a rumour told

If blame there was ‘twas ours, for being blind

For keeping silent doubt for all these years

In tangled groves the truth is hard to find

As unmarked mad men’s graves; weep hopeless tears

For smoke there is, all round us like a cloud,

Obscuring the light of fire from the crowd

by Gail

Empathieves

my first sonnet…

empathieves

Are empaths thieves, of feelings not their own?

Like magpies stealing precious shining rings,

They see the pain by strangers’ faces shown

And understand our secret hidden things

Our tears run down their faces, our delight

May swell their hearts with love or blood or pride,

Fond friends, or someone lonely in the night

Who saw us on the telly and who cried

Unwitting thieves perhaps, but nonetheless

Possessed of power to bless or else to curse,

They know our soul while others merely guess,

May mean well and may love us much; far worse

The psychopath, who sees us without feeling,

Devoid of empathy, beyond all healing

***

by Gail

 

Transient Flame

For Steve

all flesh is grass

Transient Flame

*

How time flies;

Like birds and bees

Transient nectar

Deciduous trees

*

How leaves fall;

Like stars in sky

Meandering streams

Passers by

*

How oceans flow;

Like blood in veins

Wind over mountains

Bloom strewn plains

*

How life flames;

Like a fire fly

Light in the shadows

New born cry

* 

by Gail