in the arsehole of diogenes

NEO-HERACLITUS_____________Qweir Notions in the arsehole of Diogenes: weBlog of a septuagenarian Binge-thinker since February 2008.
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Sunday, 13 September 2015

Birthday sequence of one-line haikai.

Mothering Sunday. No forget-me-nots.

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I wake up from a noontime nap; only tired shadows.

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The black storm swept - or smeared - the sky blue.

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Shipwreck. Only a boat can raise a boat.

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Behind the grave is better than before.

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Just above the sea the swollen moon like a great golden stoma.

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A fig cracks a big smile. Voluptuous true love.

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My shadow is even less lonely than I am.

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A pebble in my sock, I think of oysters.

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My pipe has gone out. Loneliness rarely arrives.

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The summer acupuncturist pricks my conscience.

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Long and transparent like a bottle he was fond and died of it.

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Some nights the snoring sea seems to dream.

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Red leaves on the ground. My foot-warmer awaits.

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The wind is coughing in the windswept night.

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Falling leaves refresh the blue of the sky.

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Boats cuddle frantically in the winter squall.

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Park in autumn. Abandoned swings. Naked boughs swaying.

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Just above the dope-dealers the moon not only loiters - it hangs about.

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Alone, not lonely, the last leaf.

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Eternally-fading laughter from the tabloid girl lining the wardrobe.

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When I see a new moon I am slightly joyful in my cold skinniness.

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Slightly deaf, slightly blind, slightly crippled : I am living quite slightly.


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These also appear on my website.


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