Mel From Melbourne - Music & Words

  My buddy boy (For Pepper & Daniele)   My buddy boy Was a boogga boo After foot surgery He didn’t need shoes Couldn’t wear em anyway But he drove me insane Whether to be outside or In I was his doorman Hard to write a poem When you keep having To get up out of your seat I don’t think those doormen Have chairs? I think they have to stand all day     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.  

  The last word is plumbing   A smiling swimmer Saw & spat The lone gunman At the range up the road Fires a lot I guess there’s only so much Porn One can watch Till you blow your load & then what? Isn’t it meant to relax you? He didn’t choose porn But sadly he didn’t have a Lover & one needs to clean out the Plumbing     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  Silver Apples   Psychedelia from the Oven For a couple of bars Of bowling boots My pen is full of Pauses Funky pauses Poems about frying flying Frying pans A low bar of Fool’s gold Shaped into a bubble Blower All that’s insipid Melts into the food Supply     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.  

  J.   available my dog back time for fun 35 years reunited sister in arms 3 boiled eggs & eddy grant frontline why boiled eggs? free as a bird love my exwife glad we got together great to bring a woman home when ur married good times     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  8 lines of Anxiety    A purple blubbering mess A screaming liver jelly A striped green & white river A carmine dolly dagger to the heart Unable to remember to breathe Escapism not a want, a need A sentence waiting for the full moon to pass Trembling hands, heart like a bird thrust into a cage     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  No need be irascible   Brown poem like my old chocolate suit Blue poem baby blue like Barry blanket Burgundy ceiling of plush wool berber Tangerine slice on the edge of a Spritz Atypical colours & the shade of wall white Lime jumpsuit on my knee Lemon shirt I once wore that didn’t work my colouring Still, enough fusing spring with autumn Pepper curled on a bed in the gloom cusp of rain An S.A. ale in a glass next my mouse Nothin burnin feelin pretty grouse Why bitter face when no big poem? In fact I’m relaxed Don’t strain like Nietsche Pat the horse boy, ok? No need be irascible     Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

  Chess is a game (For M.)   (a mere poem following on from the Modern 'Blackbirding' piece which no one seemed very interested in)   I’m the wrong kind of white & you’re the wrong kind of black Said one pawn to another No one cares what we think Or whether the game is fixed Who’s gonna be interested enough To agitate for change The officer class far from the front lines? What would they gain from it We live in an age of self interest & we can only do one kind of black at a time & it sure as hell won’t be a pawn Maybe a bishop would get a write up But ours is an atheist’s age Maybe a knight But the animal cruelty people have poo-pooed horse riders A king & a queen might have a chance But that’s always mere gossip Anyway they’re already rich Though nowhere near as powerful as corporations Leaving only the rook Real estate is where it’s at Property The only piece worth writing about Is an inanimate object & I am the wrong kind of white to write it No one...