A tattooed Blond

I’m neither here nor there,

Half asleep or half awake.

Not quite conscious,

Like a drifting snowflake.

Sinking through a prism,

Where I fantasize and over-achieve.

Seeing a blond haired vixen,

Thinking I’ve seen her tatt’s before.

I’m retreating, hiding,

From her beckoning embraces.

My drunken mates at the bar,

Giggling and smirking, as if I can’t see.

Between there’s a tattered curtain,

A pale veil, shadows lurking.

A vision frighteningly surreal,

Like a fiery chasm.

The blonds tattoos spasm,

Chasing my body into the surf.

A bubbling sensation, wildly scary,

I sprawl atop the tattoos in the sand.

And I wonder what to do,

With her bloodied tattooed hand,

Wishing I could escape from here or there.

I suddenly awaken, and burst into tears,

Recognising my weakly fears.

 

Ivor Steven.

Burning The Fears

I’m frightened, and I’m too scared to wait.

And knowingly, I’m arriving late.

The ghouls are spying from the hill.

And lower fools are poisoning her will.

Underneath her, a wicker complete.

Above, she’s suspended from a stake.

The bonfires started, against the rules.

And the crowds rejoicing, as the fire drools.

Waiting agog, for her garments to ignite.

The flames are sparking for her, on this night.

And the mob’s listening for her ungodly screams.

But there’s not a whimper, within she beams.

And secretly, I see her black cats drowning tears,

Are extinguishing all her burning fears.

 

Ivor Steven.

Featured Image: Artwork, by Kerri Costello, Graphic Design Artist, my amazing niece/second cousin, who lives in Philadelphia, she’s so very talented, and a very special person in my life, thank you Kerri.

Trust Going To Dust

My faith in humanity

Is wearing thin

Like the Arctic icecap.

My generousity

Backflipped by tricks,

Like an acrobat’s fall.

My naiveness exposed,

Like a pricked condom.

My smile erased,

Like Trump’s first promise.

My kindness stolen,

By camels, across the desert.

And a trusting spirit broken,

By a few faceless ghouls.

 

By: Ivor Steven

Featured Image:  A copy of the cover of the book “Melpomene”, Edited by Gwendolyn Taunton, Containing works both old and new, Melpomene offers a prime selection of literature on the melancholic side of existence, the transformational beauty of the esoteric, occult secrets hidden in verse, sorrow, doom and the inevitable grasp of death.

What’s So Important

I do wonder,

What’s important in life.

Why’s it so important,

To have someone to talk to,

And a companion too.

Does it matter,

If we remain alone and bare,

And love continues to be unfair.

I do wonder,

What’s important about our pounding hearts.

Why’s it so important,

To have a soulful beat, like a bass drum,

And walk a single path with your loved one.

Who cares,

If we leave a hopeful trail of crumbs,

And the Bowerbirds eat everyone.

And I do wonder,

Why’s love so important.

And I crave for the answer,

Before I’m dormant.

 

Ivor Steven.

Memory Rain

Featured Photo: Taken by my, Samsung Galaxy S5, 24/08/2017, sunset at the end of my Court, here on the top of Geelong, Bell Post Hill.

 

Every time I opened a photo album,

I saw her personal emblem.

Every time I turned about face,

I felt my pain, all again.

Every time I switched on the screen,

I waited for a different dream.

Every time I tried another channel,

I cried during the battle.

Every time I played another sad tune,

I sang until the next full moon.

Every time I walked out the back door,

My head would be in the clouds.

Every time I looked up to heaven,

My angel would be at the gate.

And I saw the rain on her face,

And I felt the memory rain, all again.

 

Ivor Steven.

 

 

 

Arctic Winds.

ivor20's avatarIvor.Plumber/Poet

Artwork:  By Kerri Costello, Graphic Design Artist, my beautiful niece/second cousin, who lives in Philadelphia, she’s so very talented, and a very special person in my life, thank you Kerri. More of her Design/Artwork attached below.

Arctic Winds

I’m winter hibernating,

Inside an Eskimo’s hut.

Feeding only on fish oil,

And frozen blue blood.

My heart’s cold and dormant,

Cowering under a dampened vestment.

Pumping only yesteryears rust,

And icicles of my dust.

My eyes are swollen rocks,

Amidst polarized sockets.

Terrorising all that’s passed,

Like forgotten arctic icebergs.

My veins are hollow crevasses,

Inside a glaciers ice-flow.

Sheering and groaning chasms,

Like my memories deepest fjord.

Ivor Steven.

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Mask

Behind my shield

A secret hides

The mask in the mirror

Isn’t my image

Just a shadow

A veneer, brittle and thin

 

The smogs seeping in

Upon my mask’s

Deepest sockets

Oozy false lashes

Dark as pepper, they burn my skin

Scaly wrappings

Grotesquely etched

But the camouflage remains

 

A ceremonial face

Oversees my disguise

Then abruptly soaring aloft

Over oceans and skies

I am a star traveller

Old and wise

So Who am I?

Beyond my alien eyes

 

Ivor Steven.

Inside Out

Artwork:  By, TheFlyTrapMan, artist for the Slasher Monster Magazine, and drawn specifically for my poem, Inside Out, for which I’m truly grateful.

The poem “Inside Out”, is more just a rhyme and a play on a few featured words. Over the road from were I once lived, there was a furniture shop, and the advertising hoarding was, “Inside Out, Exotic Furniture”, well I was sitting there waiting for the bus, and in my minds imagination, I changed the the words to “Inside-out, Upside-down, Erotic Furniture”, and hence my little anecdote was laid….

Inside Out

 

The view of my love seems upside down.

When I’m at the bottom of her flowing gown.

And my erotic picture appears inside out.

What’s this scenic love all about.

 

The ways of my love seem upside down.

When she’s on top, covering me ’til I drown.

And I’m underneath, neither in, nor out.

What’s this crazy love all about.

 

The river of my love seems upside down.

When I’m sitting inside her smiling frown.

And her foreign body hits me in and out.

What’s this exotic love all about.

 

The world of my love seems upside down.

When I’m laying below her pounding mound.

And her endless thrusts, feel inside out.

What’s this frenzied love all about.

 

Ivor Steven

Photo below, I’m sitting at my bedroom computer desk, on this very cold morning, and starting to type out this humourous piece, about nobody and meaning nothing.

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