Poetry by Rob Harle

Robert Maddox-Harle (aka Rob Harle)

Shooting The Breeze

Three weeks past the 'best by' date
dragged reluctantly, angrily
into existence with the force
of cold, old steel pliers
my characteristic, a furrowed frown
a frown on a new leaf of life.

Rising, falling, drifting with the breeze
resting now and then to hide
a city plot, the mountains green
the sea or coast, a place to dream
to reflect upon the absurdity of life
of birth and breath and death.

And now with good companion leaf
I've come to rest a while
in great long dead volcano's arms
whose primal landscape laughs too loud
whose village struggles under steamy skies.

The uniformed and drugged misfits
go floating onwards, past
and egos, grossly over size
strut the dirty street
stoned beyond courtesy's convention
with paranoia lines etched deeply
into empty faces, void.

And then pure love flows by
to set the paradox a-straight,
the valley mirrors cycles sure
of death and life and change
as living green disguises basalt bare.

Old clairvoyants waffle on
drowning in their flood of self deception,
and I wait for the breeze of synchronicity
weaving my philosophy of existence
upon my companions loom
10,000 megabytes from Virtual Village.

Filtered Neon

Shadows merge then separate
dissolving in the warm night air,
the girls strut by,
proud flamingos with eyes electric
searching for signs in passing glances.

Glistening bodies, lovingly preened
move quickly through filtered neon,
high cut second skins of silk
shimmer, selling promises of pleasure
hard nipples threaten to burst
the delicate threads.

Hanging in the air,
the sweet fragrance of grass, floats
seducing the senses,
deals are negotiated
darkened doorways witness the transactions,
a frustrated business-man waits
lingering in the shifting shadows.

Erect veins ache with desire
as sharp cold steel ejaculates,
white death flashes
exploding into fiery flames,s
supercharged flamingos strut out
ready for the second shift.
A priest strolls by immune and untempted
collecting used syringes from the gutter.

Glancing back and forth,
the business-man makes his play
her lips move slowly,
a note's exchanged;  discreetly, quickly
caressing the fifty she forces a smile
her body seduces his eyes as he follows,
their forms merge in silent darkness
as the terrace hallway consumes them.
Outside in the gutter
a philosopher talks to passing shadows.

Plastic Cups

Beyond the morality of the righteous
time falls into frozen fragments,
stilted stills from the movie of life;
each actor outwardly secure
confident of their own truth,
inwardly, confused and cowering;
the catechism fails the holy.
Plastic cups roll aimlessly, irreverently
as the damp draft, drifts
chilling the soul’s of searchers.

Confidence dissolves into frightened frames
as the cosmic joke permeates, slowly
peeling away the skins of security.
A young supple boy, plays
today an astronaut
flying past the moon to space.

A tired old man, dozes
embracing memories obsolete
flying past reality to resignation.
The mature man caught carelessly
oscillates with agitation
and flies nowhere, grounded.

Search For Reality

              all you can see
               all your vital energy
                every particle into mass
                 every vibrating wave into force
                  every chaotic dream into blood and dirt and flesh
                 concentrate everything towards a centre
                concentrate everything towards
               concentrate everything

Epitaph For A Car

I met a man who owned a car
an unhappy soul
tied down by bits of steel and glass,
I gave him my only pair of boots
and cautioned him to walk away.
I found them
cleaned and polished
in the backseat of his prison.

You fool
you fool I cried
and set his car on fire.
At last I knew he understood
as I watched him
walk towards the sunrise,
a smile upon his feet.