John Stockley
You told me how I needed a new job,
Upwards into a multitude of techniques,
If these regions have any parts at all;
Inclined to the red and white colors.
I have a phobia of anything,
Sipping nice hot tea,
He would be a great asset;
I sympathize with what you’re going through.
The loss of sovereignty in our time,
However transient and insignificant he may be,
Birds, flowers, poetry, and small children,
Can have a real and lasting impact.
It is as if the heavens open;
They’ve been brought on the brink of starvation,
The lie that somebody put on paper.
You will be the one who dies this day.
Pythagoras, jubilant over his great accomplishment,
Renders the enchantments of the landscape,
Miss Finneran will find herself the victim,
What I need to have this thing alive.
Recycled Poetry 