Social work by Stephen Miles

Social work

Notoriety, slaps a warning to the grey behind the eyes
demeanour curdling distaste to the mouth
rhetoric invades the ear, turning summer to salt
stomach spinning a washing machine revolt

a recoil, envisaging the emergence of cranial horns
employing a child thief’s cryptic smile
Geller bent, manipulating malleable truths
perusing imaginary quarry, sucking out its life

lustful, blood thirsty, Lucifer’s stare
a bedraggled, infested serpent’s hair
what’s not to like, my Machiavellian friend?
Fallen angel descended to your Mount Hermon

infiltration turns the keys, radar under slipping
a backward walking, trust gaining revelations book
passing amongst the unsuspecting, shrouded in normality
awaiting opportunity, pursuing a passage home

never giving hell consideration, its form, inhabitants
required qualifications, deeds of furtherance
living conditions, if a life exists in a scorching wind
prevailing to the who or what creator?

a sphere in space, Satan’s earthy confinement
atmospheric, surface pressured, no up nor down
hell depicted as a down, a pole conundrum
which we may assume, is north or south?

life giving oasis with molten core, spinning night and day
occasionally belching, eruptional volcanicles
re-adjusting its jacket with quaking shudders
noxiously omitting, the social worker, amongst.

Stephen Miles about Stephen Miles. I’m 53 diagnosed dyslexic at 47, 47 years avoiding literary word, I’ve discovering spell check as a best friend. My subterranean mental deficiency proved an unfounded, exploding to the surface as a wordsmiths lava. Flowing the external walls of a poetic volcano. So yes, I now write poems. Poems about the life, life around me. Things I see, hear, perceive unjust. Basically, shooting my mouth off.

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