Fine Dining

evocative short poetry education


Do chickens hold their food in their feet while they are eating?

Some birds actually do,
The Ornithologists have declared,

Actually hold their food in their feet whilst they are dining,
Fine dining,

Eat with their hands,

As do a vast array of mammals.


♦photo♦ Jason Reed for Reuters

-evocative short poetry-

The thing with torture

words move, torture, humour, war games, effectiveness, interrogator


On the African savannah,
The mission brief had been simple.
Go in and find a Warthog,
By sunset.

The Americans had nuked the place,
Then claimed there had been none,
To begin with.

The Israelis against strong,
Local advice,

Had sent in Mossad,

Why go in looking like food?

They lost good men to lions,
But eventually got their warthog.

The Africans, however,
Had not reported by nightfall,

So at daybreak a search party was launched.

They found three sweaty soldiers,
Whipping a giraffe,
Spread-eagled securely to an Acacia tree,

Whilst the Sergeant-at-arms
-taking notes-
Yelled –
“Confess you’re a Warthog, confess!”

See – nigger, whore, bitch!

photo –

evocative short poetry – words move

The Contest

short poetry, words move, smoking gif

The man is pressed into the lime green decor,
This bar is known for.

Four cones of orange light form,
Four distinct pools,
On the blue formica counter.

There is music playing and he,
Taps his foot methodically,
On the porous brown floor.

I am taken by the hair on his arms,
Down to his knuckles,
Dark and thick.

The barman glances at the silver case,
The man pulls his cigarettes from.

I am aware of a pulsing at my throat.

Two women,
One carrying a large important handbag,
The other,
A Japanese fan,
Conquer the purple leather bar-stools,
On either side of him.

We are at war.

Due to irregular patterns on my Hawaiian shirt,
It is not clear which way this will go.

image –♦ linux hosting

evocative short poetry – words move

Serial Killer

I squashed a cockroach the other day.

A big,

It was trying to get away and I squashed it.

Not that I had anything against that,
Particular cockroach but,
I was bare-foot.

I had tea,
And biscuits,
And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.

It took some time to calm down and,
Fetch another tray.

It had moved.

A thick, white streak,
Of substantial viscosity,
Ran right across the floor and,
Straight under my door.

Her gartered leg was up on the table.

She removed a delicate silver pistol and,
With his back turned,
Fired a single shot.

I used a shoe this time,
Like a maniac,

And then,
Framed by a single,
Swinging light-bulb,
Waited for the detective.

evocative short poetry -words move

♦photos –  my little sister