poetry critical

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No More T.V.

We smile, holding each other close,
something not done for a while.
and sigh, contemplating the stylish rubble
we have made of our lives.
We said, “No more T.V. nights.
We will talk through our troubles.
Iron out the flaws.
Break out of this bubble,
pull aside the curtain of uncertainty
placed between us."
One hour later
we watch some fussing food faddy
extolling the gourmet virtues
of a cockle stew on the I-Pad
“You just couldn’t resist.” he mockingly laughs,
while blowing a kiss.
“What a pair of saddo’s.”
Maddeningly he’s right.
Actions speak louder than words.
but all I’ve heard this hour
is her gentle breathing.
Head resting on my shoulder.
Fingers entwined in mine.
A distant burble from a small screen,
vanishing beyond a point of light.

3 Nov 16

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This could be Larry 'book on a shelf' Lark.
But if cockle stew's a new kind of porn then maybe not.
 — unknown

This one has obviously warmed the cockles of testicles and so it should being a load of old balls.

Larry booked his place on the shelf Lark
 — larrylark

In some wayfaring way, while stanza 3 is probably the most is the most ambitious, its probably the least successful. 17-18 clunky.

Vote for a modified 3-4 jambalaya
 — sixtywatt