Ivor Steven: Pumpkin Soup Again

    Head’s falling like an unpinned grenade. Soon ready to explode. Burying shrapnel pieces in corners of shade. Scattered like broken retina globes. Razor blades shredding memory lockets. Slivered icicles inside blurry sockets. Needles of pain. Sheets of sleet before the rain. Bloodied eyeball tracks like meteor trails. And the pain-numbing capsules do fail.

Ivor Steven: Ripe Tomatoes and a Garden Spade

      Ripe Tomatoes and a Garden Spade   Only another week to go I’ll be on the cruise I’m not feeling nervous More that I’m fearful Scared my plan might go amiss Before the high seas deliver bliss   Taking two suitcases is normal Other passengers may have three I won’t look suspicious

Ivor Steven: The Other Side of Red, White, and Blue

  It was the fourth of July The party seems to be finished Wondering how long I dozed off for Most of my friends have gone A few bodies left, lying on the floor Best I have a piss before I go Now where’s that bathroom Whoops, there’s a girl in here Dressed all in

Ivor Steven: Broken Plates and Rabbit Stew

  Have you ever had that weird fantasia sort of dream. Where you can’t see beyond the silver screen. Greyness is black and red is green. Straight lines are wavering slivery beams. Stitched inside your brain’s sewn-up seams. Bagged and tagged a pale corpse unseen. Blueness in blood and plasma in streams. Like chunky bittersweet

Ivor Steven: Lily and a Lizard of Wizardry

  My loving dog Lily, died last week. And I broken heartedly buried her deep. Beneath her favourite sunny spot. In the middle of our warm courtyard plot. Then today, on top of her grave. Sitting, staring at me so brave. Lazily sunbaking, a big Blue-tongued Lizard. His pointy tail twirling like a wizard. The

Ivor Steven: My Dragon (The Trilogy)

  My Dragon. A Monstrous Dragon, breathing fire. Did arise from the gurgling mire. Dark gangrenous green, from head to tails. Claws blackened, sharp as nails. Purple secretions, from his scaly chest. A spear harpooned, a grizzly mess. Eyes seeping yellow maggot heads. My Dragon’s crying, and nearly dead.   My Dragon, The Revival My

Ivor Steven: Smashed Pumpkin Brains

  What’s it like to be an orange Pumpkin-head Only black sockets for eyes instead. And a cut-out smile full of seeds. Queer ears made of rings and beads. Inside, your brain is scooped out for pigs feed Leaving a dark void that doesn’t bleed. On top you’re like a crinkled dome. And your sore

Tattooed Blonde

  I’m neither here nor there, Half asleep or half awake. Not quite conscious, Like a drifting snowflake. Sinking through a prism, Where I fantasize and over-achieve. Seeing a blonde haired vixen, Thinking I’ve seen her tats before. I’m retreating, hiding, From her beckoning embraces. My drunken mates at the bar, Giggling and smirking, as

Frosted Glass

  Looking through my frosted glazing. A winters Sunday morn. The piercing coldness, so bitter. A wind like razor blades. And my somber music plays. The slivering venetian blinds, so bland. Hiding little of the external Arctic chill. A frozen sparrow lays on the sill, Ready to fall, on dirt, so icy. A meagre frigid

Ivor Steven: This Lost Shadow

  I’m writing this song for my body, and for my soul. I’m singing this song, about my return from the cold. Why am I so tired, is sixty so old. Why am I so sore, have I been far too bold. I’m so physically worn and so mentally torn. I’m so worried about my