Poems about Brussels

The rosy-green flight
Of hills and ramps
Blurred in twilight
By a soft lamp

Golden valleys darken
Red in the breeze
Small birds harken
In headless trees

The sadness fades
In my mind's medium
These autumn shades
Shatter the sky's tedium

Eating Brussels Sprouts may extend your life,
But it will be a long life of eating Brussels sprouts.
Be careful what you wish for!

Part of Edna's "Barry Hodges' Sad Recollections" Sequence*

People think that Brussels is an interesting city,
Full of beer, full of mussels and pommes frites
And easy to buy a really nice box of chocolates
(Personally I prefer the dark fuckers as they are less sweet).
But there is another side to the city
Believe me, I know, I have been there
And I have seen it in all its shocking terror.

I was there, just off la Grand' Place (Grotemarkt in Flemish),
With my younger sister, a fat and ugly girl,
Who had a very pronounced lisp and a lot of oozing facial spots,
When a gang of ill-dressed American youths,
Probably the sons of wealthy businessmen or diplomats,
Sky-high on coca-cola, or whatever vile filth,
Attacked us, mugged us, gave us a total bashing-up,
And we ran quite hard but could not escape from them.

And they left her lying there in the gutter,
Her legs broken to bits and her head half-chopped off,
And for what? They were envious of her false hairpiece
(as it made her look half-human, a major improvement).
She dragged out a miserable half-alive existence
For a few awful months in a dilapidated infirmary;
Dear God, she will not be going to Brussels again
In fact she will not be going anywhere at all,
Apart from into an early grave, that is.

Till the tips all
Wither and
Die.

Tactile touching

A severed caress

A withered arrangement

The sort that belongs

To an abstract expressionist painting

Suspended for all time

Like a contemplated constrictor

Who has asked

Why he wishes to split

His personality in three

But has been denied an answer

Instead gazes upon the

Disunity of his vision

Rescued beasts brought into my home
Not my children.
Small bearded creatures,
Who so loudly exclaim at three A. M.

Not security conscience,
Nor do they even really care.
They are just a couple of night-jerks.

Furry little night-jerks.

Brussels spout as they are known
Cultivated in ancient rome
Were grown in the 13th century in Belgium
A traditional winter stock
Some being purple
Known as red bull
As are the brussels people
Strong but must be hurting now
As Europe sees the hurt go down
On all channels
And feels there loses
We the people here in Britain
Feel it to
So we must find a way
To stop this to happen
And fight together
To stop I S
With you
All my love
And sadness.


LoVe P@ul.

Birds caress the spring air
With wings that seem to massage
Peaceful pathways overhead

I feel the tiredness of exertion
In my knees and back
But I don't mind
I relish the open feeling
Of living on this spring day

Until I hear the news

Oh
To be swaddled by such a false sense of indignation
To lie in bedrooms
Sucking acrid smoke into bitter lungs
Imprisoned by the bars of fear and anger
And dream up desperate acts of destruction

Who would chose such a destiny?

On this magical spring day
The sun sets so beautifully
And the full moon glows orange
In sympathetic reflection

Another day
Memorable for so many reasons
Draws
To a conclusion