Moriarty/Sonnets

Here is a series of inspiring and uplifting sonnets by L. P. Mackenzie, A.K.A. Moriarty:

Cows: A Poem

Specks of streaming piss fill flooded sewers;
The golden plash on stained shit concrete floor.
And now the fleshy pinkened tits grow bluer:
The morning chill creeps in beneath the door.
But still I milk with patience for the cream
As sharp spurts wet my wincing face
The sucking sounds, the click - suck - click machine,
The steady rhythm - noise invading space.
Pastures lush and mountains, bush to wand
-er all around, yet here no music sounds.
It was a dream we shared to milk the land
But we´re the serfs: our farmer milks for pounds.
The romance fades: I try to make this real
Though measured words construct a false ideal.

On Sonnets

I try to write in plain and simple words
That something we can never quite pin down
Sublime ideas that often seem absurd
To family and friends I have outgrown
Cataloguing clear inspiring scenes
In time I hope these voices will be heard
Exhaling one long breath of vexed dreams
Perhaps poetic pictures are preferred
In print at least this seems to be the theme
But vicious visions often warp these words
Of orphaned corpses pallid faces drown
-ing out the voice of new born birds.
Hatching verse less violent and less real:
These measured words construct a false ideal.

Forbidden Love

The sun's bland rays fall heavy on my face
But I slip into sleep and imagine
A stall where we could bond without disgrace
But instead I wake to the cold grey sun.

When I milk you my whole body shudders,
Terrified vague fingers squeeze and flush your tits,
The gloopy milk draining from your udders;
Masochistic pleasures I must admit.

The compressor clicked out a refrain
As twice a day your fly filled lashes fluttered
You shuffled your feet and groaned for grain
My milk stained boots congealing into butter.
I recall the vet, his fist a fist unknown
I left you then. We parted with a moan.

The Chair

I returned to you, to that house and chair
Your son in the doorway arms crossed against
Your hopeless vacant stare, you stagnant there.
Through the dusty light we spoke, we strangers.

I stand while you eat, you scrape the plate clean.
This grubby place, that tatty chair the same.
Tranced in the T.V. prisoned in your dream
Of food and T.V. everything the same.

I recall how they fucked your cellulite.
Those wrinkled thighs stirruped over that chair.
All those men stabbing, many liked to bite,
But I still took the money; I don’t care

You'd say you did it because you loved me
Yet I never asked. I close the door. Free

L. P. Mackenzie