AUGUSTUS YOUNG        light verse, poetry and prose

  a regular webzine of new and unpublished work


Early Days at the Movies


Real Women in
the Movies

Just Kidding

The Seventh Art's Seventh Heaven

So What Happened




Choses Vues



The Last Resting Place

The ‘too sick to care’.
The drunks who begger.
Those beyond despair.
The happy laughing pair.
Thems who wish to be elsewhere.
Those who, to get in, falsified the questionaire.
And the wise who aren’t there.

Azer’s Calculated Kindness

At least you fill the air with fragrant kipper.
A herring-do to render Shitskins chipper.


The new tiles on kitchen floor sing.
They make looking down life enhancing.

The Tousser’s Song

I cough out my lungs twice a day. Ahem!
And examine them by hand. The phlegm
is clear. I swallow them. And breathe again.

What to do with 2006? 

Put it in your eye and blink it out.
The tear will contain without a doubt
a grain of gold. Plant it and focus
on the earth. Up springs the first crocus.  


Sometimes my eyeballs pop out and each stem 
dances a figure of eight that knots them
together into a Siamese lover.
Then they’ve only eyes for one another.


Caring for a Fig

I prattle on, not always merrily.
Youth’s gone. It’s neither here nor there to me,
Or anyone else I don’t know. To be
past it means you’re past caring. Airily
wait for the sod to be thrown. RIP.  

An Answer to Tatty’s Poison Pen Letter

I hope the house falls down
around you and the ground
opens to devour your
own do-it-yourself sewer.
And Lord Stanis of Tripe
sucks it up through his pipe.

IM James Brown (1933-2006)

Godfather of Soul

‘I am going to be James Brown’,
were his last words. And he was.


IM M. Christian (1964-2006)

 Adieu, M. Christian, l’homme mince.
Avec les vins du ciel, bonne chance. 

IM M. Guittet  (1965-2006)

L’homme comme brin de paille
n’est plus. Il s’en va ailleurs.

Dummy Run

Mother sucks on a dummy.
Baby on a cigarette.
‘It’s not good for you, mummy.
I fear it will be your death.’  

‘Nag, nag. It’s a healthy, clean
habit that stops me crying
when I’m teething. I can wean
myself off it anytime.’

The Existential Nope

‘Later’, I say, and the third time the cock snooks.
It is time for me to get back to my books
where in sublime oblivion I can forget
everybody else and live in the immediate
erotic of selfishness where ‘too late’ is alright.
‘Sooner’ is better if you’re not just being polite.

Breakfast with the Chief Clochard, The Sage

You always carry a piece of rope
in case you meet a donkey. Your throat
is all bottled up. And at one stroke
you syphon down the red wine. I note
you could be looking through a telescope.

And although what you see is the dregs,
There’s a message in it. ‘Bacchus begs
forgiveness that there is nothing left.
But back in the cave there’s plenty kegs.’
Bon’, says The Sage. ‘Now my ham and eggs.’

An Iranian Autruche (from Denial News)