AUGUSTUS YOUNG        light verse, poetry and prose

  a regular webzine of new and unpublished work


A Single Skuller

Living Skin

The Final Whistle


The Island

from Rosemaries



My Dominant Characteristic

Life as a Serious Person

The Little Talker


Roi Sarko Le Troisième
Je suis le nain de fer
dans le jardin de l’enfer.
Le tonnerre roule. Gare !
Trouvez un abri. Mon éclair
va frapper tous les gens
qui ne sont pas Américains,
riches ou me donnent du fric.
Et oui. Voici mes flics. 
Quand j’étais petit
tout le monde a jeté
la merde sur moi. Et alors,
il n’est point passé encore.  

Life is hell 

It’s better that hell is in life.
Life passes.

Night Music  

A dude playing a saxaphone on the roof
of a block of flats is a cliché that’s proof
that sentimental art can pollute the air.
I’d much prefer if someone came to repair
the leak than hear some saxo bleat in the night.
It’s high time what’s over our heads is put right.

I fear, a poet called Sweeney is abroad
on the tiles, knocking up a whimsical ode
to loneliness and the city. Kenny G
is musak, but fancy footing from a knee-
jerk free-verser with a Bo Widerberg touch,
and no respect for Hopper, is too much.
So I send a sniper up to prevent
a poem in the Times Literary Supplement.  

Second Thought 

Don’t think about me.
I’m a gloomy thought.
My eyes are boiling
over with spoilt broth.

Think of someone else
who’s life enhancing.
For instance, yourself.
And life will dance on. 

M et Mme Canaille 

They brought into the world delinquents.
And now breed dogs that savage infants. 

On Leaving Something Behind

Everytime I leave a café
I like to look back in hope
a waiter comes after me
breathlessly calling, ‘Your coat’.

Or something I’d left behind.

I’m such a careful fellow.
When there isn’t a cloud in sight
I carry an umbrella
and my sunglasses at night.

I study the absent mind.

My heed keeps them on the trot.
I’d forget myself if that
was possible. It’s not.
What never fails is a hat.

My head band is always signed.

Posterity in advance.
has been forewarned that I am
a manipulator of chance
who exploits good will, a man

who’s leaving something behind.

Scared Stiff

Cold feet is creeping up on me.
I’ll soon be frozen on the spot.
A living statue made of ice. 

A little sunshine would be nice
to melt me back into what
I’m ninety percent, H

And so I can go with the flow.

Sir Face

The emptiness is aching.
But at least there’s nothing within.
The stuffing has been taken
out of me. I’m living on my skin.

Sinking Feeling 

The ice is melting
under where I stand.
A call of nature.
My own personal
contribution to
global warming
I suppose as I
sink to inhabit
the deep with plankton. 

We’ll surface again
on carbon dioxide
when the sea warms up.