Augustus Young       light verse, poetry and prose
a webzine of new and unpublished work


Il Me Chante, M. Le Curé 

Quelle aubaine,
notre prêtre.
Ni leger, ni profond.
Ni sacré, ni profane.
Il a l’air
d’un être humain
qui apporte le bien-être
au monde entier.   

Portrait Robot 

Black oxide rust on silver hair.
The face, old gold. The body, bronze,
all over. The heart pumps iron.
Nerves steel. But the bones are just bone,
bar eight titanium pins in
the left elbow-joint, a spine rich
in trace elements, a chrome cobalt
bridge between the teeth, and a ring
de bon aloi on the right hand,
the long finger. No pace maker.
Still at a security check
he can always prove his metal.      

Tout Le Monde M’a Abandonné 

Old friends grow old and forget
everything save your own death,
or maybe the life that’s left
absorbs them. I feel bereft
twice over, on their behalf
and my own. Life is no laugh,
as one by one friends disappear
into the ego’s inner ear,
mortality now an end
in itself, as they suspend
services to humanity.
That’s what was once shared with me.
Time to join them, and escape
from the trap of life, and wait.

My Latest Rival, M. Barre 

Although he’s an earful
there’s a lot to be said
for the cheerful chap Bête.
We’re not dead yet.
His relentless laughter
at least doesn’t evoke
paradise hereafter,
just a good bloke,
though an existential
bore, and nuisance, perhaps,
who has a tale to tell,
and does backslaps.
But he buys his own drinks.
And the sunset he sinks
into is a nightclub.
He’s not giving up.  


Nobody in Bruno’s bar.
Snow outside.
The seats piled up for closure.
But he pours me a brandy.
And himself one.
We both need it
with a morsel of sugar.
He has interior designs
on the female soul.
Me, on a poem. 

Like Mother 

The Bad Woman’s daughter
is cut from the same cloth,
but she comes ready made.
Their face has the same fraught
look of exhausted élan,
from chasing the wrong man.
By now mama ought to
have changed her act, and played
hard to get. When you throw
yourself at a handsome type
in these parts, your ego
pays dear. It’s just one night.
They take what is given
as their due, and depart
to lie to their live-in,
leaving a broken heart.
In the art of living,
she’s off to a bad start.  

Going to Town 

Don’t move the suburbs.   They rise above the town.
And you can ride the birds   on clear air, and come down
to walk the boulevards   with your best foot forward,
and, out for an evening,   make up, devil-me-care,
for what you’ve been missing.   Then, if you say a prayer,
it’s answered by a wing   that takes you home to where
all can once more begin   with what is always there.