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a webzine of new and unpublished work


Dead Bird Poem

I’ve just thrown out the robin,
my companion tout de go.
In a storm she tried to get in.
But I had closed the window.
Frozen feathers on the glass,
I scrape off with heavy heart.
It won’t be the same at breakfast.
Her chirp gave me a good start.
Dumping her in the dustbin
I see the red breast’s a scar.
In future with a gale warning
I’ll leave the window ajar.    

Flamenco Jim: The Movie 

Andalusia in my blood.
Deep song in the gipsy whirls.
Everything is as it should.
Comic priests, cigarette girls.
My fine moustache - how it twirls.
Mount of my well-seated legs,
García Lorca, my stallion,
gold mane of the sherry kegs,
white haircoat as befitting
the horse of a woman’s man. 
When prime bulls their black rage vent,
and rashly expose their neck,
I stay my knife with contempt,
and instead gaily bedeck
their tails with flowers. Passion Week: 
an earthquake trembles before
the flagellants’ whip crack
as Jésus Moreno’s whore
leads the procession. Clac-clac.
The hidalgo hoofer’s back.
I trot on the spot astride.
The Barrio’s last virgin
flutters her fan, but can’t hide
her blushes. Her heart beats in
time with me, Flamenco Jim.
So anarchy reigns: a tin can
rattles, and the church bells ring
for the marriage caravan
rolling through the vineyards. All sing.
Even our baby within. 
The Ballad of Jumping Jacques
I’m jumping Jacques Hogan,
hero. Here’s my bagwoman,
Miss Fit.
On my scaffold her knife threw
a hit
on the noose, to undo
Hanging was too good for me.
poet and part-time raparee.
My flit
chased by Peelers has made me
a myth.
Now you must face reality.
I’m it,
stage-coachers’ worst dream, a masked
But fear not. Do what you’re asked,
me what you robbed from the poor,
and quick,
unless you people want your
throats slit.
Jewels, rings, watches. That’s the
Missie, madame’s fur coat’s natty. 
No shit.
It’s yours. But leave their hamper
Got the lot? Time to scamper.
Let’s split.
I’m jumping Jacques Hogan,
hero. Here’s my bagwoman
Miss Fit.  

A Florilegium of RIPs

Jean Flores,
untimely plucked,
put in a blaze,
and then in a vase,
ashes chucked
in the Azores.
The Lord be Praised.
John Flower,
untimely plucked,
dumped in a hole.
God had mercy
on his soul,
and now he’s
a rose bower.
Johann Blume,
untimely plucked.
able, his fate
could not be ducked.
On his tomb
cut flowers bloom
to commemorate
dying too soon.
Santiago Flor,
untimely plucked.
A matador
cut off by a bull’s gore.
Still señoras throw their
gardenia. A reduct-
io ad absurdum,
for rigor mortis had set in.
animals sometimes win.   
Sean Blath,
untimely plucked.
It was the gradh
(bad conduct
with the mna).
The cailins did not
gart his guts,
or put him in a pot
to boil with the spuds.
They’d prefer him raw.
So he was left to rot.
Jonathan Bloom,
untimely plucked,
flourished in perfume
called Usufruct.
He did well with it,
till Augustus Weed
poisoned his seed,
causing death and decay.
And that was his ruin.
The Lord giveth
and taketh away. 

Le Coureur de Nuit  

Mince alors,
c’est le revenant
de Baudelaire.
Il va directement
sur son vélo
sans lampe ni gant
pour freiner.
Pas la peine.
Danger isolé.
Il a rodé
la route de Cap Béar,
par intervalles,
sans mot dire,
sauf, ‘c’est moi, moi’.
Il a broyé du noir
et mordu la chair
jusqu’à ce qu’il
soit l’air.