Alan Bruce Thompson
Alan Bruce Thompson Poems
She stood there pouting, adopting a film star pose,
As her curvaceous virile body, pushed shape into her clothes.
She perched on her stiletto heels, threw back her blond hair,
She stood high above the crowd, aristocratic, without care.
She rehearsed for hours to become Venus personified,
She got some men excited, the others she mortified.
She swayed along, her hips swinging, so vain.
And all of his performance to collect tickets on a train?
The Morning Victim
Some mornings I wake and feel so mad,
And feel angry at someone, who looks quite glad,
The hatred smoulders, and I get quite sad,
When I realise that this problem is the greatest I’ve ever had.
The anger begins early at about morning four,
When the body is weak and the soul’s at death’s door,
And the uncertainty and fear grow more and more,
And I shout silently till my throat is quite sore.