Alan Bruce Thompson


Alan Bruce Thompson Poems

1. Valentine's First Letters 2/16/2013
2. Head Of Honey 2/24/2013
3. Egod 3/22/2013
4. Second Eternity 3/24/2013
5. Loveyes 3/26/2013
6. Olympic Wood 4/11/2013
7. Small Soul 9/9/2013
8. One Angel Per Pinhead 9/9/2013
9. In Full View 9/9/2013
10. Army Of The Night 9/9/2013
11. The College Of Mars 9/9/2013
12. Fat Food 9/9/2013
13. Mother Is So Difficult 9/9/2013
14. Bedtime Movies 11/13/2013
15. Bicycle Courier 12/11/2013
16. Time = Money Squared 12/11/2013
17. Video Conferencing 12/11/2013
18. Light Wmd 12/11/2013
19. The Horizon Of Light 12/11/2013
20. The Glory Of Numbers 1/12/2014
21. Sitting, Doing Nothing? 1/12/2014
22. Doctors Waiting Room 1/12/2014
23. Future Planning 1/12/2014
24. This Short Life 4/21/2013
25. Hot Dog 4/9/2013
26. Seeing Blind 11/13/2013
27. The Great Brain 11/13/2013
28. Legalised Taxation 11/13/2013
29. Famous Stare 11/13/2013
30. The Comfort Of Books 4/21/2013
31. The Picture Gallery 9/9/2013
32. Ban On Smoking 3/27/2014
33. Stone Owl 5/9/2014
34. Take Me As I Am 8/20/2014
35. Narcoleptic 8/20/2014
36. Onto Another Place 8/20/2014
37. Town Planning 8/20/2014
38. Ticket Tyranny 8/20/2014
39. Streetside Café 8/31/2014
40. Good Man 8/31/2014
Best Poem of Alan Bruce Thompson

Venus Personified

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?

Read the full of Venus Personified

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.

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