Poem #67

Fear that I frittered my teenage years

And will stay playing catch-up

For however long I’m here;

Fear that a taut abdominal wall

Is the only partition

Between me, Joe Bloggs, et al.;

Fear that I can’t yoke words like Danny Brown,

Or spill seventeen pitchers

Of wit whilst acting the clown;

Fear that I do things I knew I would not,

Fear that my old-old-self I,

By necessity, forgot;

Fear that my idols are far less than their prattle;

Fear that i don’t really fear

This fear list

At all.

Poem #46

Let me tell you my origin story;

Roll back your stone imagination

And grant access to this: a true Rory

Myth, the keystone to my creation.

We must toddle through time back eighteen years,

Before making swift haste to Whipsnade Zoo;

A peacock stalks my younger self, then rears

Its gross blue throat, pouncing as if to screw.

All was flurry! All was feathers! But worst

Those dozen eyes, fixed in plummage like dyes!

Though my Dad roughed the bird, young me was curst:

A child I fell, ornithophobic I rise.

Last year, at length, I conquered the pigeon;

Perhaps, one day, I’ll manage the chicken.