Biography of Graham Leese
Graham Leese writes to Men, Women and Godlike things. He has not tried his hand at writing for children yet. He sometimes pretends he is funny. He takes photos.
He is working hard at trying to piss off clever and stupid people alike. So far he is succeeding.
Graham Leese's Works:
Graham Leese Poems
It simply doesn’t course through my veins power a beaten heart prolong a broken
Two Elephants Fall Off A Cliff
Humour comes at the most inappropriate times, like nuns trying out love beads. Giggles, whether sly and
Cerulean mornings wail. Spirits crushed but defiant, Scattered in a windless throb. The milkman keeps his head down.
The Road To Koh Phangan
Your miscalculations precede you, bright and colourful sashes twist and twirl ‘round like barbed wire wrapped ‘round a true love.
This wickers’ stacks Of excuses, vast empires Of bracken ready to burn Beneath an unhealthy visage.
Though the stars look down on you; Through dark subways, subterranean Paths dissonance dissects itself in front, In front of me and I am lone, one with
Rhythms sound like that of pitter patter.Tick tock turns to palms on the skin of tabla. Eyes dart like
Settling Into The Beach.
Foetal, white sand spreads like salmon upstream, hoards on the motorway. Anxiety and ample cramps devour fish out of the waters
The Boats Come In.
Animals started tumbling from their shelves seemed the pet store’s climbing. Mountains
Selfishly stuffing; I take the Fat, pleasure and grease- Convert it into vomit.
Jungle High Retreat
I could sleep for trails of silk in the wind to carry us through crystal sands with
Mud begins to grow Its skin again; the pools Of silver reflection Collecting like the dead
Coping With Distance
Lurking in resin shadow, floating In skin’s cloudspace; a distant sunset And the shimmering ocean’s grace.
Wading through the tar- It seems November has died Of some kind of cancer.
Jungle High Retreat
I could sleep for trails
of silk in the wind
to carry us
through crystal sands with
nothing but stashed dreams and tinted
sunglasses, a strange blood orange stain.
The ghosts of long dead Victorians
can glow in gaslight