Meanwhile at Bushworth Hall

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2021 by dc

Tired and struggling to focus properly,
Godfrey put down his tacky thriller,

Took away the two remaining checkers
From the drink stained Backgammon board

And stared at his chipped art deco clock,
It’s petulant hands always running ten minutes slow;

He took his pipe from his lounge jacket pocket,
Wandered unsteadily down the hall and opened the front door.

Outside the wind blew unrehearsed smoke rings through the mist,
Autumn’s leaves glided and left whispering vapour trails,

The neighbours’ dog Jeff practised howls at the moon,
As the sheep on the adjacent field shuffled further and further away,
And an owl hooted commas and the odd question mark.

As Godfrey took incessant puffs on his pipe,
Spitting odd bits of tobacco from the wet on his lips,
He knew deep down Alastair wasn’t returning,

His Hyundai i30 Fastback was still on the drive
But the words ‘JUST HAVE IT’ were written on the bonnet in shaving foam
And the keys were hung on a bent windscreen wiper.

He’d headed three miles home barefoot,

Addled on DMT and home-brewed rhubarb gin,
Cuts across his forehead from his arguments with the deer antlers
On the walls by the back door porch,

Hair wet from Godfrey’s broken bidet
And a torn shirt sleeve from the wrestling;

Alistair also lost a toe that night,
But at least he’d gained a friend.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2021 by dc

My roasted chicken rests,
As a war veteran four doors up
Falls down his stairs
And pops his collarbone alone.

The greens sigh steam in a sieve,
As a high school reunion
Turns into a fist fight
In the De Vere hotel beer garden.

A tabbouleh salad glistens,
And in the rain hit park nearby
A lost mandarin duckling wanders
Under an ice cream van to shelter.

Garlic roast potatoes crispen,
And a Renault Megane careers
Into a old man’s front garden,
Hissing steam across his water feature.

24 hours ago a freedom reigned,
Hope flapped like a flag,
Proud in the wind,
A sweet aroma filled the air,

Children sang made-up songs in the street,
The news stations were beacons of positivity,
The sun danced for 14 hours,
Nothing bad happened;

Then they fucked it all up.

Skeleton Burrito

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on April 30, 2021 by dc

Under a sky mouth wet,

Dipping into earth,

An invisible hand
Slowly lowers
The skeleton burrito
With a sigh.

A sweat forms and rains,

A silence pickles
And a summer steam rises
Like moist ghosts ascending
From a hot, painted plate,

Saintly and sweet
With sour songs;

An appetite gifted.

The Table

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on March 24, 2021 by dc

I was happy to be sat at the table,

And when I was fed I felt overjoyed.

I knew I was privileged,

I doubted my worth enough
To know there were others
Far more deserving than I

As I tucked into the pie
And the dauphinoise potatoes.

There were moments I felt guilty,
I thought of those not here
And those who never were,

All my misdeeds and wrongdoings,
The moments of shame;

Then as I finished my main I looked around,

I saw plates left half eaten,
Pie crusts and vegetables left sauntering
Around white china landscapes,
Unloved and bereft.

I was happy when I left the table,

I ate all the food
But I stopped drinking half way through,

And the cake at the end
Was just me being polite,

I was needed back home.

There were adverts to watch.

Raising the Stakes

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2021 by dc

I’m like a dirty magazine
Stuck in bush,

Beaten to a bench
By a royal flush,

Rolling to the kerb
Like I’m marble dice,

Taken by the sight
Of a broken Christ.

Turn Towards Sleep

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2021 by dc

A fruitless contemplation
Instilled with desert flowers

And thirst.

The smell of salt in the sand,
A twisted sun griping
Above the horizon,

Old faces in the canyon rocks
Looking away disgusted,

Huffing their puff in the wind
As I crawl,

As I call out a dry cough
And turn towards sleep.

Nothing circles,
Nothing rattles,
Nothing creeps.

The Perfect Time to Talk

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 9, 2021 by dc

There’s no such thing
As the perfect time to talk,

Perfect words
Don’t need watches or clothes,

Sometimes they turn up drunk
And don’t even make sense;

Ideal moments
Don’t arrive when we decide,

Sometimes they miss the bus
And rust a bit

While they’re waiting
For the next one,

It’s ironic really.

Except you’re not listening
And the moment’s not right
For that kind of talking,

There’s a broken glass
In the dishwasher

And the post’s just arrived.

That New Kind of Lunatic

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 6, 2021 by dc

Gorging on conspiracies
Like a wide-eyed fox in a bin,

He’s shrieking his fights at the moon
Like a gout ridden Nostradamus,

The sky will burn at forty-five degrees!
Fire approaches this great new city!

He’s that new kind of lunatic,
Spent in the smoke of a burnt hippy dream,

Kabbalistic gibberish
Drugging all his wayward thoughts,

Living in the holes where the news once sat
And ploughing through the rubble.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 21, 2020 by dc

Mothers look away
As their babies coo floras
Unseen and absurd

The Pinks

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 18, 2020 by dc

A bloom hushed the lawn
A truly beautiful death
All shivered in pinks