Do they have the same money
In that there London?
Do you mean, ‘like a sport’?
No, I mean, ‘like a disease’.
They’re not paedophiles, they’re gym teachers.
She was drunk but she could still nod her head
And say stuff.
This started off as a dead nice story
But now it’s turned into date rape or something.
There are no solutions when the red mist comes,
The whispers,
The green lights,
The violence on pavements,
Under microscopes we punch bacteria
And wrestle DNA to the ground.
The stench of anger is a sickness,
Gravel in the mouths of children,
Punched walls and broken language,
It’s a wonder hearts don’t snap.
There are no solutions when the red mist comes,
The tears,
The spittle,
The gutter words and whistles,
On top of pedestals we break legs
And tumble to the ground.
We are nothing but our actions
And it’s a wonder we’re alive,
Time is a healer but time he won’t arrive,
To land on our feet is to lie like we’ve won,
But there are no solutions when the red mist comes.
You’re amazing,
Captivating,
You’re like the wheel,
An electric storm
Or milk chocolate on a Sunday,
Your smile
Invents new blood cells in me,
Your eyes are like caterpillars,
(In a good way –
They move magnificence),
The glow
Of your sweet honeyed skin
Slows down cars,
Makes buzzards hover
And the rain disappear,
The warmth of your touch
Is like butter on toast,
A feeling of ease,
A simple translation
Worth thousands of words.
You’re amazing,
New sensations
Come thick and fast when you whisper,
The softest of lullabies
Escaping from your lips,
Your doubts
Are not failings,
You’re a rainbow after thunder,
Puddles shining onyx blue,
A remedy from storms,
You’re arms
Are a rest from the present,
A retreat from the city,
A magnified moment
Where sadness disbands,
The truth is you’re amazing,
When I hold you
The world turns into sponge,
Birds simply give up and drop from the sky,
I need you in my life.
The skeletons are rattling,
There’s blood on the walls
And the ceiling’s on fire.
Release the hounds,
Uncage the vultures,
There are strangers with photographs
And skinny children that cry,
In the cellar there lie pictures
Of what the world once was,
There are rumours and conjectures
Men in boiler suits and masks,
Politicians wait for transcripts
But the truth is more than words.
The iron,
Before
It’s subjected
To its
Only
Routine
Is a proud
Object,
Stern,
Almost
Snobbish.
Nose turned
Up in the air,
Symmetrical
With
Purpose,
Rigid,
Confident,
Almost
Cocky.
He wanted drunken talks till dawn,
Reconciliations,
Make up sex and white wine,
She wanted flower boxes,
Cut off points
And fresh towels for visitors.
He wanted poetry
That changed the world
And bed sheets that smelt of the future,
She wanted organic aubergines,
Fresh fruit in a bowl
And re-upholstered furniture.
He wanted guidelines and stability,
Broadsheets at the weekends,
Hot topics alive in the air,
She wanted everything and nothing,
Sunday winds and a low carbon footprint,
A life that rolls by like a golf ball
Down a hillside of green pesto dreams.
Their end came with fireworks and tapas,
Rioja, confused pets and cold stares,
A bitterness but no real conclusions,
A puppeteers hands swiping air.
Sometimes the distance
Between love and indecision
Is just the width of a gnat
On its back after swattings.
Sometimes the laws
That we live by are twisted
And bent into shapes
We can pass on like batons.
Sometimes we forget
We are drifting and drowning
As we pull smiles on our faces
And try hard to understand
How the beauty of history
Is lost in a future
We have no real control of.
Sometimes words are just
Puddles in the park
And I don’t need to be near them
To know that it’s crying outside.
Rain gashes from the clouds
But it hurts just a few,
We are new to this downpour
And this bad luck was due.
They call it pining,
Wolves slumped
Against trees,
Clouds turning to fog,
A strong, silent wind
At the base of a mountain
Longing for sky,
Pine cones shut tight,
A summer destroyed
And the whine of a dog
Caught in a fence,
Miles from home,
A bird’s broken feet,
Black canopy nights
And the ruin of bears
With plastic bead eyes.
This is the future,
A moon sat unkempt,
A rusty nail poking
From an old rotten gate post,
Waiting for a loser,
A child with screaming teeth,
Or a fat doe-eyed cow
Covered in silver,
Somebody, something,
A single torch light
Through a dark crying sky,
The talk of the village,
A glint in the eye
Of the hopeful and sane,
The leaves that block gutters,
A tractor on fire.
Slacker Shack
Dunstan Carter : Poetry 