It’s Not What You Think

This pickled flight of fancy,
A loop of nauseous doubt,
The blood rush spinning
Then abruptly ending
In seconds.

I face the never
With a grimace
And dredge up
Weeping snapshots,

All the while
Picturing my future in neon,
Grasping at slithers
Of sunshine
Through curtains.

I tackle your echo
With a bowl and a spoon,
I cash in food coupons
And fake smile at tourists,

All the while
Heeding the warnings,
The boom of slippered feet
And the wild night time moans

That could cover a cavern,
Wrestle it westwards
To watch the sun sink
And then sit on the brink of disaster.

It’s simple,
Sometimes dusty thoughts
Lead us slowly down alleys,
No meanings to speak of,

Just shadows and shapes,
The smell of old smoke,
Piss weeds and felines,
Urban excuses,
Barbed wire knotted,

And as we lie and retire
Another minor apocalypse
Burps out in b minor,

It bubbles,
It worries,
It pops
And it flurries,

These sinkings
Are quite partial to clowns.

Poetry.net

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The Owls

We drank till the owls
Appeared on the trees
And the sky became empty,

We held each other at night
Like we were alone on the moors
Beside a huge broken prison,

We warmed each other with breath,
Declared love just like war
And ignored all the screaming.

There were moments I thought
We were meant to be broken,
Alive with the drama

Or at least shivering slightly,
Such electrified nights
Came with rustling doubt.

We were inmates of worry,
The clouds watched us fall,
Freedom it seemed was an old wasted dream
And truths were the lies before ruin.

Poetry.net

Broken

He would shop in his slippers
And stink like a huge sweating ball bag,
He said a house without pens
Was like a whore without holes,
His house smelt of cheap steak and dog hair,
The kids called him ‘paedo’,
He was broken like plates in a skip.

On Tuesdays he’d watch Ironside DVDs,
Drink a tin of carnation milk
And make murals from old newspapers,
On Wednesdays he’d stare at photos for hours,
Pick his toes and write letters
To food manufacturers,
Sometimes he’d cry into mirrors.

The song ‘Seven Days’ by Craig David
Made him feel so unloved and jealous
That he snapped the CD he’d bought
(After being recommended it by a shop assistant)
And threw it into a neighbour’s garden,
‘How can one man lead such a life’, he growled;
None of his photo albums had pictures of women in.

Poetry.net

Vikings and Witches

Blood lust in their hot breath
Like Canute all twisted,
They come with their crow bars,
A donkey-eyed coldness
And bull nostrilled swagger,

Businessmen shiver,
Bright lights are dimmed,
Brakes screech and whistle,
Tempers and smoke rise,

For the moment,
Terrorist threats
Distance themselves
And the ants that remained
From the poured boiling water
Rise up like sick smells
From bin bags and gutters,
Antennae uplifted
By the rot of a city.

Rumours spread
Like salted dust on the wind,
Invading in pockets
Like Vikings in sportswear,
They blend with the neon,
Arriving as fear falls.

It’s a new twisted culture,
Like a gypsy’s sweet fingers
Floating through pockets
In a sweet coastal town
Where the lively bats gather
Before the midnight church bells
Swing their clanging alarms
And the night moves its darkness
With decaying aromas.

It’s a problem they’ve spoke of
For centuries now
And maybe it’s time we changed
How we see things.

The witches who died here
Long after floating
Like everyone does
Had no chance to argue,
No words they could air
That might inspire us right now,

We are ruined by gossip,
The magnified chatter
Of tabloid expression
And the piss wet digressions
Of old angry men
Leant on crumbling bars,

Far away from the real world,
Piece feeding hysteria.

It’s a shame that those witches
Weren’t left to just shine,
They weren’t even witches
Most of the time.

Poetry.net

In the Forest Between Two Towns

This evening I saw
Fireflies light an opening
In a forest filled with pines,

A sprinkle of their magic
Like a stranger not so strange now
Whispering beer soaked lullabies,

A welcoming transition
From broken to brand new,

No longer stolen
By the tools of a lost love’s pity,

No longer the out of tune choir
In a motorway van,

Rushing to somewhere unknown
With a quiet dread,

A pickled head breathing
Through a snorkel
On the high street,

A conveyor belt
Of oddness,

The cold stares of shoppers
Who came hunting for magic
But settled for knitwear.

Its yesterdays news still unpublished,
A magazine nobody reads,

Why bother when you’re sat here coyly smiling?
Who’s dreaming for hope as a stalwart?

Travelling from one town to the next
I saw fireflies light an opening,
All giddy in the distance,

I sang down lonely b-roads,
Talked sense to silent friends
And arrived at your front door.

Poetry.net