Archive for November, 2011

Bleak Tea Party Faux-Pas

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 26, 2011 by dc

And so it came to pass
That we were the fools,

For we thought
There was a reason,

A set of guidelines,
Standard rules.

But when the oceans
Start to burn

And the clouds
Turn into fists,

The only thing
Worth Knowing

Is that these biscuits
Taste of piss.

Remember When We Were All Fresh?

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 18, 2011 by dc

They took the toy out the box,
The jeep from the car lot,

They woke up with bed hair,
Chipped nails and pale skin,

The salon was a distant memory.

And now we’re here
With a filing cabinet
No-one will ever use,

And dirty palms,

A nasty taste
In the back
Of our mouths,

Sniffing on optimism
Like the desperate
And sweaty,

Alone with our
Crossed fingers
And daydreams.

We are briefly ghosts
Let loose on dead shipyards,
The scent of sea salt heightened
And the knots of something hollow,

Were it not for the hope
We breed in our nightmares,
We could easily just drift away

And laugh
Across the waves,

And never grave


The Fop

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 10, 2011 by dc

There was always
Something sweet
About your doggerel,

The pancake flatulence
Shaping words in a pan,

The hand
Of a 17th century fop,
Lost on a battlefield
Squirting perfume
On corpses.

A never planned
Guessing game,
A bad wallpaper smile,

You had style,
A thousand words,
Scissors and glue,
The curdled hope
Of a poet
And fool.

Too soon
Second guessed,
But with eyes
Diamond mined,

And your cufflinks,


To see them shine
Was a rhyme forgotten,
A million glimmering angels
Tracing jewels into hillsides
And spitting out
Silver clouds.

You are the long gone
One sun

And the irony
Was never lost
On me,

Your story
Is the sunlight
Through curtains
That dance.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 5, 2011 by dc

You say that
Like it’s
A bad thing,

You say that
Like it’s
A song.

And you’re wrong.

There’s no melody here,
No time to tap feet,

And just ’cause you rhyme,
Doesn’t make you sound neat.

There are bugs
In your basement
That could
Probably do better,

And this is a jumper,
It’s not called a sweater.